Gemworld (38 page)

All at once, Sal realized the true value of his situation. The longer he was in Bastion, the more he could learn about the way the world views magic, as well as strengthen his already impressive grasp of magic. And with his fresh insight, there was no telling how that could benefit the Resistance.
If I’m ever able to rejoin them
, he thought wryly.

Lying on his grass-woven bunk in the barracks, Sal both looked forward to that day, and dreaded it. There wasn’t a moment that went by that he didn’t wish he was back with Reit, Retzu, Jaren... and Marissa. The memory of their one kiss stole his concentration a thousand times a day. The memory of Reit pulling her away from the battle, and that look of fear. Rejoining the Resistance meant running the risk of her witnessing his death. Or him witnessing hers...

He banished the thought forcibly, focusing on the present. He was an officer in the Earthen Ranks now. As much as he wanted to leave, to be with Marissa, he knew he couldn’t. Not yet. He was in a position to do the Resistance a lot of good. He was on the inside, an officer in the enemy’s own camp, with men under his command. Men who were learning to trust him.

Sal wondered again if the soldiers of the Earthen Ranks truly served the Highest out of loyalty, out of love. After spending more than a month in their midst—or what he was used to calling a “month”, rather than what the local calendar observed—and getting to know some of the other recruits personally, he just couldn’t bring himself to believe it.

A bell tolled in the distance. Second Watch. Around him, the barracks grew dim as lamps were puffed out one by one and soldiers knelt by their bedsides, bringing their nightly petitions to the Crafter. Few of the whispered voices mentioned the Highest. Those who did seemed to do so hesitantly, almost as an afterthought.

No,
Sal decided.
The Earthen Ranks aren’t truly loyal to the Highest. They fear him, probably ended up joining the Ranks in order to garner favor, protection for their families. And who can blame them? There are no real alternatives
.

What? Follow a rebel prince who’s already been captured once, who’s all but declared open war on the undisputed ruler of the mainland, possibly the whole world? No. No one would risk their families to follow a man they didn’t know, didn’t trust. On the other hand, if there were someone they
did
know
...

Sal pondered this long into the night, finally drifting off to sleep, where thoughts of revolution were replaced with visions of sunlit red curls and the scent of lavender soap.

In the night-cooled southern forests of Aeden’s Lost Garden, amidst the silence broken only by the occasional song of a twilight warbler, another soul stirred.

Keth lay back on his pallet, as comfortable as he could make himself, but still sleep was proving to be elusive. He wondered where Sal was, what he was doing. Was he safe? Did he still think of his friends, those who had adopted him as family? The young granite guessed that this was what his Da felt like as a kid, waiting for his brother to come home from the Clanwars.

Things had been strained for days following the attack on the eastern slopes of the Aedenlee Foothills. Once the immediate danger had passed, the horror of previous week started to settle in. There was little laughter and carrying on, even among the kids. There was a glint of steel in every eye, a snarl in every word. The shock of the attacks was slow in wearing off. All to the good, as far as the protection of the village was concerned, but it had made life very drab, very hollow for a while. It cast a grim shadow over the village that seemed to seep into the bones. Keth didn’t know if it was that shadow, or his granite indifference trying to set in, but things quickly came to a head for him. He was determined not to fall into the same funk as everyone else.

Keth pushed forward with his arcane studies, though he did so alone, without the instruction of the newest granites to Caravan. He had no idea why, but Jaeda refused to even see him. Gaelen tried to tell him that she didn’t want to impede the progress that he was making in his studies of Granite, but that just didn’t make any sense. What smith doesn’t pass his knowledge onto an apprentice? What father refuses to teach his son? He’d been half tempted to visit the other granite, the one called Nestor, but Reit was adamant in his command that the granite general be left alone. More than once, his oath of fealty bristled on him, but he said nothing. After all, he’d sworn to Reit of his own free will, and he’d bow the master of the Abyss before he broke his word.

For endless hours, he would wield his granite magic, if for no other reason than to just be doing something. Oh, how he hated the waiting, the inaction he saw around him! Even with the apparent business of the village, it all seemed like so much window dressing, neglecting the heart of the problems they faced. So much more could be put into motion, so many plans could be made. Each second that passed could be a second devoted to getting Sal back, or improving Caravan’s defenses, or training the raid parties for the upcoming Festival of Harvest. Anything!

