As the horse climbed into the hills toward the mountains, the shadows thickened as the sun went down. Looming boulders flanked the road, making it impossible to leave the trail by horseback. This was the easiest path to leave the valley. It had the gentlest slope for the oxen to pull the massive granite rocks quarried from the valley and transported beyond. Each clop of the hooves made Phae mourn her past. She had a sickening feeling that she would never return.
Ahead, Phae saw the first tunnel. It was a square hole ponderously carved amidst an enormous boulder the size of a large cottage. The tunnel hole was wide and tall enough for a single wagon to ride through. It was also very deep, but she could see the dim light coming from the far end. The tunnel had been carved from living rock centuries before. She knew there were two more like it farther ahead. She had never passed its boundaries before.
Trees gathered thick around the edges of the tunnel boulder. Smaller fragments of broken rock were littered nearby. Phae was starting to drowse again when the Kishion stiffened in the saddle, jerking the reins so hard, it startled her. Shapes emerged from the darkness of the tunnel. Two men approached them. One was tall and broad-shouldered and walked with a slight limp. The other was shorter and walked to keep pace with the taller man. As they emerged from the tunnel facing them, Phae gasped. One was dressed like a Rike of Seithrall, though he was Vaettir.
It was Prince Aran.
The other man was taller, wearing a stained tunic and cloak and held a strange metal shape in his hand. Not a sword, but a device of some kind. He had reddish hair, cinder-colored, just like hers. His beard and temples were streaked with gray. His eyes were intense and stared at the Kishion deliberately. Phae sensed something about him, something familiar. Her heart started to hammer in her chest. He looked familiar, like a reflection in a dream.
The Kishion stared. “I killed you,” he said in a low voice, as if he could not believe his senses.
There was the hint of a smile amidst the bearded man’s face. “And I wanted you to think that, Kishion,” came the reply. “I’ve come for my daughter.”
“I once observed the Arch-Rike of Kenatos calm a quarrel between two very strong-willed merchants in the city. He invited both to a feast he had prepared for some prominent individuals. He told me this with a sly voice: ‘If you wish to play peacemaker, seat adversaries next to each other where they must begin by being civil.’ True it is, we only hate those whom we do not know.”
—Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
Flee, Druidecht. They are coming.
Annon awoke with a start, hearing the voices in his mind. Nizeera was already pacing the edge of their makeshift camp, her tail lashing back and forth restlessly. Several spirits flitted about her ears, which swatted at them as if they were flies. Annon rolled to his knees and crawled over to Khiara and shook her awake. She roused instantly, her expression tightening with concern.
“Danger?” she whispered.
“Yes. We camped too near Boeotia,” Annon answered. He listened to the trilling whispers from Mirrowen. “Wake Erasmus. I’ll rouse Lukias.”
She nodded and grabbed her blanket, folding it swiftly and plunging it into her pack. Annon scuttled over to Lukias, who slept soundly, his breath coming in and out like short curt breezes. He shook the man’s shoulders firmly.
Lukias’s eyes widened with terror, staring up at Annon for a moment. “What is it?”
“The Boeotians are near,” Annon whispered. “We must go.” Nizeera, can you hear them yet?
Not yet. But I can smell them. They have smoking torches. The same kind as before.
Annon whistled softly, feeling the prickle of gooseflesh run up his arms and make him shiver. He had nearly died protecting Neodesha’s tree from the attack of Boeotians and the Black Druidecht. The thought of ever facing such people again made him sick with fear for the spirit would be unable to help him amidst the deadly smoke. He also remembered that the Black Druidecht had lost his arm and managed to escape.
“Come,” Annon beckoned, pulling his cloak around his neck and starting to the east under a sky full of diamond stars. Erasmus hastily pulled on his boots and managed to catch up quickly.
Lukias fell in beside Annon. “I do not need to remind you that we are all dressed as Rikes of Seithrall, which would mean instant death if the barbarians catch us. We should have made for Brookshier as I told you.”
Annon shook his head and scowled with impatience. “Brookshier is the last outpost north of Kenatos. It’s under the Arch-Rike’s control. We wouldn’t be any safer there.”
“You don’t trust me,” Lukias said with an accusing voice, his look darkening.
“It isn’t a matter of trust, Lukias,” Annon answered. “I’m a Druidecht. My power is here. We were warned in time to flee. If I didn’t trust you, you’d spend each night tied to a tree.”
Erasmus muttered softly under his breath, “A suggestion that I have mentioned more than once along this journey.”