Rise (War Witch Book 1) (28 page)

As the day wore on, the small group broke for lunch, then again for dinner. The pile of books around them seemed to grow each time they returned. Feeling overwhelmed, Chara's doubts only strengthened.

Finally, Imicot retired for the evening, Esteban taking him back to his rooms. Ramora and Chara decided to stay at it for a bit longer, until the young woman’s eyes could stand no more, the words dancing on the page before her. Sleep calling, she tried to pry the Blessed from the book in front of her to no avail. Promising to join her shortly, Ramora was the last to leave the library on the first day.

When Chara woke the next morning, she saw the warrior had finally come to bed at some point, though she'd fallen asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow, so she had no idea when the other woman had finally arrived. It bothered her a bit, the question of why the Blessed would put the library over coming to bed, and her.

It seemed a silly thought at first. The justice she'd been seeking for ten years was there; of course she would pursue it. It was a small thing to push it from her mind the first time it rose up. They would hold each other soon enough, she believed, and truly become lovers when the time was right.

By the fourth morning, it was harder to ignore. The task before them was obviously not one they were going to accomplish quickly. It wouldn't kill Ramora to come to bed early one night, would it? To leave off the search a few hours sooner and enjoy a little quiet time with her girlfriend wasn't asking that much, was it?

Chara wasn't sure when she started thinking of herself as Ramora's lover, but she had, even though they never seemed to be able to actually commit to it. Always, there were interruptions, or she had to wait as the search for the banner came first. Actually, it seemed like everything came first, all the time.

Knowing she was frustrated, Chara tried her best to push the thoughts away, but they refused to leave her alone. The Blessed’s single-minded focus made Chara wonder, once again, where she stood with her, and how far she would go to find the man she sought. What would she willingly sacrifice to see him dead? Anything? Anyone?

The doubts and fears plagued her without end.

By their seventh day in the library, Chara felt like she was coming unraveled. Ramora had fallen asleep in the library that night, not even coming to bed. Esteban had been more attentive to her, the Blessed rarely even speaking anymore.

Chara immediately felt bad for thinking that. Of course she wasn't speaking. She couldn't, and the information they were hunting for was the key to why. Burying her face in a book, she screamed at herself.

"Are you alright?" Imicot asked, resting a hand on her back.

"Yes," Chara muttered into the book before sitting up, pushing her hair back from her face. "I've just never enjoyed looking for needles in haystacks."

Imicot chuckled at that. "Nor have I. I think I may have wasted half of my life looking for some bit of knowledge in this room over the years."

With a weary sigh, Chara looked at where Ramora and Esteban were, halfway across the room in opposite directions. "I think I may be your age by the time I leave here."

"It is possible," he grinned.

"Seriously?" she gaped.

He shook his head. "No, my girl. I'm just having a bit of fun with you."

"Old people have a weird idea of fun," she muttered, collapsing back, unable to believe she'd fallen for the old man's joke.

"We do," he nodded. "Though, when you get old enough, the frantic pace young people set for themselves is humorous. Mostly because you remember what it's like. All those hours and days spent rushing to and fro, how wasteful they seem now."

"If you say that slow and steady wins the race, I'm going to scream again, just so you know," she warned him.

He found that immensely amusing, chortling heartily. "I won't, don't fret. I'm just saying that sometimes, patience is a virtue that people your age can't fully fathom. You measure everything in minutes, rather than years."

Pushing herself back up, she stretched, her back popping, much to her relief. "I know. My dad always tells me the same thing."

"Ah, yes, Diem," Imicot nodded. "He was just like you back then. Always in such a hurry."

Chara gave him a sidelong look. "Was he now?"

"Oh, yes," the old man grinned. "I recall after the third day, he was trying to organize a work detail to dig a path out to the road, even though it was still snowing. Took him until the sixth day here to finally calm down a little, enough at least to play Masters with me."

"My dad was that impatient?" Chara asked. "
My dad
? As in, the guy who raised me?"

Imicot patted her head. "You've been far more patient than he."

"I am so telling him that," she giggled. "Wait, did you say my dad played Masters with you?"

"Indeed," Imicot nodded, waving a hand to the small table buried under an avalanche of books. "We sat there for many days, until the storm finally abated, matching wits and strategy. He was quite good."

"I had no idea," Chara said, eying the table in wonderment.

"Do you play?" he asked.

She gave a noncommittal shrug. "I've played, but I wasn't very good at it. Then again, neither were the people I played against."

Imicot gave her a wide smile. "Clear it off and let’s have a game, shall we?"

"Seriously?" Chara asked, waving at the books. "Shouldn't we be, you know, doing this?"

Imicot put it off with a simple wave. "We've been down here for a week. A few hours won't change that. Besides, a nice break now and then helps keep the mind sharp, and the eyes rested."

"Tell
her
that," the young woman muttered, throwing a glare towards Ramora.

"She has a singular focus," Imicot agreed.

"Tell me about it," Chara grumbled as she stood, stretched again, and went to clear away the books. "If you beat up on me too bad, though, I'm totally going to tell on you."

"I am warned," the old man chuckled as he eased up, tottering over to collapse in the chair before the table.

A few minutes later, Chara had it cleared, the books stacked around them in even more haphazard fashion. The table itself was highly polished, showing the hexagon field in sharp detail. Divided into five areas of red, blue, green, purple, and yellow, the play area was further divided by smaller hexagons, taking up almost the entire surface of the three-foot wide table. The pieces she found in small drawers underneath the top, and from memory, she set the table up, motioning for Imicot to go first.