He even turned to creating and destroying—then recreating again!—his little granite spheres to give his daily life a sense of purpose, however minimal. Anything to stave off the boredom. And whenever he felt his focus beginning to slip, he’d pester a
shol
’
tuk
lesson or two out of Retzu. From sunup to sundown, he stayed busy with one project or another. Got himself the doeskin, aye, and was less than a step away from the linen, but that was entirely beside the point. He’d even taken to becoming one with the earth, melting sword and all into the ground beneath him, to work his
shol
’
tuk
forms in utter isolation for as long as his focus could hold out.

Crafter be praised, the people of Caravan finally started to come around. But the change was far from gradual. It happened so suddenly that it was almost frightening. One night he lay in bed, searching the silence for a cough, a whimper, anything to let him know that he wasn’t alone in the village. The next morning, the camp was abuzz with activity. Keth really didn’t care what brought about the change after weeks of nothing. He just blessed the Crafter and His Prophets that it had.

Following the ambush in the foothills, Caravan had remained fully mobile, camping in a different spot each night. Pegasi and amethysts had been sent to gather up those straggling villagers that could yet be found, along with refugees from other rebel cells. There was more than enough work to go around, and now that the funk had finally lifted, people were getting after it with a vengeance. Someone was always needing something crafted, or mended, or altered. Master Seti’s forge may as well have been a tavern, for all the callers it entertained.

Before, this might have suited Keth just fine. Crafter take it, he’d
prayed
for the day to arrive! But in those half-numb days immediately following the attacks, he’d actually gained an appreciation for his granite abilities. His “gifts”, as he referred to them now. And each new custom order took him away from his arcane studies. He couldn’t help but to grin at the irony.

Each time he explored his gifts, he found new uses for them. Now he put his whole heart into his studies, far surpassing anything that Jaren could teach him, and quite likely Jaeda as well. And that enthusiasm carried over to other aspects of his life. Especially into
shol
’
tuk
. The precision of the stances, the fluidity of motion, the veritable melding of logic and creativity... he almost thought that his lessons with Retzu made him better able to explore his magic. Ridiculous! What did swords have to do with mana? No matter. Whatever the connection, its existence was evident. If he’d leapt into the doeskin hilt, he was virtually
flying
toward linen now!

Master Seti noticed his new enthusiasm as well. Or rather, he noticed that his apprentice often had his mind on other things, far, far away from the mechanical clunking of his hammer. More than once, Keth would awake from his thoughts to find Master Seti’s eyes on him, the blacksmith shaking his head and snickering good-naturedly. He knew well where Keth wanted to be. So even with the increased demands of the forge, the blacksmith let the young granite go his way whenever he could spare him.

Often, Keth would use this time to simply sit, and look. The object of his study didn’t concern him, only the studying of it. He found this ironic as well, after all his complaining about inactivity, to sit idle and watch a flower open, or a gnat buzz around a rotting fruit. He would study the object closely, examining the patterns that made it up, and the bits that made up those patterns. Other times, he would take those bits and push at them magically, watch them strain against the natural bonds that held them.

One day, those bits moved.

He hadn’t expected it really. He was simply thinking back on the night that he’d first learned to consciously wield. He had been looking at a wooden stick, but he saw that loaf of bread, the petrified bread that he turned into steel. In his mind, it was still so vivid—the bits that formed the bread, the way he rearranged them to fit the pattern of the steel in the dagger. He didn’t realize what he was doing until the stick grew cold in his hand.

Amazed, he stared at the now-steel bar. He could still see the minute ridges and valleys of woodgrain within the bar, the knotholes and leaves that sprouted from it at odd angles, all metallic. He could see tiny fissures in the branch, where he’d attempted to cut through the stick with a knife earlier. The fissures gleamed a lighter blue against the blue-black of the rest of the branch, telltale signs of the steel’s weakness in those spots. Still, it was strong, solid throughout.

He’d done that! He’d turned the wood into metal, with only the force of his will. He’d pushed at the bits of wood, and they moved...

Moved?

A new, peculiar thought occurred to him. Concentrating on the bar, he drew upon the granite magic, and wielded. Mana flowed from his arm, into the steel. As he watched, the woodgrain smoothed out. The knotholes filled and the leaves melted. The branch elongated, thinned out, became straighter. Its edge sharpened visibly. With each passing second, Keth’s understanding of his “gift” became more defined. He wasn’t just learning his abilities. He was bending the very laws of nature.

He starred at the object in his hand, formed seemingly of its own accord. A mixture of pride and awe filled him. Had his eyes been natural, he might have had to shade them from the gleam of the magic-wrought steel. He might have seen the beauty in it, the shadows of woodgrain still in the blade. He might have seen the love that he’d put into the hilt—which later that night would sport his doeskin strip—or the menace in the keen edge. But all he saw at the moment was his accomplishment. He saw his growing mastery of his talents. And it all started with a suggestion from Sal...

