Mystic (8 page)

One of the men spoke without lifting his head. “Shelter. Not fit to be looked at.”

Sim took Pomella by the arm and pulled her away. “Come on. We can't do anything for them.”

Pomella let him lead her away, but she couldn't take her eyes off the disheveled men and women prostrated before her. Each lacked a name, and a place in the world.

Sim moved ahead to shuffle through the chamber's wreckage. Pomella continued to stare at the Unclaimed. Her foot caught on something, and she jumped back.

A dull gray shaft protruded from beneath the chamber's smashed table. At first Pomella thought it might be some kind of thin, dead tree branch, but then she realized what it was. A bone. Piled atop more bones.

Pomella swallowed. “Sim?”

She turned to see Sim gathering long planks of wood from the table.

“We can use this as a ladder,” he said. “Let's go.”

Pomella leaped to help, silently thanking Sim for having the presence of mind to figure out a solution. She helped him lift the wood, and together they exited the chamber from the way they'd come in. Pomella gave one last glance at the Unclaimed, who still remained prostrated.

Working around the old bones, she and Sim stacked as many planks of wood as they could and struggled back up the tunnel. Managing the uphill slope proved to be a challenge, as the runoff from the rain slickened the terrain. Both of them fell at different times, and Pomella cut her ankle on the side of one of the stone steps.

At last they made it back to the open pit. The rain pounded harder than before, filling the hole with deep puddles. Water cascaded over the edges above. Pomella inhaled deeply, relishing the fresh air. It cleared her mind, washing it free of the dark thoughts the Unclaimed had brought forth. Still, despite the clean air, she was beginning to really dislike the constant rain.

“You should climb out,” Sim said, wiping water from his brow. “You're lighter than me, and I can help steady the boards.”

Pomella tilted her head back, feeling unsure about the slippery twenty-foot climb.

“I don't know, Sim. I'm not very good at—”

“Pomella,” Sim said, his voice sincere. “‘
Don't let me give in,
' right?”

The rain splattered on her face. Her teeth chattered. He was right. She nodded.

Sim leaned the longest, thickest board against the pit wall and wiggled it to ensure it was stable. “I'll give you a boost,” he said, and nodded upward.

Pomella grasped the board and climbed using Sim's cupped hands. She scrambled up the angled plank as quickly as she could, and found a handhold in the wall. For a moment she balanced there, but then Sim's strong arms pushed her feet up higher. Stretching out, she stepped onto the top edge of the board she'd just scrambled up, and reached high for another jutting stone hanging above her. Looking down, she saw she was about halfway up the wall.

“You can do this,” she told herself.

She suddenly wondered if Mystics could learn to fly. It would certainly be useful here. But if that were true, wouldn't that mean she'd have already seen them flying across the skies over Moth?

Another stone jutted out above her. Clenching her jaw, she found a foothold in the rocky wall and eased toward it. Another step, another pull, arm over arm. She fingered the jutting rock, and finally managed to grab it. She prayed to the Saints that it held her weight. She pulled herself up, grunting at the exertion. The top of the pit loomed above her, just a foot or two. She reached for it, and found the edge.

Sim laughed in delight from twenty feet below. “Well done!”

Relief washed over her like rain. Her fingers sought a firmer hold to pull herself up. She thought she might be able to—

Her foot slipped. She lost her hold on the edge and screamed.

Pain shot through her shoulder and elbow as a clawed hand grabbed hers. She wrenched her gaze upward. A scaled face with wide, protruding eyes and jagged teeth stared down at her. He seemed humanoid, and lay belly down at the edge of the pit, gripping her wrist.

Panicked, she tried to shake her hand loose, giving no thought to the drop below.

“Pomella!” Sim screamed. She vaguely heard him draw his sword and try to scramble up the wooden board.

The lizardlike creature pulled her up, and within moments she found herself gasping on the grass at the outside edge of the shrine. She scrambled to her feet and backed away.

“Don'tttt run, chhhild,” the creature rasped as he stood. He wore strange dark-green armor consisting of layers of leather and padded wool. A strange pattern of swirling scales covered the visible parts of his body, circling around one another, creating mesmerizing vortexes. A line of short white spikes ran from his forehead, down his spine, and out the tip of his long tail.

