“Jaerod!”
Thealos clenched his hands, staring at the symbol on the floor. The Silverkin whispered to him and demanded he take it. His mind raced furiously. What if he waited? Surely Secrist would not stay out there forever? Surely someone would come? But how would he know when that happened? He was still hungry and had no provisions or supplies at all. How long could he afford to wait before seizing it? Then he remembered. In the morning, the Bandit army would seize Landmoor.
It would be almost impossible to get out with it then.
He knew in his heart what he needed to do. If he could get out of Landmoor that night, the fog would hide his trail and give him a chance to slip away. Back to Avisahn. Back home. The Shae had no idea what they were up against. And if they hesitated in this war, if they stood apart as they had for so many years, it would be too late. Dry sobs threatened to shake loose inside him, but he felt that he had no tears left after all he had seen in the Foretelling. Someone had to warn the Shae. He had nothing to offer as proof to Laisha or the Sunedrion. No evidence at all. Not even a tiny stub of Everoot. He stared back down at the small Otsquare etched on the floor. His fingers twitched, but he clenched his hand into a fist. If he took the Silverkin he would probably die. If he died, the Sorian would claim it. But if he went back to Avisahn, they would try him as a traitor. What were his choices then really?
A thought struck him. What if he made the Shae come to the Shoreland to get him?
Looking up, Thealos stared at the other doorway and the thin stairwell leading out of the chamber. Had the Mages of Safehome known all those centuries ago that he would need another way out of there?
Think it through, he told himself. The Foretelling had given him the information he needed to survive. He knew the past. He knew the present. He knew what would happen if he tried to claim the Silverkin now. Despite the threat of Secrist, the presence of a Sorian within the tunnels was probably enough to provoke the Silverkin’s magic. He had no idea how long the consequence of the magic would sicken him. All that Foridden magic, churning inside of him, before being captured within the stone. He could be sick and weak for days…for even longer. No – he had to abandon the tunnels. The Silverkin was still safe. The Bandits would not be able to take it if he left it there. He would need protectors. He would need an entire company of Crimson Wolfsmen. Chewing on his lip, he thought about the alternatives.
There was really only one choice to be made. If he had felt the prick of awareness on the back of his neck – the assurance that a Sleepwalker was nearby to defend him, he would never have hesitated claiming the magic. But that wasn’t an option to him. There were no Sleepwalkers waiting for him. And without food, water, or weapons, it would be difficult enough making it back across the Shadows Wood. If he delayed much longer, by morning it would be impossible to get out.
Stifling the urgent whispers of the Silverkin, Thealos left the rotunda and descended the narrow stairs.
XXXV
The Shoreland fog cloaked the moors in thick gray folds. It would take the sun hours to work through it and restore some warmth to Thealos’ body. He couldn’t remember when he had been so cold or so hungry. Or so discouraged. The wild berries and mushrooms he’d eaten left an empty feeling inside and juice stains on his fingers. He worked his way east of Landmoor along the jagged edge of the Shadows Wood. Until he was certain he was past the bulk of Tsyrke’s army, he didn’t dare try crossing the forest. One thought burned in his mind. Meet up with Allavin and Ticastasy in Castun. It kept his boots shuffling one after the other. He’d abandoned stepwalking hours earlier to cover more ground. His eyes drooped as he walked. To Castun. Just a little further, he told himself.
The small trading post was a good hike from the south fringe of the forest. He hoped to be there in two days if he could manage it, but he needed sleep. Every jackdaw jumping on the branches or fluttering by made his head jerk. Wiping his mouth, he plodded ahead. He knew enough about the forest to keep himself alive. But his hunger wasn’t getting any smaller. Without a hunting bow and dagger, he wouldn’t be able to do any real cooking. Castun – just a little further. A fresh hot stew served in a trencher bowl teased his imagination. Some cool Silvan wine for his thirst.