Bloodwalk (26 page)

Though her outward demeanor was calm, she clawed at the stone window ledge, scraping her knuckles open on its rough surface. She allowed them to bleed, oblivious to the pain, and marveled at the sight of lightning reflected in the smeared drops of red.

Elisandrya stalked toward the sanctuary doors, assured of her path for the first time in her life. Her life had been a series of distractions, anything to escape the memory that chained her to what she could be and what she should be. The deaths of her parents had been shrouded in doubt that dissolved day by day. The more she lived, the more she knew, the more she was driven to act, regardless of consequence.

She opened the doors and stopped, looking for Sameska. The other oracles were gone, possibly in council, and for a moment she feared Sameska was with them. Then she noticed the high oracle, her back to the doors, staring at the curtain behind the altar and the dais.

Sameska gripped the soft fabric, exhaling long rasping breaths. She didn’t notice Eli’s arrival, lost in some fit or trance. The muted voices of the oracles could be heard from the chamber beyond. The arrival of the Hoarite had done much to solidify the truth of Sameska’s predictions, but his words had sown seeds of doubt and discord among the more fertile minds of her lessers. The top of the curtain began to tear. Sameska wheezed through clenched teeth, squeezing her eyes shut as she turned toward Elisandrya.

“No,” Sameska said as the episode passed, “this is not the time for anger. I will not add flame to their fires.”

Calming, gathering her wits, she stared at the silhouette of Savras beneath its concealing cloth. She gasped as the black fabric fluttered and waved, but the open doors revealed the source of the breeze. She stood straighter, peering through the dim sanctuary with narrowed eyes.

Elisandrya stood outlined by the light of a torch in the hallway beyond. Her squared shoulders and hostile demeanor left no doubt as to her intention. “You killed them.” Her voice was low, menacing.

“I fear your judgment has been influenced by honeyed words and a handsome face, child.” Sameska’s voice was clear and strong, a practiced tone perfected by years of speaking to her followers. “The only killer here is the one you escorted to this temple.”

Eli walked closer, approaching the center of the room. She ignored Sameska’s remark.

“Targris. Logfell…”

“Hold your tongue, girl!” Sameska shouted.

“… my parents,” Eli’s tone did not change. She refused to be baited by the high oracle’s condescension.

“Madness! Blasphemy!” Sameska’s throat constricted, causing the words to issue forth in a screeching whisper. A shiver ran through her body and she was transfixed by Elisandrya’s nearing form, her slow step and balled fists.

“You told me they were set upon by bandits while traveling to Littlewater.” Eli huffed and shook her head. “You even managed to sound sorrowful.”

“I told you the truth!”

“Oh, yes,” Eli said, then yelled, “The day before it happened!”

Eli flung the words like a hammer, releasing the truth that had plagued her for years, had fed on her spirit, on her faith in all she’d been taught. The guilt of those long years of denial rose in her throat, demanding release.

Sameska flinched as if struck and raised an arm to protect herself as Eli edged closer still. Tears rimmed the hunter’s eyes but held fast to their perches, making way for the steely-eyed assuredness of vindication.

“This has been a long time coming, High Oracle.”

“You would draw that blade against me, here in this temple?”

Only then did Eli notice that her hand rested firmly on her sword’s hilt, and she pondered Sameska’s question. She struggled between rage and sorrow, flooded with both as years of quiet suspicion and youthful rebellion took root in the present. The once cold facade of the high oracle’s face did not match the nervous and unstable woman who backed away from her, arms raised before eyes livid with indignant fury.

She did not remove her hand from the sword, but neither did she unsheathe it. Ignoring the high oracle’s question, she continued.

“My mother defied you, accused you of using the sight to further your own power.” Eli’s words were focused on Sameska, but she spoke more for herself than for the high oracle. “She would have ruined you, and so, too, the traditions of the Setha’Mir.

“My father would not let her travel alone, guarding her as she went to Littlewater to speak with the oracles there, to plead her case against you. And you let them die.”

“You are as naive as she was, Elisandrya Loethe! You believe rumor and hearsay before the words of your betters. She paid terribly for her hasty actions,” she replied. “The Hidden Circle tolerated you for the sake of your mother. I see now that was a mistake.” Sameska had lowered her arms and now attempted a more authoritative demeanor.