The creature lifted a sheathed sword and an unstrung bow from the wet ground. A quiver hung at his waist, wrapped in canvas to keep the arrows dry.

Her mind raced to identify the creature. The name bubbled to her mind, and without thinking, she blurted it out.

“Laghart!”

A strange sound came from the creature, his chest heaving. “You don'ttt sssee many offf my kinnd in Oakssspring, do yyyou?”

The voice sounded male. “What do you want?” Pomella demanded, sounding far braver than she felt.

“Fffor you to telll your ffffriend to relaxx while I hhhelp him outtt,” the laghart said.

“Pomella! Where are you?” Sim called.

Watching the laghart as closely as possible, Pomella leaned over the edge. “I'm safe, Sim. There's a … a laghart … up here. I think he wants to—”

The laghart uncoiled a rope and tossed it down the pit. He braced himself against a heavy stone and waited for Sim to begin climbing. A minute later, Sim crawled up out of the hole. He scrambled toward Pomella and pointed his sword at the laghart.

“Who are you?” Sim demanded.

Pomella found herself surprisingly comforted by Sim's presence. “Sim, it's all right,” she said. “He helped us.”

The laghart sheathed his sword. “I am Vlenar, and you're latttte.”

“Late? What do you mean?” Sim said.

Pomella stepped around Sim, putting her hand on his shoulder to ease him. “He's the ranger who was sent to meet me. Aren't you?”

Vlenar nodded, his strange slitted eyes watching them. “Yessss, Goodmisss AnDone.”

“You were supposed to meet us at Sentry,” Sim said.

“Usss?” Vlenar's tone sounded unamused.

“I-I meant, her, obviously,” Sim stammered.

“We knew ssshe would be lattte, becaussse of the storm, ssso I tracked herr herre.”

“But how could you know that?” Sim demanded.

“Rangersss and Myssstics know evvverything about the Great Forressst. Where it growsss, we sssee.”

Pomella bit her lip. She believed Vlenar was telling the truth. Besides, she and Sim were lost, and if Vlenar was a true ranger, he could guide them through the woods to Kelt Apar. She turned to Sim.

“I'm going with him,” she whispered, putting her hand on Sim's arm.

His eyes wavered just a little. “I'll come with you.”

“You know you can't. If you're caught outside the barony, you'll become Unclaimed.”

Sim shook his head. “I'm not leaving you with him.”

“This is already hard, Sim,” Pomella said, trying not to let those blue eyes upset her. “Thank you for coming for me. I needed it more than I knew. But I need to go alone, now. I— Good-bye.”

She danced on the edge of hesitation and, without thinking, tiptoed up to kiss him.

As her lips reached his, he turned his head just enough so the kiss landed on his cheek.

“Good-bye, Pomella,” he said.

She watched him walk away, sheathing his sword. He paused beside Vlenar to murmur some questions. Without speaking, the ranger pulled some provisions from a bag and handed them to Sim. Vlenar pointed in the direction she and Sim had come from. With a final glance back at her, Sim headed off in the indicated direction. Soon he was lost to the rain and shadows of the forest.

“Come,” said Vlenar. “Kelt Apaarr awaittsss.”

Pomella lingered, then followed the ranger.

*   *   *

Sim trudged through the Mystwood, heading back the way he and Pomella had come. Late-afternoon shadows dimmed everything around him. He tried to retrace their footprints, but the deluge had wiped them away. He settled for finding the river and followed it back.

He hated himself for leaving Pomella. He hated the laghart for taking her away. And, by the Saints, he hated himself for turning away her kiss. He cursed himself six times for being a dunder. He'd pushed too hard last night in the pit. Now, today, he didn't feel right kissing her when she was so muddled. Jagged Saints,
he
was all muddled! What would he do now?

At least the rain had stopped.

As he walked, he imagined himself returning home. He saw himself handing the iron sword back to his fathir, apologizing, and putting his work clothes on for another day in the forge or fields. He could see Bethy smirking at him as he hammered away at yet another horseshoe. He sighed as he imagined himself having to court and marry somebody else before taking over the family trade. With his older brother, Dane, gone, the expectation fell on Sim now.