The objective of the game was to position a Master Sorcerer piece in each of the five areas, using the many smaller pieces carved to represent members of the Six Races to defend them. The game was over when one side or the other lost all five Masters, with the winner being whoever had a Master left, regardless of how many areas they controlled. With forty-one pieces to each player, five potential players at a time, specific advantages derived from controlling each area, color-coded pieces dictating what areas they could enter or not, intricate rules marking how each piece could move, which pieces it could defeat, and which it could not, it was a game that required skill, cunning, strategy, and foresight to win.

Chara lost the first round in ten minutes.

The second round lasted four hours, Imicot winning with one Master and two additional pieces left. It was the most thrilling game he'd ever played, the young woman opposite him a natural strategist, learning from every mistake, and picking up on gambits it took most people years to learn. On top of that, he noted a wild streak in her, an unpredictability that kept him on his toes the entire game as she switched strategies on the fly, taking advantage of opportunities more seasoned players would avoid to stay with their battle plan.

Much to their surprise, for they'd been so engrossed in their game they hadn't noticed, Esteban and Ramora had abandoned their research to watch them play, hovering over them with keen interest as the two battled it out, sometimes taking long pauses to study the board as they decided their next move.

Startled, both looked up as their friends applauded them on a match well fought. Imicot bowed his head slightly as Chara flushed, waving them off. Promising to match wits with her again, the old sorcerer suggested they return to their study, something Chara suddenly found she was eager to do.

With Esteban helping the old man back to the table, Ramora patted Chara on the back, smiling and nodding, before joining the Werecat and sorcerer. Feeling rather proud of herself, Chara grinned as Ramora snapped her fingers at Esteban, getting his attention before stooping to the inkwell on the table and writing something out.

Rakiss, shaking off his fascination with the Masters game he'd just witnessed, saw an opportunity and seized on it. Perhaps it had been the match the two had played, but he was seeing new opportunities at every turn. Sticking a finger into Chara's aura, he swirled it, injecting a gambit of his own.

"You can write," Chara said suddenly.

Ramora paused, looking at her in surprise, and then nodded slowly. Handing Esteban the note, she signed to Chara that of course she could. She had lived in the High World for ten years. Ramor would never have been so remiss in her education as to not teach that.

"Yeah," Chara said slowly, a thought blooming in her mind. "But you can
write
."

Uncertain what she meant, Ramora nodded slowly again. Most people who could read knew how to write.

Stepping over to the table, Chara drug a piece of paper in front of her. "Write your name."

Ramora stared at her for a moment, not sure what she seemed so upset about. Taking up the quill, she scribbled out what Chara had requested, handing the paper to her.

"Ramora," Chara read before crumpling the paper and tossing it away. "That's not your name. It's a word I made up. It doesn't mean anything. Write your damn name."

Suddenly understanding, Ramora started to sign to her, but Chara slapped her hands away, demanding again, "Write your Gods-damned name!"

Shocked by the anger in her voice, Ramora again tried to explain, but Chara wouldn't even look at what she signed. Overwhelmed with rage at the other woman, Chara shook her head, ignoring what the Blessed tried to tell her.

"You lied to me," she snapped, voice low and full of hurt. "You let me think you needed my help, that you needed me to say things for you. You let me give you some stupid name that you didn't even need. All while you could write out whatever you wanted."

Ramora shook her head quickly, reaching out to her friend, only to have her attempt pushed back as Chara stepped away, slapping at her hands. The hurt bright in her eyes, tears beginning to build, the young woman shook her head again.

"Don't touch me," she warned. "Don't even talk to me with that stupid made-up language. You don't need it. You never did."

Trying desperately to calm her, Ramora reached for the quill. If Chara wouldn't listen, then the Blessed would do as she wanted. She would write it down for her.

"Yeah," the young woman said. "Do that from now on. It's all you ever really needed."

Before Ramora could finish, Chara stormed away, mounting the steps quickly. Dropping the quill, the warrior raced after her, trying to reach her, to explain what she didn't know. At the top of the stairs, her hand found Chara's shoulder, bringing her to a halt.

Spinning, Chara slapped her across the face. "How dare you! You let me think I was important! You let me think you needed my help! When were you planning on telling me, huh? How long were you going to just lie to me?"

Shocked, Ramora started to lift her hands and then stopped, seeing there was no reasoning with her.

"That's what I thought," Chara growled. "Go to the Hells."

The slam of the library door was heavy as Chara fled the room. Ramora stood on the stairs for a long time, trying to understand what had happened. Eventually, she made her way back down and sat at the table, face a mask of confusion and hurt.

Imicot and Esteban loitered quietly for some time, neither certain what to say. Chara's explosion of anger was so unlike anything they'd seen from the young woman at that point, it left them speechless.

"I'm assuming there’s a reason?" Imicot asked when he could take the pained look on Ramora’s face no more.

Nodding, the warrior pulled a piece of paper over and lifted the quill. As he watched, she touched it to the slip, her hand beginning to shake violently. Memories of her mother’s charred remains flooded her mind. The sound of her father's body being torn apart. Her sisters’ screams. Her brother’s wailing as he was taken by fire. Ink flooded over the crisp white paper as she struggled, then finally dropped the instrument, slumping in her chair.

"You can't," he said slowly. "You can't even write your own name."

Ramora shook her head slowly, tears stinging her eyes. Every time she'd tried, it was the same. She swept the paper from the desk, slamming her hands down, screaming silently. It was always useless.

Shoving away, she wiped her eyes and stalked into the shelves, grabbing books as she went. Once she was away, she sat on the floor and began flipping through them, crying.