Keth’s eyes snapped open, and he stared out into the rippling orange of the tent as it stirred in the night air.
It always seems to come back to Sal, don’t it?

Keth fought the sudden urge to go out looking for him.
I’ve been commanded not to
, he reminded himself viciously.
You
will
keep your word
.

He’d fought many such urges since that day a week ago that he’d told the others that Sal was still alive. He couldn’t believe how callous
el
’
Yatza
could be, writing Sal off without even trying! Sal was smart, innovative, and a natural leader. He was an extremely valuable asset to the Cause. It seemed only logical that Lord Reit would order a rescue attempt, but he was too busy making excuses as to why he could not.

The young granite raged at the excuses, seeing them as unacceptable weakness, and raged at himself for even
thinking
such thoughts against his sworn lord. Sal had to be in grave danger for him to not try to find his way home, and yet Reit—
Lord
Reit—would do nothing. The Heads of Order and Guild would do nothing.
No one
, not even the artisan, seemed willing to do anything. Keth begged them to at least let him go out alone, but they refused that as well. Lord Reit didn’t want to risk losing Keth to the Highest. Jaren didn’t want him to get killed. Miss Marissa wouldn’t say anything, just stare off into nothingness and cry softly. They all felt how important Sal was to the Cause, the mages more than any, and yet everyone seemed content to sit back on their haunches and do nothing!

With each passing moment, his ire mounted. Ire quickly gave way to outrage, and that to a righteous fury. He felt torn, straight down the middle of his soul, with each half vying for control of the whole.
We cannot win without Sal. We cannot win
, he shouted silently, only to hear his own voice echo back,
You swore an oath. You must trust that what your liege lord commands is for the best
...
We cannot win
...
You cannot betray your vow
...

He grabbed at his head with both hands, panting against the urge to cry out, trying to rip out his frustration with his hair. Pain brought tears to his eyes, his jaw clenched.

Good, good. Pain was exactly what he needed just now.

Death is raw, like the hide of a newly skinned bull
.

The near-magical words of the mantra worked their way into his soul, as they always did. His focus sharpened. He could feel the tattered remnants of discipline drawing slowly together. His breathing slowed, his fingers went slack. The screaming in his scalp eased.

Death is soft, like the doe in her winter coat
.

Focus. Calm.

After the first recitation, the words came easier to him. Again and again he repeated his hilts, absorbing every last drop of control the incantations offered him, until at last he felt his shoulders relaxed, the knots in his back ease. He let go of his hair altogether, and rubbed his sweaty palms against his jerkin. For good measure, he silently recited his hilts once more. Finally, he deemed himself able to think rationally about this, his emotions once more in check.

He admitted—grudgingly—that Lord Reit’s refusal was wise. There was no excusing the danger that the Resistance would face in an all out attempt to rescue one man. The ends simply did not justify the means. But that changed nothing. The Resistance needed Sal, now more than ever.

Lord Reit, in particular, needed Sal. The one-eyed mage saw things differently that anyone else, picked up on things that others missed or took for granted. In the fight for freedom, such an asset could be the difference between winning and losing. The Highest might be able to anticipate Lord Reit as he had every other upstart rebel leader throughout history, but not Sal.

Miss Marissa needed Sal, too. With him gone, she could hardly work, could hardly even eat. And right now more than ever, her expertise in magical weaponry was vital. If she could not concentrate on her work, the mundane people of Caravan would suffer in their ability to survive another attack, much less mount one of their own.

Master Retzu, Menkal, Jaren, Senosh... the list went on and on. Everyone in Caravan needed Sal in one form or fashion. True, it was too risky to attempt a rescue. But, in Keth’s opinion, it was just as risky not to.

Feeling his frustration simmering anew, Keth took a calming breath, reciting his hilts again out of reflex. Even if his sworn lord had not given him a direct command to leave Sal in the hands of the Crafter for the time being, there was still nothing he could do at the moment. He had no idea where Sal actually was, or whether he was really being held captive. All he knew for certain was that Sal was alive. The rest was speculation.

Keth forced himself to relax, and wriggled deeper into his pallet. When he was settled, he dropped his hand to the floor below. The ground rippled as he melted his hand into the dirt. Every night he held a similar vigil, feeling for Sal’s aura—the structure of Sal’s magical presence—across miles of night-cooled earth. Sometimes he felt it faintly, far off to the south. Most times, like tonight, he felt nothing.