Over and over, he imagined the limited possibilities his life might take. He was the iron, never having a say in how he could be forged. But that was life for a commoner.

Lightning flashed, bringing him back to the present. He'd come to a place he hadn't realized he'd been walking toward. Stopping just below the ridge where Pomella had jumped into the river, he hopped across some dry stones, trying to avoid falling in. He made his way upstream along the bank until he found Pomella's book sprawled open inside a blackberry bush.

He reached in and lifted the leather book out of the overgrown branches. The rain had ruined the pages exposed to the sky, and soaked a few beneath them as well, but overall the book seemed in good condition. He flipped through it, admiring the interesting artwork within, but not understanding the noble runes. Commoners couldn't read those.

Most commoners, anyway.

Closing the cover, Sim placed the book in his shoulder sack. As he was near the Creekwaters, his thoughts lingered on Dane. Even though he'd been the eldest, Dane would never've stuck around in Oakspring, Sim knew. No matter the risk, the moment he'd saved enough clips Dane would've broken the law and headed for a city, or maybe even the Continent. It sometimes seemed like Dane was a bird who'd just settled on Moth long enough to hatch and fly on.

You can come with me if you want,
he'd told Sim years ago.
I'll go travel for a while and see what's out there. Then I'll come back and get ya. When you're old enough, you can come to the jungles of Gunna with me.

“Yah,” whispered Sim to himself now, trying hard to picture Dane's face. Strange, what you remembered about a person after he was gone.

What would Sim remember about Pomella?

He knew he didn't want to remember her as being sad. It seemed to him like all she'd known since the Coughing Plague swept through Oakspring and took Dane and her mhathir was sadness. And it didn't help that Goodman AnDone, her fathir, wasn't exactly the kindest man to live with.

Sim wondered about her fathir. The man was sour and prone to bursts of red-hot anger. What would cause a man to become so cruel? Losing his wife, maybe? Perhaps he wanted more for his life, but never attained it? Commoners from Moth could rise above their caste, though it didn't happen very often.

The thought brought Sim back to his previous thoughts and his own destiny. His fathir had been a blacksmith, and a farmer before that. His grandfathir had been a farmer, and his great-grandfathir before him, too. Since as far back as his family's history went, the AnClures had tilled the soil on Moth. They bothered no one, and asked only for a chance to lead a peaceful life.

So why was that not enough for Sim? Did Dane's spirit whisper to Sim from the Creekwaters? Why did he feel that returning home now would forever close the door on a once in a lifetime opportunity?

He gazed north toward Oakspring, and realized he couldn't go back. With or without Pomella, something had awoken in him. He rested his hand on the sword at his side. He wouldn't let life hammer him down. He would not become what Pomella's fathir had.

Turning to the south, Sim gazed in the direction Pomella likely had gone. She might not want him around, but that didn't mean he couldn't at least make sure she got to Kelt Apar safely. Yah, he would do that.

He bit his lip. And then what? If he followed this course, he would be declared Unclaimed for leaving the barony of his birth. He had to risk it. Pomella was making the same choice, just in a different way. After he got her safely to Kelt Apar, he could continue south. The road supposedly led all the way to Port Morrush on the southern tip of Moth. He could find work there, or even a ship to the Continent. He'd take Dane's memories with him.

He turned and walked three steps into a new life. Then he ran, noting that full dark was still a few hours away. He rushed faster, hoping to at least make it back to the shrine before night fell.

He ran for longer than he thought possible. Finally, he stopped to catch his breath. Water droplets fell from trees whose spring greenery was in full display. He drank from his waterskin, and pulled out some dried rabbit meat the laghart had given him. He'd have to hurry if he wanted to make it to Sentry before—

He stopped. A familiar sound came from the west, repeating in a steady rhythm. It was a sharp, piercing sound that reminded him of home. He crept toward it, and quickly recognized it as the sound of a blacksmith's hammer slamming onto metal. He wondered who would be smithing in the middle of the forest.

Stepping carefully, he brushed past the long vinelike branches of a willow tree and spied a small camp beside a thin creek. The camp consisted of two tents, a wagon, and three hobbled horses, each grazing hungrily. Sim couldn't see anybody, but could hear the blacksmith working on the far side of the wagon near the creek. No banner waved above the tents.