The Wayfarer King (26 page)

Once they’d mounted and started again toward the Lucky Inn, Gavin told her of his adventures in the other realm. Her expression was skeptical until he showed her the rune.

“By Yrys! You got a summoning rune?” she asked.

“No, they wouldn’t give me one. This is a Rune o’the Past. They said I can use it to travel to a previous time. Does the book say anything about it?”

“That sounds familiar.” She pulled the encyclopaedia out of her pack and began flipping pages. “If King Arek could go to a different time, why didn’t he stop Crigoth Sevae from summoning Ritol? Why send so many thousands of soldiers to their deaths trying to kill it?” She looked up again. “What if you could stop that whole Ritol thing from happening at all?”

That notion made Gavin uncomfortable, though it was so foreign that he couldn’t wrestle it still enough in his thoughts to understand why. He pointed at the encyclopaedia. “Read.”

She hunted through the book, brow furrowed and eyes darting across each page. Finally she tapped the page. “Here. Listen to this. It’s from a letter he wrote to the Institute for Scholarly Studies.

“I have discovered that as Wayfarer, my travels are not limited to different realms. Indeed, I’ve found that I can travel to a previous time — to talk to people who have since passed on. I call this ‘back-traveling.’ On one such journey, I saw my mother while she was pregnant with me. I dared not address her for fear she would call the guards to arrest me for speaking of matters too unfathomable to be naught but the ravings of a madman. There are limits to this backward travel, however.

“I take with me only what I back-travel with, and I have no power over life and death. When I returned to the day nearly two years ago, hoping to...” Daia read silently for a moment.

“Hoping to what?”

“Gavin, you don’t want to hear this.”

“Read.”

With a sigh, she started again. “...hoping to save my young son from drowning in the courtyard reflecting pool—”

“Aww, hell,” Gavin muttered.

“—my hands couldn’t grasp him, and my shouts for help went unheard. I watched my son die, powerless to save him.” Daia grimaced sorrowfully. “Did you know King Arek had a son?”

Gavin started to shake his head, but the distant memory of a young body, wet and lifeless, tickled his mind. Though the memory was clouded, the emotion of it was not, clenching his heart. Ronor had loved that child as one of his own. “Yeh, I think I did.” It wasn’t a memory he particularly wanted Daia’s help to clarify, though. He let it go.

She bent back to the page. “My theory is that anything that would alter the past such that later events would not have occurred are somehow impossible. Back-travel is best suited for gaining information that might shed light on current affairs. If you have pressing questions about historical events, such as the crafting of the Star Fire gem or the circumstances surrounding The Sacrifice, send a reply and I will attempt to gather the information. Complete and accurate books on our people’s history would be among our most valuable assets.”

“Is there a reply?” Gavin asked.

She flipped a few pages, scanning quickly down the length of each. “Not that I can see, but I’ll keep looking. Sorry about that drowning business. I warned you.”

“I know.” In truth, Gavin was grateful to have heard it. If King Arek hadn’t been able change events in his past, then Gavin had no hope of saving his own family. Back-traveling to the day his wife and daughter had been brutally murdered would only have made him relive those moments in excruciating detail.

“You really did it, didn’t you?” she asked. “Traveled to another realm.”

He grinned and rubbed his thumb over the rune in his hand. “Yeh.”

“Next time you go through, at least warn me first, will you? I was worried half to death.”

Chapter 35

Brodas rode along a partially-paved street in the southern-most neighborhood of the Garnet district, scanning the burnt homes for one that had suffered less damage than the others. He hadn’t seen a grocer or farmers market within a few minutes’ walking distance and suspected that any nearby shops had gone out of business or moved after the fire. Everyone had left. Not one home had been rebuilt or repaired.

The last two homes on the street, sitting higher on the slope of the hill that marked the mountain’s edge seemed relatively untouched by the fire. He dismounted and approached. “Is anyone here?” he called. “Hello?” When no one answered, he tried the door. It swung easily open.

Inside, the great room was furnished with a pair of wooden chairs softened by pillows, a crude pedestal dining table, and several stools. The stove in the kitchen had evidence of heavy use and light cleaning. The home smelled dank from mildew. In a bedroom, he found a cracked ceiling and water-damaged bedding beneath. The second bedroom had an old bed, seemingly undamaged by mice or water, a wardrobe half-filled with clothes, and a couple of crates as well. A few articles of clothing lay strewn across the floor suggesting someone had left in a hurry. Every corner housed a spiderweb or two with shiny black residents whose bite promised fever and pus-filled boils.

Beneath a tattered rug in the great room was a hatch. Brodas pulled it open and was immediately assaulted with the stench of rancid meat. He waved fresh air into his face to rid himself of the terrible smell, then plugged his nose and descended. When he reached the bottom of the ladder, his feet crunched the corpses of a thousand flies. About twenty feet square, the cellar was filled with half-empty crates of winter clothing, mostly strewn across the dirt floor. The meat, most of it spilled from broken jars, had completely dried out, though the smell lingered in the clothing. His future guests might complain about the smell but not for long. Still, Brodas didn’t consider himself an inhumane barbarian. He’d burn some herbs to make the air breathable.