“One mistake among many, ‘a blade of grass on the Shaar,’ as our people once said.”

“Further evidence, child, that you are living in the past.”

Sameska turned away. Elisandrya stepped closer, inches from the high oracle. “I think being aware of the past has proven quite valuable in recent days.” Eli stared daggers at Sameska’s back. “Our present may depend on it.”

Sameska looked sidelong at Eli over a trembling shoulder.

“Your ignorance is no longer welcome here, child. You and your sister shall be arrested and charged with heresy before the Hidden Circle.” Sameska’s hidden smile was evident in her tone as she added, “Unless you intend to slay me, I have no doubt what conclusion will be drawn, I assure you.”

Elisandrya breathed close to Sameska’s ear, making up her mind and slowly drawing her sword. The high oracle trembled all the more, but made no move to defend herself. For all the favor of Savras she supposedly had, Elisandrya considered Sameska’s helplessness quite telling. She savored the moment, then spoke, her sword freed. “Don’t bother with your charges.”

Elisandrya turned and walked toward the sanctuary doors, satisfied that she had said all she needed and heard all that was necessary.

“You renounce your faith, then?”

Eli slowed and stopped, but did not face the high oracle. Her words echoed easily in the round chamber. She had no need to look upon Sameska’s face again.

“I do not question my faith.” She adjusted her armor and bow as she added, “I renounce this prophecy and your foolish edict, but most of all, I renounce you. Savras willing, I will finish what my mother started.”

She shoved the doors open and disappeared down the hallway, leaving Sameska to shiver and fume in the blasting winds of the storm that howled through the open temple doors.

Dreslya blinked, opening her eyes and rising from the bed on weary legs. The room had grown cold—a strong draft blew from beneath the door. Resting her head in her hands, she tried to recapture all that she’d been shown, the horror and wonder of a strange dream. Taking a deep breath, she looked out the window. The candle had gone out, leaving the room in darkness save for flashes of lightning outside.

No, she thought. That was no dream.

“Elisandrya is alive,” she whispered.

The moment of relief was quickly overcome as the vision reasserted itself in her mind’s eye. She shivered, afraid of what was to come. Clenching her eyes shut, she squeezed her hands together. She steeled her nerves that had too often sought shelter behind the walls of the temple and the tenets of her faith. Exhaling a long, slow breath, she eased herself off the bed and knelt on the floor. Beneath the bed was a small box she’d touched almost every night but had never opened.

She cradled it in her arms and stood, setting it down on the windowsill beside the unlit candle. Unhooking the latch, she opened the container and gazed upon her birthright, the only items recovered from her mother’s body. On top, wrapped in a soft cloth that had been the hem of her mother’s robe, was a silver dagger, curved in the hunter’s style and emblazoned with the eye of Savras at the center of the crossguard.

She felt its unfamiliar weight in her hand and wondered at its hidden power, tracing the tiny runes burned into the edge of the blade, careful not to cut herself. She placed it in the old leather sheath her father had made for it and thrust it beneath her belt. Turning her attention to the other object in the box, her hand wavered, feeling doubt clouding her judgment.

“I can do this. I have to,” she told herself forcefully.

Wrapped in a small square of red velvet at the bottom of the box was a ring. It too was silver and bore Savras’s eye in the center. She let it rest in her palm, feeling its warmth.

Placing it on the ring finger of her left hand, she looked east, picturing the unbarred gate and the forest beyond. The ring responded quickly, turning her thoughts into reality. The ring glowed white and heat traveled up to her wrist, searing and pure. Dreslya gasped and concentrated harder. The ring showed her what she sought, carried her sight to its target. The gates appeared and flew past her as she watched for movement through the rain. Lightning flashed and was reflected in a sliver of metal near the forest. A tiny figure stood at the edge of the tree line, wielding the curved blade of a hunter.

“No! Come back, Eli! They’re coming!”

