Trasen gazed at the monstrous city, listening to the sound of the oars lapping the waters and urging the boatman with his thoughts to put more vigor into his strokes. He was beyond worried. He was beyond desperate. He had searched the outer tunnel leading beyond Stonehollow for clues, for any trace of Phae’s passing. What he found alarmed him beyond all reason—a blackened scorch mark on the ground, carving a huge tear in the earth’s skin. He had discovered a twisted iron ring abandoned in the crater, which was now in his pocket. He had heard stories from Holt about the spells of the Paracelsus. He had never witnessed the magic himself.
In the dirt nearby he had found Phae’s tracks. They were unmistakable. He knew the type of boot she wore, the size of her foot. His mind nearly went mad with grief and suspense as he tried to decipher the clues. Some sort of blast or explosion had happened. There were multiple prints as well, the size of men. There were also the prints of a horse coming along the road, mixing up the clues in a way that completely befuddled him. He wished Holt had been there and would have trusted his master’s judgment.
Trasen began to nod off in the boat and jerked himself awake again. He had not slept properly in days. Poor Willow had gone as far as she could go and he had left her with a stableman at the settlement on the lakefront.
Phae had simply disappeared.
The tracks all clustered together, four people in total, and then there were none. It was as if some enormous invisible hand had snatched them away. Without a trail to follow, without anything but hope and the fires of love shoving him on, he had decided to press forward to their likely destination—Kenatos. Trasen would confront the Arch-Rike if necessary to save her. He would do anything to save her.
As he stared at the impassive city, swirling with gulls and pennants, the sense of dread and foreboding increased. He fished the iron ring out from his pocket and stared at it, turning it over in his palm, prodding it with his finger. It was a twisted, blackened thing—not a decorative ring. It had strange black sigils carved on it.
“What’s that, lad?” the boatman asked, nodding to him.
“I paid your fare,” Trasen replied hoarsely. “Leave me be.” He felt the scowl etched in his own mouth. The thought of smiling was a distant memory.
“Don’t be like that. What is it? A ring?”
Trasen stuffed it back into his pocket and folded his arms, feeling the aches all throughout his body. He had never pushed himself so hard or gone so long without proper sleep. His mind was a blurry fog of worry and pain. Would he ever see Phae again? He regretted that he had not confided in her his plans, why he wanted so much to join the Wayland army and save his ducats. He wanted to seek a homestead with her, to be with her always. He shuddered with suppressed emotions. He thought there was a chance she might feel more than just friendship. Not wanting to risk losing what they already shared, he had been reluctant to reveal his heart to her.
“Here we are,” the boatman said petulantly. “Be on your way, lad. Keep your secrets then.”
After the boat bumped into the pier, Trasen lurched to his feet and started to wobble toward the dock ladder.
“Don’t forget your belongings!” the man said, exasperated. “You’ll be leaving your brains behind next, I’m thinking.”
Trasen apologized and grabbed his pack, slinging it around his shoulder. The docks were enormous, teeming with ships and freight. He tramped down the dock and found few in the lines ahead of him entering the city. Before long, he was standing before a brown-haired Rike who gazed at him with curiosity.
“Where are you from, traveler?” the man asked him politely. “You look bone weary.”
“I am,” Trasen replied, craning his neck to gaze up at the enormity of the city. “I’m from Stonehollow.”
The Rike clucked his tongue. “Looking for work, then? The Paracelsus Towers are under repair. They need quite a few laborers.”
“No,” Trasen said, shaking his head miserably. “I’m looking for…a friend.”
The Rike nodded calmly. “Well enough.” He paused, his expression narrowing just slightly. “You won’t last a moment among the Preachán in your condition. They’ll rob you blind. Do you want to sit over there a moment and catch your breath?”
“No, I’ll be all right,” Trasen said, trying to wave him off. “May I pass?”
The Rike persisted in his interrogation, his face scrunching. “Do you have any…magic…with you boy?”
Trasen caught the subtle gesture from the Rike as he seemed to nod to someone elsewhere and gesture for him to come closer. He remembered the twisted ornament in his pocket and glanced at the beetle-black ring on the Rike’s hand. He swallowed, knowing one did not lie to the Rikes of Seithrall.