Oathen (37 page)

Sanych’s hands came to bear on a flying knife
aimed at her chest. She let loose a blaze of rippling white heat,
and it fell to the stone floor in a steaming puddle, the handle
afire. A ball of thick yarn whirled around her, and she
encapsulated it in a globe of heat; when it dissipated, mere ashes
drifted to the floor. A wicker basket flashed past her head, and
she ducked, then shot a burst of pure light at it, causing it to
burst into flame.

Wooden spoons, platters, even a stool, took
their turn attacking the small spellcaster, but she flared her
fingers and grasped a pair of light-formed handles, wielding bright
axe blades that proved to be sharper than anything Geret had seen.
She whirled and ducked and twisted, using the techniques Geret had
seen her practicing aboard the
Princeling
, laying ruin on
the household objects that assaulted her.

The last projectile, Curzon’s iron cooking
pot, fell to the floor with an echoing clang, its two halves
rocking. Sanych held the light-blades a moment longer, meeting
Geret’s eyes in triumph, before letting them fade away.

The message in her eyes was clear:
I don’t
need you anymore, Geret. I have my magic now.

Geret looked down at the destruction at her
feet and swallowed, feeling more alone than he had at any point
during the entire expedition. Sanych had always been there for him:
when he tried to push her away; when she was in love with Salvor;
when he’d been in Rhona’s tyrannical grip. Now, she’d taken a step
in a new direction, and he couldn’t hope to follow. The gap between
them was sudden and uncrossable. Worse, she seemed to want it that
way.

He took a steadying breath and turned to
Curzon. “I’d surrender to her after that,” he joked. The old hermit
cackled, but Sanych looked away. “I’ll tell Meena that the training
is progressing well.”

“Thank you, lad. And if you could tell Ahm
that he still owes me a flat of stamp berries?”

“Right,” Geret said, standing. He made his way
through the skin curtains, then heard rustling behind him. Sanych
stood there, looking upset.

He gave her an encouraging smile. “You’re
scary good, Sanych. I can’t believe you learned all that so
quickly.”

Her troubled blue eyes gazed up at him for a
long moment. A dozen unvoiced thoughts seemed to swirl in their
depths. “Did you really—” she began, then pressed her lips shut,
looking away.

“What is it? You can tell me anything,” he
said in a light tone, grazing the underside of her chin with a
knuckle.

Her eyes slid closed at his touch; her face
tensed as if in pain.

“Sanych?” he whispered, wanting to make things
better, but afraid he would only make them worse.

When she opened her eyes, the sight of her
unshed tears wrenched at him. He slid his hand to cup her cheek and
felt her lean into his palm. Encouraged, he pulled her against his
chest and held her close.

“I’m so sorry.”

Her body tensed, and she pulled away. “So you
did.”

“I—what?” he asked.

Sanych’s face crumpled, but before Geret could
react, she slapped his hands away from her with glowing
palms.

“Sanych!” he blurted, shocked. He jerked away,
afraid for a moment that she’d burned him. But her touch had merely
been light, not heat.

“Don’t touch me with those hands,” she grated,
tears spilling onto her cheeks. The lines of sadness in her face
hardened to anger. “This hoping is murder on my focus.”

“What—”
But I don’t have any other
hands!
his mind protested, utterly confused.

“I’m not
her
, Geret.” Sanych’s eyes had
hardened to pale sapphire; she thrust a finger toward the distant
sea. A lurid orange glow exuded from her hair; Geret feared she
didn’t know she was doing it. “And I never will be. Try not to get
us confused. I can see how that might be hard for you, though,
since we’re so clearly alike!”

Her. She means Rhona.

“I never meant for you—” he began.

“Yes, I can see that you didn’t.” She stepped
back. The orange glow around her hair dissipated.

Geret’s mind had been struggling to keep up
with Sanych’s mental leaps for a while now, but this time he fell
completely behind. He wanted to explain, felt a powerful urge to
confess his shared deception with Rhona and all the ramifications
it had manifested. But in the face of her incandescent anger, he
reluctantly decided that now wasn’t the time.

