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    Sigquaya

    Page 23
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      This was a twist she hadn’t expected at all. So, she followed. As soon as the last Rector crested the ledge above her, she started to climb.

      As she reached the summit, which took time and considerable effort, the Rectors had the four strangers corralled against the steep wall of Dunwielm.

      Arteura thought it best to hang back. She was winded, and her muscles ached from the sheer climb. She stayed quiet and low, behind and out of view of the other Rectors. The strangers could easily see her, but that was of no concern. To them, she was likely just another Rector, no threat at all, which would play to her advantage.

      She could just hear the exchange between one of the Rectors and one of the strangers. He’d said they were travelers. He’d said they were lost. Arteura almost chuckled at that obvious lie. If anyone was trying to disrupt the sacrifice and Temple ritual, it was these guys. And they’d been caught red-handed.

      Maybe for that reason alone, she immediately liked them. Maybe these were people she could travel with, if that truly was who they were. Even if they all had to go through these Rectors to do it. After all, she no longer had roots in Brynslæd. If anything, she would regroup and return for her mother as soon as she was able. But returning now meant certain death for her. Her mother’s fate would have to be her own. It was a cold and heartless conclusion, she knew, but she’d done a lot of growing up in the last few days. She wasn’t the same naïve girl. Now, she was jaded, tarnished, doubt-ridden, and pissed off.

      Brynslæd, home, meant nothing to her. The Empire meant nothing. The Temple meant nothing. And these Rectors meant nothing. For now, she would watch and wait. The Rectors’ attention was fully on these strangers, and Arteura was content to stay near the edge of the Mihtcarr. Stepping in if needed. Stepping back if cornered.

      Let’s just see how this plays out, she thought with just a hint of a secret smile. She reached under her Rector’s robe and slowly drew her blades.

      Let’s just see . . .

      What she hadn’t seen was the lone Þrymm guard watching her from the cover of her once “secret” spot, and even now gradually making his way up the handholds and vines beside the Mihtcarr falls.

      27

      Tristan

      “Ah, the hell with this,” Marshaan growled and stepped in with his knife raised. He knew nothing of swordplay or battle strategy. But he’d been in more than enough barroom brawls with overly rowdy (and highly inebriated) Cierrans. He bluffed high with his knife and the Rector fell for it, stepping in with a slash at his midriff. Marshaan dodged it and, with the Rector off balance, backhanded him with a fist and all of his weight right across the man’s temple, dropping him like a wet sack. Immediately he grabbed the fallen Rector’s sword and threw it at Rahn.

      “Rahn!” he bellowed. “Use this!”

      Frantic and spluttering, Rahn caught it, fumbling with it like it was a poisonous snake and holding it away from him with both hands, stabbing it awkwardly at anyone who even looked at him.

      Telluras was holding off two other Rectors, slashing with knife and fist, dodging and dancing around sword thrusts, and moving nimbly despite his size.

      Out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement, and I ducked just as a blade came whizzing past my ear. I rolled away, looking around frantically for anything that might be able to fend off a heavy, razor-sharp longsword.

      My hand fell on a stick, long and thick, almost like a club.

      Good enough, I thought, and I raised it up just in time to fend off an overhead blow. I backed away and ran my tailbone into the unforgiving rock wall of Dunwielm. I was trapped.

      The Rector smiled at me as he closed in. That’s when another thought occurred to me.

      Now’s as good a time as any.

      I felt the rounded tip of my makeshift club and thought of fire. Instantly the wood caught flame. The Rector jumped back, more than a bit surprised that I was now holding a burning torch.

      I slashed it at him and he jumped back again, screaming. He gripped his sword with both hands, holding it out similarly to what Rahn had done, but with more purpose and experience. He batted at my torch half-heartedly, probably to see if it was actually real and lit. Then he gained confidence and slashed with more intention. My back was still against Dunwielm. The blade came from my right and I countered, his sword thwacking against my torch, sending a resonating shock down my arm.