Elisandrya had raised her blade high, intent on following Quin into the forest. Her eyes were reddened but the rain had washed away her sorrow, and she felt only the need to act. To this need, she was more than just a willing slave. The razorvines would provide a difficult passage, but her hunter’s blade was strong and sharp, accustomed to dealing with obstacles like the Qurth’s formidable flora.

Before her sword could fall, her stomach lurched and a wave of nausea flowed through her. Her vision, already hindered by the rain and darkness, blurred and became foggy. The nearest trees loomed over her like black giants, shapeless masses that swayed and shook in the thrall of the storm.

She stumbled backward, nearly slipping in the loose mud and slick grass. The sounds of the rain and thunder diminished, fading as they were slowly replaced by other noises. Whispers came at first. The voices that spoke to her from the forest were inhuman, moaning cries and gibberings that froze her arms and legs. Rooted to the spot and trembling, she could not look away from the Qurth as phantom shapes appeared, hundreds of inconstant figures writhing and flailing boneless limbs as they murmured and gurgled.

A droning chant could be heard faintly, buzzing behind those tortured figures in a loathsome language of harsh syllables and vile tones. Their shapes were blindingly fast, frenzied and inconstant, spasms of movement like an unnatural tide. A faint sound like a distant heartbeat pulsed, shaking the ground beneath Eli’s feet.

Black shapes darted overhead, beating massive wings. Eli ducked, flinching and covering her head. Try as she might, her darting eyes could not see what had flown by, but a stench like smoke and spoiled meat settled in their wake. She fumbled with numb hands to wield her blade, trying to see her foes through clouded vision and unequaled fear.

Bright, glistening eyes stared back at her from the forest as the horrible voices stopped all at once—a silence so profound that only her own wildly beating heart and short gasping breaths could be heard.

In a blink, it was all gone.

She found herself slumped to her knees, still on the edge of the forest with the storm roaring in her ears. Blinking back the rain, she looked behind her toward the dim silhouette of Brookhollow’s walls. Her head throbbed and she nearly lost her balance as she stood up from the mud among the tall grass.

Casting one last look at the forest, she considered Quinsareth, no doubt far beyond her assistance by now. Pulling her feet from the muck, she turned and ran to the city, sword in hand. The distance seemed surreal, so great was her need to reach those gates. She couldn’t run fast enough, couldn’t pull at the old gate hard enough. It didn’t seem real, as if it were already dead, along with Logfell.

She burst wide-eyed through the gates and immediately turned to heave the massive portal shut. Terror-filled moments ticked by in her mind as she envisioned hellish creatures on her heels and she pushed harder, slipping in the mud and digging into the wet clay beneath. The hunters in the stables stopped their gaming to stare in shock, wondering what madness had infected this frantic woman. One of the men pulled his cloak on and ran over to question her.

She only stared at him as he approached, still pushing on the gate, her eyes pleading, determined. Mere words wouldn’t do. They’d all been living in the same place for days. Though swords and bows had been proclaimed useless in the prophecy, they still waited nearby. Hung within easy reach, full scabbards at the hip, quivers of arrows at the ready, true warriors did not just wait; fortunately, they prepared.

Hesitantly, the other hunter stepped closer and leaned a shoulder into the gate. Displacing water and mud that had collected in its path, the gate slammed shut. Without a word, Eli swiftly reached for the winch that would lower the bar and block the entrance.

The other men joined the pair and stood transfixed by the scene, uncertain, glancing at their weapons leaning against the stable wall. Eli strained at the winch. Rain had soaked the wood, tightening the braces. Heaving deep breaths, she looked over the device at the hunters who watched silently.

Meeting their eyes, searching for that warrior’s instinct they had attempted to deny themselves since the night of the gathering, Eli spoke, shouting to be heard above the storm.

“Help me. It’s coming.”

The first hunter to join her, a solid, barrel-chested man called Zakar, turned to his fellows, pointing to each in turn as he spoke. “You two, help her bar this gate.”

The younger of the two, called Arek, spoke up. “We cannot! The oracles forbade this. We shall die if we resist!”

The fear in his eyes belied the hopeful tone in his voice. He sounded like a man who wanted to be told he was wrong. Eli indulged him. “You can die defending people you have sworn to protect, or you can die at your dice and cards! Prophecy or not, death is coming!”