“I-I should go,” he said, deciding not to
further upset a young woman who had just slashed half of Curzon’s
belongings to ashy bits. “I can see you’re not interested in
waiting for me to sort myself out anymore.”

Sanych winced and turned her face away. “Yes.
Just go.” Her voice sounded broken.

Geret nodded a silent farewell and reached out
for the ladder. He’d barely gotten both feet onto it when Sanych
closed the door with a firm shove.

He leaned his forehead against the chill metal
bar in his hands, closing his eyes and letting the wintry wind whip
around him. The cold felt good after the many varieties of heat
he’d just experienced in the cave.

Even when she’s mad, she still makes me
feel stupid next to her
, he thought, trying to make sense of
Sanych’s reactions and words. Guilt over his complicity in keeping
Rhona’s secret from her, along with worry about his uncle’s
legitimate anger in regards to several aspects of Geret’s behavior,
made it hard to focus at first.

Something she’d said finally penetrated his
mind: “This hoping is murder on my focus.”
She’s still hoping
for something! Admitted it right to my face! She must want me to do
something to show her I’m not a complete idiot.
He blinked
.
I’m turning into a calculating nobleman after all. Salvor would be
proud
.

A strong gust threatened to tear him from his
precarious perch; he climbed to the top of the ladder to pursue his
thoughts in a safer location. At the lip of the cliff, he rolled
onto the broad, mossy edge and stared up at the sky as if looking
for answers written in the clouds.

Said clouds were heavy and yellowish, scudding
overhead with sullen reluctance; he’d not seen their like in
several winters. He felt the first fat flakes of snow melt with
cold kisses onto his skin, lost in the swirling thoughts that
captured him entirely.

If Sanych still has feelings for me,
Geret worried
, I crossed her in a huge way with Rhona, no matter
what happened that last night aboard ship. She may never forgive
me. And if that happens, I’ll never forgive myself
.

Then he grinned, letting a laugh escape into
the snowflakes.
But with Sanych as both opponent and prize,
there’s no way I can walk away from her. If she’s still hoping,
then so am I!

Geret was keeping out of the snow in a small
wooden shelter grown from several saplings when he saw Salvor
approach. He greeted Salvor with a firm forearm grip. “I’m glad
you’re safe,” he said.

“You know that’s my line, and I’ve never been
happier to say it,” Salvor replied, relief on his face. “What’s
been happening?”

Geret grinned. “Very nearly everything.” Rhona
joined them while he filled Salvor in, though he left out the part
about Sanych’s outburst.

“You seem awfully jovial,” she greeted him,
standing on tiptoe for a kiss.

Geret saw Salvor rest his forehead lightly on
his fingertips, shaking his head in what appeared to be disbelief.
The prince pulled his grey cloak closer around him and turned his
head so that her kiss landed on his cheek. “It’s the snow,” he
said, bouncing on his toes and looking out at the thick fall of
white flakes.

“Snow makes you happy?” she asked, frowning at
his rejection.

“Not all snow; just this snow,” he said,
casting an inquiring eye at Salvor, who gave a shrug and looked
away.

“Beats the dragonfire out of me,” Ahm said,
joining them in the shelter. “I’ve not seen anything like it in my
life. It’s nearly summer by the almanac.”

“Do you think it’s a cover for an attack by
the cult?”

“Our weather casters say no; it’s been in the
wind for days, before any of you arrived.”

“Bad luck, then,” Salvor muttered, turning and
leaving the tent.

Geret looked to Rhona for a hint about
Salvor’s mood, but she would not meet his eye.

“I’ll just go look for Ruel,” she murmured,
slipping out into the drifting flakes.

Geret sighed. “Has Meena returned from
scouting yet?” he asked Ahm.

