Analindë (The Chronicles of Lóresse) (40 page)

“Well met . . . Analindë.”

Her mind froze. Body paralyzed. She was going to die. Erulissé was going to die. No! Her heart dropped to the pit of her stomach. She sensed a spidery web spread out from the ironclad grip on her forearm. The web was paralyzing, confusing. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. The web enveloped her completely. It was cloying. Her vision fogged over and narrowed.

The crowd parted around them, paying no heed to the obstruction in their way. Why did no one notice what was happening?! Sound melded and rushed past her ears in an unintelligible wash of sound. It was becoming difficult to hold her head up.

“Did you know that alternate plane shields can be tracked?” Dûrion tightened his grip and icy shards stabbed into her. She moaned in pain and her shivers turned into trembles. “No? All I had to do was look. Pity you dropped it when you pushed over that server. Found you anyway.” He grinned. Any hopes she had of escape
or
of a quick death vanished.

Dûrion reached out with his other hand to brush the side of her face and she flinched. He pressed his knuckles against her chin, turning her head back to face him. “Don’t take it personally. It’s just war,” he said as he trailed his fingers up her cheek to trace the outline of one of her ears. Her heart shriveled at the unwanted intimacy, recoiling at the thought of what might come next. “Now if you’ll just–”

A strong, jovial voice called out, “Erulissé, well met. I–”

“Lothorian.” Erulissé’s shrill voice cut off the cheery greeting. Analindë mustered her strength and jerked her head to the right, away from those nasty fingers, to search the crowd moving around them.

She caught sight of Lothorian; his eyes had narrowed and a signal seemed to move through his friends, because one by one the relaxed companionable men became Sword Sworn, switch flipped. Iron and steel, tough and strong. Danger.

Death.

Analindë’s knees buckled and Dûrion jerked her forward against him. His other arm came around her, holding her snugly close.

“Lothorian, you must come see the new blade I purchased earlier today.” Erulissé’s panicked words flowed across the crowd. Seconds later the seven
aprenti
surrounded them. Two of the Sword Sworn grasped Analindë’s arms, forcibly tugging her away from Dûrion. They did something; she could feel the weave they cast, but could not make it out. It felt like a warning of sorts. Dûrion did not release the grip on her forearm. Cold menace radiated around her. It came from the formerly carefree men that were now weapons of honed, unyielding power. Lothorian and another clamped themselves onto Erulissé.

“If you’ll excuse us, Erulissé has a sword to show us.” The weave coming from the Sword Sworn solidified somehow, becoming stronger. Dûrion’s eyes flashed in frustration. His face became a polite mask as he uncurled his hand from Analindë’s forearm, taking the poisonous cloying web with it. The five Traitors backed away from the small group of Sword Sworn
aprenti,
then melted away into the surrounding crowd.

Analindë sagged as the men hustled her up the street and into a side alley that resulted in a dead end. They rapped smartly on a solid wooden door and a moment later were ushered inside a building. The small group moved silently as they wove their way down to the basement, then entered a maze of tunnels that probably led back to the school.

The Sword Sworn did not speak as they fluidly walked down the darkened passages. They worked seamlessly as a unit, scouting the area ahead and behind as they traveled, ever alert for signs of ambush. Her legs seemed to be working now and so they hadn’t reverted to carrying her. For that she was grateful. A long time passed before Analindë noticed they’d lost one of the group. Should she say anything? She wondered for a long moment. She turned to the Sword Sworn who still supported her arm and said, “We’re missing–”

“Shhh.” He quietly cut her off. “We know,” he mouthed the words. She nodded and let her mind fall back into a blank numb state.

It had been so close. She shivered. The comforting pressure of the Sword Sworn’s grip left her arm and then warmth descended around her. She looked up as the pressure clamped back onto her arm. Her Sword Sworn had given her his coat; she’d lost hers somewhere and absently wondered if she’d had anything valuable in her pockets. He didn’t look at her, so she studied his profile as they walked. He wore his hair tied back from his face in typical blade-like fashion. Nondescript. That’s what he was. Sword Sworn always looked the same. Or maybe it was their manner that was the same? Beneath his cold vigilance she sensed kindness, or maybe his gesture suggested it? She thought he might have looked kind for those few brief moments before he had turned into a weapon. She couldn’t remember.

Four times they were stopped on their way through the tunnels by guards and sentries that bore stitching around their collars that she did not recognize.

She looked down the passage. How much further would they travel? Shouldn’t they have already reached the school? Another Sword Sworn prowled between her and Erulissé. She looked past him to her friend. Lothorian walked with her and had his arm around her shoulder. He was murmuring something in her ear and she was nodding back at him. Analindë stumbled. The Sword Sworn at her side was the only reason she didn’t fall. She shivered again and kept walking.

Sword Sworn trickled in from side passages and joined their entourage the further into the tunnels they walked. Actual, real Sword Sworn. She hadn’t thought it possible, but these new men and women were scarier than the
aprenti
. They were colder. Made of tougher steel.

They embodied silence.

One of the really silent weapons walked at her side for a moment, studying her. He turned to her Sword Sworn and whispered, “She’s flaring out. Be careful what you think about.”

At that the man was gone, and her escort turned even quieter. She hadn’t thought it possible. Flaring out, what did it mean? In mage terms it would mean that she was spiking Energy and that with those spikes came uneven levels of sensitivity. She let her mind follow the puzzle of that assessment, finding it much more pleasant than present reality.

But her mind was slow, still fogged up from that cloying web, and it was taking too much effort to try and make herself think, and so she simply let the thought go. Focusing instead on how silent everyone was, it would have been almost peaceful if they weren’t so frightening.

A few moments later they entered a bright room, and a moment later Analindë found herself sitting on a wooden chair. Someone placed a warm cup into her hands and she held it, letting it warm her fingers.