      I saw an opening, but just as quickly, it was gone. The Rector stepped back and thrust. I parried it away and he switched his grip, moving in with a backhand slash. I bent, but not fast enough, and I felt his blade connect with my back; it wasn’t deep, but it bled and hurt like Hades. I sucked in air and cursed.

      He sensed his pending victory and moved in. I righted myself as best I could but couldn’t straighten fully with the pain in my side. He slashed again, and I parried limply. He thrust and I dodged, wincing and crying out in pain. The Rector laughed, and it seemed as if he was toying with me now. I moved to the side but stumbled and fell to one knee. His eyes widened, but I could sense his move. He slashed and I rolled onto my back, crying out again. I continued rolling to my stomach and pushed off. He was off balance but moving to return with another backhanded slash. I saw the opening again, and this time I didn’t hesitate. I scrambled forward from my hands and knees, grabbing his wrist and thinking, Fire!

      The Rector screamed and dropped his sword. I could smell burnt flesh as I released his wrist. It was blackened, and blood was oozing from several dried cracks. He took another step back, holding his wrist and looking at me helplessly, gurgling as a short thin blade appeared out of the front of his chest, just below his heart. Blood dripped from his mouth and chest and he dropped.

      The Rector with the two smaller swords stood behind him, pulling free the blade from his back and staring right at me. The robe’s hood had fallen, replaced by a wild mane of copper hair.

      It wasn’t a Rector. It wasn’t even a man.

      My gods! It’s Arteura! I recognized her instantly, though she seemed older, more grown, and fierce. My jaw dropped.

      Just as I was finding my voice, she flipped the blade in her hand and raised the blade to my throat.

      Gods, she’s fast!

      “That won’t happen again, sorcerer,” she growled. “I saw what you did, and I know who you are. I know what you are. And if you and your friends prevail, you’ll be gone from here or I’ll finish you myself!”

      Who I was? What I was?

      She had no idea who I was. But then again, of course she didn’t. I was Caden now. Tristan, her brother, was the honored dead of five years ago.

      Again I opened my mouth to speak, but she turned and ran in the direction of Rahn, Marshaan, and Telluras, still fighting off the remaining Rectors.

      I stood dumbfounded, with my mouth gaping open and the still-lit torch long forgotten at my feet.

      “I know who you are. I know what you are . . .”

      Had she seen me light that wood?

      She’d called me a sorcerer. How would I, and how could I, explain to her who I was now? How could I explain any of this? And would she even give me the chance?

      I started to follow, but the pain in my lower back seized my movement. I lifted my shirt to see the wide gash given by the Rector’s sword. It wasn’t deep, but it was painful and still bleeding. I touched it gingerly and felt my hand warm. Curious, I covered the wound as best I could with my palm. There was a heat there, and then a searing pain the length of the wound. I winced and cursed, drawing my hand away. The gash had sealed, cauterized by this fiery magic. The bleeding had stopped, but the wound would likely leave a nasty scar and was still painful. I lowered my shirt and looked back to the fighting.

      Marshaan had moved on to another Rector and, as I watched, he elbowed him in the chin before a stiff uppercut dropped him as well. Not pretty, but damn effective.

      Arteura had joined with Rahn, who stood back as my sister, her arms a blur of motion, slashed the Rector across the chest and neck, felling him in a spray of blood.

    &nb
    sp; Who am I? Who are you, dear sister?

      Down to two, the remaining Rectors looked at their opponents, looked at each other, and wisely chose to run. They hurled themselves over the cliffs of the Mihtcarr, grabbing vines and scrambling down the falls as Marshaan and the others let them go.

      Finally, with his hands on his knees, winded and spent, Marshaan looked up at Arteura. “Thank you, whoever you are.”

      “I have no love lost for the Temple, or for the Empire,” Arteura seethed through gritted teeth. “And I have no need of thanks from those who harbor Tamatulc.”

      He raised up. “Tama—what?

      She looked at me, raising one of her still-drawn swords. “This one—”

      “Arteura,” I said softly, interrupting her.

      Her brow furrowed, but her blade remained steady.

      “Arteura,” I repeated. “It’s me. It’s—”

      “I don’t know you,” she growled. “Nor do I want to.”