“Not yet—”

A thunderous boom interrupted Ahm. Geret
frowned at the sky. “Do snowstorms usually come with thunder in
Shanal?” he asked.

“No!” Ahm ran out into the snow, not bothering
to put his hood up. He darted through the scattered fir trees,
silver hair flopping. Geret and others ran as well, while faint
sounds of explosions carried through the snow-laden air. By the
time they reached the cliff lip, the battle in the village below
was in full swing.

“They’re here,” Ahm muttered, gazing down at
flashes of blue and red, yellow and black. Golden lightning
streaked down from the snow-laden clouds, striking targets on the
ground.

The Scion leader headed back to the picket
lines for a horse, with Geret on his heels. But while Ahm wheeled
his mount toward the steep cut that led down to the village, Geret
had a different objective.

“Go on ahead,” he shouted to Ahm. “I’ll get
Sanych!”
That door’s so thick, I bet she can’t hear a thing in
there over her slicing and dicing.

At the edge of the cliff, he dismounted in a
single rushed leap. His feet slipped out from under him in the snow
and he staggered, giving himself an adrenaline rush. Slowing down,
he approached the ladder and found the first rungs with his
feet.

Glancing across the broad clearing, he saw
Meena ride out of the trees. Raising himself a rung, he called her
name, and she looked across at him.

At that moment, a blast of wind and an
enormous half-orb of flickering black light encompassed most of the
clear area between them. Where before there had been a hand’s depth
of clean snow, there were now dozens of Dzur i’Oth cultists. In
their center, astride a black steed of pure shadow which snorted
golden fire from its nostrils, rode a man dressed in black. Within
his dark hood, he wore a skeletal half-mask, and his right hand was
scaled by living silvery metal that tipped his fingers with wicked
claws.

Geret saw his hood turn toward Meena. The
Shanallar’s face went slack.

“Thief,” the man intoned, raising his silver
hand and pointing at her with a single claw.

Geret couldn’t help crouching against the
cliff’s lip, trying to appear as small as possible.

Meena glanced toward the camp, as did Geret.
The Scions were just now noticing the sudden invasion. Without
warning, Meena wheeled her horse and bolted back into the
forest.

“Kill them!” Oolat shouted—for it could be
none other than him—and the cultists rushed to attack. As his
forces raced ahead of him, the cult leader turned his shadow mount
after Meena. Geret watched the thing flow after her, moving like no
living horse could.

“Folly, Folly,
Folly
!” he cursed,
shaking off his paralysis. He climbed down the ladder as quickly as
he could, slipping twice and nearly falling off. He reached
Curzon’s door and pounded on it. The door’s hollow thudding seemed
quieter than his pounding heart.

Sanych opened it a long minute later, pressing
her lips together and flaring her nostrils at the sight of
him.

“Sanych! Dzur i’Oth is here and Oolat’s
chasing Meena! I need your help!” He held out an arm to her,
clinging to the ladder as the snow blurred past him, whipping his
cloak.

Her eyes widened, and she reached behind the
door, whirling a dark green cloak around her own shoulders. Then
she slapped her arm into Geret’s hand, grasping his sleeve, and he
hauled her over to the ladder. She scampered upwards.

“Curzon!” Geret bellowed.

“What, what?” the old man griped, coming to
the door and rubbing his arms in the cold air. “Where are you
taking my student?”

Geret repeated the situation to Curzon. “Will
you help us?” he asked, holding out a steadying arm.

“Sorry, lad. My magic doesn’t work in
battle.”

“What? Why not?”

“Because I’m a coward. Good luck to you, and
keep that girl safe! Her training isn’t anywhere near complete. “
He slammed the door shut in Geret’s face.

Geret blinked in incomprehension, then shook
his head and raced up the ladder after Sanych. He reached the top
just behind Sanych. He gained the flat ground and stood upwind of
her, letting the snow plaster itself against him. In the few
minutes he’d been gone, the camp had been overwhelmed, and it was
now full of cries and shouts, and the occasional explosion or
magical blast.