“Who were they?” Although Lothorian knelt in front of Erulissé’s chair, he glanced back and forth between the two of them. Erulissé would tell them, she’d seen them all, would remember their names, and knew the story. Analindë decided she didn’t need to answer. Erulissé would. She withdrew into herself.

“Traitors.” There was no reaction, except for one person who quickly stepped out of the room.

“Tell us.”

“We had an . . . interesting morning, so we stopped for lunch at
The Hidden Garden
. We chose a table in the back of the atrium; halfway through lunch some men entered the room. Analindë grabbed my hand and kept me from making our presence known. One of the men attacked her a few days ago and he’s been tracking her since. She recognized him.” She paused and looked at Analindë. Analindë stared blankly back at her friend. Erulissé continued on hesitantly. “She recognized him as a flutter in the void. Does that make sense to you?” A few heads turned to look at Analindë.

“Yes, it does,” someone answered.

Analindë saw movement at the side of the room. She looked to see who had entered. Another Sword Sworn, this one a Senior Officer. The stitching at his collar indicated he was second in command. Erulissé would tell him. He’d take care of it.

“She cast some sort of invisibility shield that shimmered and made me go numb. Dûrion called it an alternate plane shield. By the way, did you know it can be tracked? He said . . .”

As Erulissé warmed to her subject, her voice picked up. Soothed by the familiar cadence of her chatter, Analindë let Erulissé’s voice fade away. Someone took the cup away and began to chafe her hands with theirs. Heated blankets settled down around her shoulders. More warmth. It felt cozy. She felt safe. These dangerous, cold weapons would keep her safe. She drifted.

Sword Sworn came and went, but Analindë didn’t see them. She stared blankly at the wall opposite her and let everything flow around her, Erulissé’s chatter lulling her mind to rest. An occasional voice would interrupt the flow and she would tense up, but the chatter always began anew and her muscles would slowly begin to unknot.

Papers rustled, leather scraped against stone, and fabrics shushed. She snuggled deeper into her blankets and kept her eyes unfocused. She didn’t want to hear. She wanted to forget how quickly she’d failed. How things were not normal.

There must be a place somewhere where everything was normal again. Swords did not sing to her, books did not randomly appear or yank her across rooms. Her family lived and her home was intact. She did not have vast power, she simply helped trees to grow faster, stronger, and larger, because that was what her father had taught her first. She did not know advanced shielding nor know the feel of a suffocating web that leeched her physical strength and will. She did not know fear. She disengaged and went where things were soft.

Sounds faded away. Even Erulissé stopped talking, speaking only intermittently. She heard the scrape of pencil across paper and the quiet murmur of voices. Not female. Light footsteps came, but mostly went.

Cool fingers touched her forehead, the side of her face, the inside of her wrists, a pulse point at her neck. A seeping, oozing warmth fanned out from the touch points. Her muscles unknotted further, and her pulse slowed. She realized her fingers hurt, so she loosened the grip she had on her blanket and leaned back into her chair.

The cool fingers moved back to her face but touched the other side. The coolness disappeared and two hands pressed her shoulders through the blanket, then moved down her arms, squeezing. She relaxed further. The pressing hands moved down her legs; she felt their soft pressure through her skirts and shoes. Her toes were cold and her teeth began to chatter. The hands quickly moved back to her shoulders and neck. A delicious warmth moved through her. It lit up her senses and connected to her source. It was hot. Powerful. It raced through her body, warming her. Her teeth stopped chattering and instead she only shivered.

The murmur of voices increased and the muted scrape of pencil across paper grew louder. She was warm. She was exhausted. She closed her eyes. Cool fingers touched her chin, urging her head upward. She opened her eyes and focused. Concerned stars swirled slowly in green eyes.

“Laerwen.”

Cool fingers lightly touched either side of her forehead and her eyes drifted shut again. She was relaxed; no, not relaxed. Tranquil. Content. Soothed. The gentle touch loosened her tension and helped her unbrace her heart. Fear eased away, leaving exhaustion in its place. She began to shake again.

“Do you know what spell they used?” she heard Laerwen ask. She didn’t understand the hushed reply.

Her trembling was not out of fear or cold but from the aftereffects of being wound so tightly. She’d been ready to run, only she hadn’t. She’d frozen instead. She’d frozen first. It was only after she’d panicked and done nothing that the cloying web had paralyzed her thoughts and movement. But had that web really stopped her? Could she have moved if she’d tried harder? Done something more?

Her breath hitched. Cool fingers were again at her temples, soothing and calming. A hushed voice whispered in her ear. She was safe. All would be well. She exhaled. It felt good. So she breathed in deeply and let that breath out too. Again, lungs expanded, stretching, filled to capacity, and then more, and then she relaxed as air rushed out, sending the tension and fear out of her as she sent her mind toward quieter things.

She sat for a long time, warm, safe and somewhat content until the scratching of pencil over paper stopped. Warm fingers, not smooth but with calluses touched her wrist. She opened her eyes.

The high ranking Sword Sworn crouched before her. He was silence. Blade sharp, but gentle. His stars said nothing. His melody did not sing. Was this a skill they learned? One of the many secrets their order guarded?

“Please, for so severe a crime we need more than one witness. Erulissé would suffice by herself, but not in this case. I would not ask otherwise.” He gestured to an elve seated near her. He held a loose sheaf of papers and a charcoal pencil. The stitching around his collar indicated he was part of the guard and served as artist. Artist? She remembered the sound of pencil across paper.

This was going to take a long time. She closed her eyes. She wanted to sleep. Hide; yes, she wanted to escape. Her breath quickened. Cool fingertips touched her forehead. Rough callused ones gently touched her wrist a second time.