      I stepped forward. “Yes,” I said, “you do. You do know me.”

      She raised her chin in defiance.

      “It’s me, Arteura.” I took a long, steadying breath and said. “I’m Tristan.”

      Her eyes remained as steady as her sword, but her lip betrayed a falter in her confidence, and I could see her risk a moment’s thought: Who is this sorcerer to try exposing my family’s greatest loss? Tristan is . . .

      “Tristan is dead,” she said, her voice wavering. “You’re . . . you’re—”

      I nodded. “I know. I know you think that.” I glanced at Marshaan. “But I was saved. There is an underground river, below the—”

      “TRISTAN IS DEAD!” she screamed.

      She slashed at me and raised her other blade, closing the gap. Marshaan moved in, but I waved him off as I stepped back. Dodging and backpedaling, I refused to raise my hands in defense. I could see her eyes behind the weapons, red-rimmed and watering. Questioning.

      “Tristan is dead,” she said again. This time with less conviction.

      Could it be she did recognize me? Or, at least wanted to?

      “Arteura,” I pleaded, “listen to me.” I was trying to steady my voice, to keep it just above a whisper, as I might only have one shot at this. “There is a cave, above the Gildrom, where you and I used to go as kids. Out of Brynslæd, away from the Temple and away from our family. Just the two of us. What was the game we used to play there?”

      “Tristan . . . is . . .” Her jaw was set, but tears spilled down her cheeks. Her eyes were searching for trust and truth, but her blades were still slashing, and I was running out of room. I had no choice. I couldn’t believe it. Against all better judgement, I started singing.

      “One by one, and two by two.

      Here’s a cave for me and you.

      We have berries, we have food.

      What we don’t have—”

      All movement stopped.

      “Is lots to do,” she finished.

      Arteura stared at me, swords at her sides, lost and confused yet brave and betrayed, all at once. The bold front she’d put on melted away as a rush of emotions overwhelmed her and, just for an instant, I saw the little ten-year-old sister I’d left behind.

      “Oh gods,” she whimpered. Her swords dropped, and the tears ran. “Tristan?”

      I nodded and stepped forward, reaching out a hand. She took it slowly, tenderly. Then, she fell into my arms, sobs wracking her body as she melted against me. I winced at the pain in my back, but even that slowly ebbed away as I held true family in my arms for the first time in years.

      Marshaan and the others were eyeing me with a mix of wariness and astonishment.

      I took another deep breath as tears welled over my own eyes. “This is my sister,” I said, though I couldn’t believe it any more than they could. Still, I said it again, wrapping the realization around me like a warm blanket. “This is my sister. This is Arteura.”

      She stiffened and stepped back. “Oh gods, Tristan, so much has happened. So much has changed—with our family, with me, with you. How . . .” She shook her head. “How can you—”

      I pulled her in close, hugging her tightly as I whispered in her ear, “Whatever you think of me, what I am, or what you think I can do, the others don’t know anything about it. I’ve only just discovered this myself. I have no idea what it is, or how I’m able to control it. You and I? We’ll have plenty of time to talk, but please, for now, the others don’t know.”

      I stepped back, trying to look unruffled by what she was about to reveal. She eyed me skeptically but held her tongue. I tried to maintain an air of casualness as I held her at arm’s length, looking her up and down. She was nearly as tall as I was, lean and muscular. All airs of vulnerability were gone. Standing before me now was the warrior I’d seen a few minutes ago in battle, and definitely not the little sister I’d left five years ago.

      “I can tell a lot has changed,” I said admiringly. “You’re . . . you’re . . .”

      “You’re a hell of a fighter,” Marshaan finished for me, stepping forward, “is what you are.”

      “I apologize for before,” she said. “I had no idea . . .”

      “Not to worry,” he said. “It’s sometimes hard to know who friends are in the heat of a fight, or . . . family, for that matter. Anyway, I am Marshaan, and this is my brother, Telluras. Over there is Rahn. That’s—umm.” He looked at me questioningly again.

