“Not from here. But maybe I should go first.”
Roghar didn’t like the idea-it would make her more vulnerable in an attack, and possibly cost them precious time in a fight as she fell back behind him. On the other hand, she was probably more likely to notice signs of an ambush or hear approaching attackers than he was, as well as being more likely to spot traps and tripwires. He nodded and squeezed to the side of the hall so she could get past him.
Tempest stepped carefully over the tripwire and paused to make sure Roghar crossed it safely. Roghar mimicked her motions, provoking a snicker that Tempest quickly hid with a cough. He grinned at her, then pointed out the tripwire to Travic so the priest could step over it as well.
Roghar nodded to himself as he followed Tempest down the hall. This is how it’s supposed to work, he thought. Teamwork, each member of the team relying on the others’ strengths and covering each other’s weaknesses.
I’m starting to sound like a priest of Erathis, he thought with a laugh. The god of civilization promoted the ideals of people working together to build and invent and civilize, sometimes even to conquer. But those ideals were not far from Bahamut’s-the Platinum Dragon exhorted his followers to protect the weak and defend just order, order that might be established in Erathis’s name.
Tempest led them past several collapsing doorways, the rooms beyond mostly or completely caved in, showing no sign of having been touched or inhabited in the last century. An alcove on the left side of the hall held a decorative guardian, a stone sculpture in surprisingly good condition, depicting a proud human knight in plate armor. Roghar paused as the knight’s stone eyes caught his gaze-they were so lifelike, so expertly carved, that he found himself wondering for a moment if the statue might be a living man turned to stone by a medusa or basilisk. But the pose was that of a watchful sentinel, not a man turned to stone in midstride, and he dismissed the thought.
Travic lingered at the statue as well, admiring the sculptor’s art. Tempest held up a hand and hissed a warning, wrenching Roghar’s full attention back to the end of the hallway.
“I hear voices,” she mouthed, pointing to her ear.
Roghar tried to listen, but a sudden sound of rumbling stone from behind him drowned out all other sound. He whirled around in time to see the stone knight, emerged from its alcove, swing its sword down in a deadly arc toward Travic’s head.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The way to Sherinna’s tower lay across the Plain of Thorns, the aptly named expanse of brown bush and sharp briers that stretched from the edge of the forest for miles to the south and east. Albanon led the way through thorny vines that did, he had to admit, seem to yield at his approach. He moderated his pace to make sure Kri could keep up-the thorns started closing in behind Albanon as soon as he passed, forcing Kri to pick his way more carefully through the brambles.
The sun settled on the horizon, bathing the dry plain in blood-red light. Albanon frowned at the sky, looked back to the forest where his father’s palace stood hidden among the trees, and searched the fields ahead for a sign of the tower.
“I don’t relish the thought of having to find the tower in the dark,” he said to Kri.
“It can’t be much farther,” Kri replied. “And the sky is clear-we’ll have moonlight to guide us.”
“Can you see the tower? Am I just blind?”
“If you are, it’s because you rely too much on your eyes instead of letting yourself feel the magic around you.”
Albanon sighed. “It’s overwhelming here. So much magic.”
“That’s what makes it so useful. If you can open yourself to it, it will show you more than your eyes ever could. Imagine you’re a fish that can feel everything the water in the ocean touches.”
“I’d go mad.”
“No!” The vehemence of Kri’s reply surprised Albanon. “If you’re unwilling to use the power given to you, you’ll never learn anything.”
“Moorin always taught me to use my power with caution.”
“Moorin held you back.”
Albanon glanced up to where Splendid circled in the sky, glad the little drake wasn’t present to hear her late master insulted. He knew he should probably take offense as well, but he couldn’t quite manage it. He had loved Moorin-”like a father” didn’t seem to quite cover it, considering his relationship to his own father. But he’d also long felt exactly what Kri had just said, that Moorin was holding him back, unwilling or unable to see his true potential. Moorin had dismissed his grumbling as the discontent common to every young apprentice, but now Kri seemed to be validating it.
Splendid swooped down and landed on his shoulder, making him stumble a few steps forward under the sudden weight. With her return, Albanon felt a blush of shame for the thoughts he’d been harboring, the disrespect he’d allowed himself to feel for his departed master. The shame was followed by a surge of anger, though, at the mentor who was supposed to train him and heighten his skills and instead held back his growing power.
Why should I be ashamed of wanting to claim the power that is mine? he thought, casting a dark glance sidelong at the pseudodragon.
“I found your tower,” Splendid said.
“You did?” Albanon’s face brightened, but then he heard a sound that sent a thrill of fear down his spine. Hounds bayed in the distance behind them.
Kri cocked an eyebrow at him. “A hunt?”
No trace of fear showed on the old priest’s face, and Albanon could understand why. In the world, the sound of a hunt meant a party giving chase to a stag or a boar. It was nothing for the people of the world to be afraid of, and might send a flutter of excitement in a listener who had participated in such a hunt before. But the stag or boar who was the quarry of the hunt would flee in fear, and rightly so.
“The nobles of the Feywild do not hunt beasts for sport,” Albanon said. “If there is a hunt on our heels, it means we are the quarry.”
“But your father granted us passage,” Kri said. “Did he change his mind?”
“Perhaps he decided that the insult you gave him could not be allowed to stand. I’ve rarely seen him that angry.”
Kri drew himself up. “He needed a slap in the face.”
“Not where others could see, not from a stranger in his court, and certainly not from a human. Even if he had been willing to ignore your insult, he might have felt he had to punish you in order to save face with his courtiers.”
“So what now?”
“Now we run. Splendid, lead the way to the tower!”
“If what?” the drake said.
“If what? I don’t think I understand you.”
Splendid’s voice dripped with disdain. “If you please.”
“You must be joking.”
“Am I a pet? A servant? A slave? I think not.”
“Fine, Splendid. Please!”
The drake sniffed. “That will have to do.”
She pushed up from Albanon’s shoulder, sending him off balance again, and flapped into the air. She circled a moment as Albanon watched, then flew away in more or less the direction they’d been heading, but a little more to the south.
“And now we follow, as fast as these damned thorns will allow.”
Albanon hurried after Splendid, the thorns parting in front of him and closing in behind. He searched the rolling plain ahead for a sign of the tower, cursing himself for forgetting to ask Splendid how far away it was. Then he crested a rise and spotted it, nestled in a thicket at the top of another low hill. Too far away-they’d never make it, if the hunt was as close as it sounded.
“Albanon!”
He turned and saw Kri ten yards behind him. Grasping thorns pinned the priest in place, caught in his clothes and piercing his skin. Albanon growled in frustration. They’d never escape the hunt if Kri kept getting snagged in the brambles.