To be thorough, he checked a couple of nearby houses but found them in less habitable condition.

With his temporary residence secured, Brodas retrieved his belongings from the inn and tasked Cirang with emptying the meat from the cellar while Red hauled the wet bedding out of the bedroom. Red found a couple of usable pallets in the neighboring houses and hauled them over. Cirang offered to sleep in the great room and let Red have the bedroom, either to avoid needing to repair the roof in case of rain or to escape Red’s loud snoring. While they were busy making the house habitable, Brodas rode into the center of town for something to eat. He wasn’t talented in the kitchen, and he didn’t think Cirang had enough of a womanly bent to cook, so he found an inn that would package a meal of chicken, bread and corn for him to take back.

When they finished eating, Brodas pulled the books from his satchel and set them on the table. Buried at the bottom of the bag was a small pouch tied with a drawstring he’d found in the farmhouse cellar. “Cirang, since you’re a former Viragon Sister, I’ll give this next task to you. Tomorrow, I want you to bring Rogan Kinshield and his offspring to me. They’ll most likely come with you willingly if they think you’re one of Gavin’s guards.”

“With his family or alone?”

“I have no quarrel with his wife, but if it’s easier to get the children by bringing her, then by all means do.”

She nodded. “They have two skilled guards, though. I doubt I’ll be able to best both at once.”

He opened the pouch and dipped a finger inside, then extended his finger toward her. “Smell that.”

She took a whiff and immediately darted her hands out to steady herself. “Whoa. Serragan powder?”

“That’s right. That small amount is enough to make you sway on your feet. Imagine what a pinch blown into someone’s face will do.”

Cirang nodded appreciatively. “I’d only heard of it, never smelt it before. Powerful. I’d hate to be on the receiving end.”

“Don’t use much — only a pinch the size of your small fingernail is enough. Be extra careful. To inhale too close to it before you blow could turn the effect back on yourself.”

“I wonder if it would keep Red from snoring.”

He shot her a disapproving glare.

“I’m jesting. I’m jesting.”

When he heard the sound of hoofbeats approaching an hour later, he closed the book and set it carefully between his journals inside his satchel. He withdrew a gem from the chest, in case he needed to defend himself. From outside, he heard voices.

“Here we are,” Cirang said.

“A bit out o’the way, ain’t it?” said a deep male voice.

“You have to admit,” Cirang said, “he won’t think to look for you here.”

“Where’s everyone else — the other Sisters and my brother?”

Brodas peeked out. A big man with dark hair sat on a brown draft horse.

“They’re inside. There’s a tunnel in the cellar that leads to a cave. Why don’t you go on inside while I take the horses around back?”

“Um... How ’bout you go tell Gavin I’m here. I’ll wait.”

“Yes, m’lord.” Cirang fumbled with something on her hip. “If you wouldn’t mind showing him this when he comes out.” She blew a handful of powder, enough that Brodas saw it hang in the air, into Rogan’s face.

His reactions were good. He started to turn and heel his mount, but it was no battle horse. It had barely started walking when he slumped in the saddle and wrapped his arms around its neck to hang on. Cirang easily intercepted the horse, grabbed Rogan by the hair and pulled him off. With a hard “Oooof,” he fell to the ground where he lay on his side, grasping his head.

Cirang dismounted and stood over him with her sword pointed at his gut. “Cooperate and you can save your wife.”

Brodas approached. “Good work, Cirang. How did you get him away from his guard?”

She shrugged with a grin. “They were at a bowyer’s shop, and she stepped outside. I hit her with the powder and dragged her into an alley, then tied her horse to a hitch across the street so he wouldn’t notice it was still there. Then I went in and told him Gavin had sent for him, and Nasharla had gone to retrieve his wife and sons.”

Brodas nodded approvingly. “You do look a good deal like him.”

“Who are you? Where’s Gavin?” Rogan asked, his speech slurred from the effects of the serragan powder.

“Gavin’s not invited to our little party. Not yet.” Brodas smiled. “I’m Brodas Ravenkind, descendant of King Ivam Engtury and rightful ruler of Thendylath.”

“Don’t hurt my wife and sons. Please.”

“My grievance is with the Kinshields. I’ve no ill will toward your wife, but she did bear more of your name. I made a promise to your brother, after all, and I intend to keep it.”

Cirang took him by the arm. “Get up,” she told Rogan. He tried to get to his feet, but the powder’s effects made it impossible for him to stand, let alone walk. Brodas took him by the other arm, and together, they half-dragged him into the cottage. They let him fall to the floor. Cirang rolled him over and pushed his legs over the edge of the cellar opening. Rogan fumbled for a handhold and managed to slow his fall with a brief grasp of the floor’s edge. He dropped to the cellar floor and landed on his arse.

“Gavin ain’t gonna give you what you want,” he said defiantly. His eyes jerked in circles as he attempted to glare at Brodas.