      I smiled, sensing the awkwardness of it all. “That’s my brother,” I said.

      Her face whipped to me, and her brow furrowed once more.

      “It’s complicated,” I said, my grin widening. “I’ve lived in a place for five years now that’s been wonderful and amazing . . . and complicated. Just like its people.”

      Telluras came up, placing a hand on Marshaan’s shoulder. “I hate to break this up,” he said, “but we should probably go. Those Rectors will likely be back—and with many more, I would guess.”

      Arteura nodded in agreement. “Þrymm guards this time, I’m sure.” She looked at me. “Our brother among them more than likely.”

      “Marcus?”

      She nodded.

      “A Þrymm guard?”

      She nodded again.

      “Things have changed.”

      “Yes. They have. You have no idea,” she said. “It seems everything has.”

      28

      Mother of the Dishonored

      As Amelia Grayson approached, the two Þrymm guards maneuvered in front of her, blocking her path. She held without a word and without resistance.

      “Let her come,” the Elder said.

      Reluctantly, they parted and she brushed between them, stepping through.

      “What do you want, Amelia?”

      Amelia stood silent, letting the Elder’s question hang heavy in the air.

      “I’ve come for my daughter,” she said finally.

      The Elder cocked his head. “You want—”

      “This is a place of sacrifice and submission, yes?” She didn’t wait for an answer. ‘This is a place of atonement, of appeasing the gods and setting things right, yes?”

      “And we are doing that today, Amelia.” His voice took on an edge. “You above anyone should know that. What are you doing here? What do you want?”

      She stood aghast, mocking astonishment. “I want what everyone else here wants, Aoren.”

      He seethed at the use of his common name, but held his tongue as she continued.

      “I would see justice done. I would see atonement . . . and submission.”

      His eyes flicked to the Gildrom pool as the swirling water began to pick up speed and small waves lapped at the edges.

      “I am here to set things right, Aoren.” Her gaze followed his to the Gildrom pool. “And it would seem I am not the only one.”

      The water at their feet began to roil and churn. The crowd caught its collective breath as murmurs of the Ma’wan, magic, and of the presence of gods rippled through.

      “You see,” she said, “I taught my daughter once that you can never hope
    to bring about change from a position of inferiority. Those in power will never listen.” She looked him up and down as she chewed her lip. “They have no reason to.”

      Amelia began to walk around the side of the Gildrom, her long dress and slow gait seeming to make her glide in front of the now-silent crowd who took a collective step back as she neared. Other than the sound of the rolling water of the pool, the silence was almost oppressive, weighing most heavily on the Elder, who felt his hold over the masses slipping away.

      “You have now taken my husband from me,” Amelia said. “Twice.”

      Her voice was oddly cool and emotionless, and Rhiana gasped.

      “Then,” she went on, again as if she hadn’t heard, “you took our daughter from me.”

      This time she looked squarely at Rhiana. “Twice.”

      Murmurs rippled through the crowd once more, and Amelia turned as if noticing them for the first time.

      “Yes, I suppose it’s time that secrets were laid bare.”

      She turned her back on the Elder, addressing the crowd. “There were rumors that my youngest daughter, Skye, was not Lord Grayson’s. Or, that possibly we had some sort of torrid romance before we were married, while I was still under the Temple’s employ. And that that was the reason for her frailties—the gods’ punishment and all that.”

      She turned and continued her slow walk around the pool, toward her daughter and the Elder. Her head was bowed in thought as she spoke, looking almost like a teacher lecturing her class. “There was no punishment though, was there, Aoren? Because Skye was not infirm. In fact, she was beautiful, healthy, and actually quite special. Wasn’t she.” It was a simple statement of fact, not a question.

      She turned back to the crowd. “And I can also tell you—unequivocally—that I did not have an affair with Lord Derrick Grayson. Something that several of your Rectors and Council members have known all along.” She gave a sad smile, her head still bowed. “Because by the time I met him, I was already with child.” She had made her way around the Gildrom pool and now stood before the Elder. “Wasn’t I, Aoren. That too is something several Rectors have known all along.”

     


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