CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Flooded and cloaked men swung heavy scythes at the tall grass and bushes that had grown close to the outer walls of the city. Often they would peer over their shoulders toward the Qurth, watching for movement in the trees, fearful of being caught unawares. Two guard towers flanked the wall, protruding to provide archers with a swath of crossfire upon approaching attackers. Clearing the field of possible cover was difficult in the rain, but any precautions they could take before the impending attack might provide an advantage. Atop the wall, gleaming spearheads glistened as rain trickled across their blades, propped against the battlements and waiting for warrior hands to wield them. Those warriors, Hunters of the Hidden Circle sworn to uphold the prophecies of the oracles, lined the walls, armed and armored in direct defiance of the most recent prophecy. Prayers for guidance had been whispered by them all. Doubt had brought them to this point, but faith would see them through, even at the cost of their lives. On the ground, behind the barred gates, archers stood waiting for the call, shivering despite heavy cloaks and layers of leather armor. The wind had picked up, blowing colder and whipping their cloaks in every direction. Icy rain stabbed at exposed skin, the cold slicing straight to the bone. Many citizens joined the hunters. They carried weapons of farm implements and polished old swords left behind by generations before. Many more stood bundled in open doorways, shouting for the defenders to lay down their arms and return to their homes. The hunters ignored these protests and maintained their posts. No one was faulted for following Sameska's edict of passiveness, and no one was forced to renounce it openly. More than a few defenders shook their heads and wrung their hands over the conflict that had seemingly sprung from nowhere. They had known for some time that things were off balance inside the temple. Obeying the instinct to defend themselves felt inherently right. Elisandrya rode briskly through the streets on a brown mare, feeling the loss of Morningstar deeply. She inspected the north and south gates, observing more battle-ready hunters at both. Messengers had been sent on the fastest steeds to Splondar in the northeast and to Sprynt, the northernmost city of the Blacksaddle Baronies in the south. She knew that aid from either would be unlikely, considering the virulent reputation of the blush, and that any assistance might arrive too late to do any good. As she rode, several people approached Elisandrya from their homes, pleading for surrender and pointing emphatically at the enraged and strengthening storm above as a sign of Savras's displeasure, then ducking back into cottages to attend to frightened children. Eli was speechless, newly realizing the damage Sameska's manipulations had caused and might continue to cause. She stood high in her saddle, looking east down the main road toward the temple, her eyes hopeful. But she saw no oracles coming to join the defenders, no sign of her sister whose face she both longed and dreaded to see. She sensed the quiet rift between them deepening over the outcome of this battle. She still hoped that at any moment, Dreslya would appear with her fellow oracles, marching in a procession down the main street to solidify the defenses of Brookhollow by uniting sword and spell. "Without their magic," she said under her breath, "one needn't be a prophet to foresee this battle's conclusion." The strident tones of a watchman's horn split the air, dashing her thoughts apart. Three quick blasts pealed through the thunder and rain from the northern gate, a signal of movement outside; something approached the city under cover of darkness. Eli patted the hilt of the sword at her side, checked the curve of her borrowed bow, and kicked the shivering mare's flanks. She took a moment to offer a prayer for guidance, indulging her diminishing doubt and seeking any sign that she had been wrong. Not expecting an answer, she was stunned when an image formed behind her eyes, appearing for an instant and then dissolving, leaving behind an inexplicable sense of calm. She saw tall waves of wind-blown grass on an endless plain covered in an aura of emerald flame.
The room smelled strongly of cinnamon, concealing the dusty scent of old bones and burned wax. Morgynn had lit several candles with a wave of her hand and the barest of whispers. The aasimar struggled to break free of the enchantment that held him in place. She smiled at his attempts and waited until he seemed satisfied of their futility.
She circled, looking him up and down, admiring his strangely handsome features. "You chose well, Khaemil," she said finally, stopping in front of him and exploring the depths of his pearly eyes. "Almost too well." "Thank-you, Lady Morgynn," Khaemil said. She leaned in close to him, brushing her cheek against his neck and listening to his heartbeat, calm and steady despite the situation. She reached up and touched his cheek, whispering arcane words in a deep voice, her breath warm against his throat. Though the Hoarite could not resist her spell, something reacted to her magic, blurring her attempt to see his thoughts. Shadows cloaked her mind's eye like dark clouds in front of a high sun-faint beams of light sought to blind her in a celestial radiance. Through the bright and the dark she could choose wandering thoughts, fleeting emotions in a sea of experience, but only those floating near the surface. The depths of the aasimar's spirit shut out her dissecting sight, shifting and swimming in a pitch black fog that eluded her intrusive magic. "Mysterious, aren't we, pretty one?" she said, withdrawing her hand and dismissing the spell. "No matter. Your secrets are unimportant. Though I am intrigued by the paradigm.
"Shadows and light," she said thoughtfully. "And only the barest hint of a man beneath them." "The Pale Sisters have retreated, Lady Morgynn," Khaemil reported from the window, "but the storm is dissipating without the priests, far more quickly than it should. The tower could be in danger soon." Unnaturally loud thunder roared in the sky outside, punctuating his words as stones shook and dust fell from the ceiling. Multicolored lightning ripped through the clouds, casting an eerie glow across the shadurakul's deep black skin. He tapped his claws anxiously on the stone window sill. "Worry not, all will be well. Besides," she replied sardonically, "we have a guest to entertain. A guest who'd have been wise to move on after slaying that oaf of an ogre for us, and even wiser to have ignored this prophecy business." She moved closer to Quin again, gazing at his eyes and face, sniffing slightly and noting the faint lines of old scars running across his neck and disappearing beneath his breastplate. "I sense no hero in you, Hoarite. There is cruelty lurking behind those angelic eyes of yours, a coldness that belies any trace of charity or goodwill you might possess. Even the name your mind reveals is a lie, isn't it? Quinsareth? A term in Old Mulhorandi, is it not? Meaning 'falsehood,' I believe." She smiled, realizing some private humor, and added, "How quaint." She studied his reaction though his pale eyes revealed little. "Was it the girl who brought you here, I wonder? Oh yes, I know of her, this Elisandrya. I have tasted her name on the lips of two men now who reached the end of their time in the last few days." She thrilled to hear a slight change in Quin's pulse, momentary but telling. She traced a fingernail across the ancient designs in his armor, following the symbols and letters of an alphabet she did not recognize as she continued. "A hunter for the oracles of Savras, a warrior for her people, brave and beautiful, brash and wild. What a monster she must think you, eh?" Then she leaned close again, breathing heavily against his ear. "You might have been better counseled to have pursued a darker mistress." His eyes drifted to the floor and his sword, so close, lying against the deep pile of bones along the nearby wall. Skulls from Jhareat's last days leered at him with empty sockets and grins that never waned. She stepped aside, allowing him to see the weapon he so desperately wished to wield. "Or was it the prophecy that guided your steps, aasimar?" His gaze went to her at the words. Turning, she looked over her shoulder at him, searching for some spark of emotion in his eyes. Pleased to have his full attention, she coyly brushed a strand of dark hair from her face and drew a long dagger from her belt. She licked her lips and wiped absently at imagined spots on the blade. "I imagine the old witch of Brookhollow must have spun quite a tale. Even now they hide in their temple, trusting in her words while steeped in the stench of plague and fear." She raised an eyebrow and regarded him conspiratorially.