Fyn picked up his kali sticks then kicked Annev in the ribs as a final farewell. Annev coughed and curled back into a ball, blood dribbling from his lips, watching the gang leave through one half-open eye. Even when he was certain they were finally gone, he lay on the ground, unmoving. He focused on his breathing and cradled his injured hand to his chest until he could roll onto his side, sit up, and then stagger to his feet.
His body ached, his forehead throbbed with pain, and his cheek stung. His throat burned and his wrist was clearly broken. Even so, when Annev pulled his clenched left fist away from his sore stomach, he couldn’t help but smile.
He was holding the crimson glove.
Chapter Sixteen
The chapel hall had changed very little over the years. The hard pine benches and cobblestone floors, worn smooth from patrons sitting and kneeling, were cleaned daily by either the old priest or his young deacon. Not a speck of dirt or mote of dust sullied the holy place.
Unlike the Academy’s nave, no decorations or carvings covered these walls. Even the plain stone table – which was distinctly Darite in its engravings of the Staff of Odar, the arcane symbols of quaire, and the water trough surrounding its base – was decidedly humble compared to the Academy’s altar. Even so, Annev had noted that the sparse engravings on the altar were all subtly aligned with Sodar’s unique interpretation of Darite histories, doctrine and worship.
It looked a simple place, exactly as Sodar intended.
When Annev stumbled into the kitchen with his broken wrist cradled to his chest, he expected to find the priest there or in his room, preparing for the Regaleus services. Entering the priest’s private chambers, he saw Sodar’s bed was neatly made, his desk was clear, and his clothes chest locked, but the man himself wasn’t there.
‘Sodar?’ Annev called. Where is he? he wondered, his sense of uneasiness growing along with his pain.
Annev knew Sodar could fix his wrist – the wizard-priest had healed greater injuries before. Otherwise, Annev might have stayed in the alley, bleeding, beaten and with his future in tatters. As it was, he only had to contend with the physical pain of his injuries, which had subsided to a dull throb of torment as he’d dragged himself to the chapel. If he bent or bumped his arm, it was agony. Annev knew Sodar could help with that … but his mentor had disappeared.
He would have to tend his injuries himself. Back in the kitchen he grabbed the ladle with his good hand, filled a bowl with water, and stoically began to clean his face and arms. He couldn’t see the extent of his facial injuries, but he felt no loose teeth and he doubted the cuts would require stitching.
His wrist was another matter. The slightest jar caused waves of acute pain, and he forced himself to paw through his clothes chest until he found an old shirt he could fashion into a sling. It took a while to tie the knots with one hand and his teeth, and wishful thinking kept him glancing at the door for Sodar’s return. When the priest still did not appear, Annev rummaged up something to eat, chewing on a piece of salted meat and a heel of bread. With his belly full and his wrist swelling, Annev began to search for the old man in earnest. He passed through the woodshed on his way outside and saw the lumber axe was missing.
He’s not chopping firewood, Annev thought. I’d be able to hear him … but why else would he take the axe? It didn’t make sense, and it made Annev uneasy. He was exhausted, beaten and in pain, drained from a long day. He wanted to just lie down and cry himself to sleep. Still more, he wanted his mentor to heal him.
But he could only be healed if he found Sodar.
Annev gritted his teeth, took his hunting knife down from its peg, and left the shed. He let the door bang shut behind him and trudged to the nearest edge of the Brake. When he reached the trees, he stopped to listen but didn’t hear anything out of place, so he crept into the forest gloom, remaining alert for signs of his mentor. He was a short distance into the woods when he spied Sodar’s axe leaning against a tree trunk.
He was here, Annev thought, but where did he go? And why did he leave the axe? Annev puzzled at it. If there was trouble, the priest would have taken a better weapon. If they needed wood, he would be chopping it. Instead, the way the axe leaned against the tree looked as if it had been deliberately placed there, ready to be reclaimed when Sodar returned from whatever arcane errand had taken him into the Brake.
He took the axe so he could claim he was chopping wood, Annev realised. But who is Sodar trying to deceive?
Using every ounce of caution and skill he could muster, Annev pushed his pain aside and crept deeper into the Brakewood, his senses alert for any sign of struggle or evidence of Sodar’s passing. He kept his injured arm close to his body to prevent it from being bumped or jostled and tried to conceal his own passing, making a reasonable effort to avoid dry leaves and mud and instead creeping over rocks, moss and any hard-packed open terrain. He felt foolish doing so – particularly if Sodar was fine – but he was worried. As Annev moved through the wood, he could hear Sodar’s oft-repeated words in his mind: ‘Always be cautious, especially in the Brakewood. It is a wild place which looks tame. So is the Academy, with eyes and ears always watching, listening. Stay alert. Danger won’t give you warning.’
Sodar had always been vague about what those dangers might be, though Annev had assumed the priest meant there would be trouble if the ancients learned about his arm. When he spoke of the dangers of the Brake, Annev guessed Sodar had meant bears and boar. As Annev swept the woods in search of his mentor, though, he began to wonder if the old man had been thinking of something else. Sodar had been so adamant about Annev staying away from the shadepools, and Annev had felt a chill in the unnatural darkness. Could Sodar have wandered into one? He glanced about sharply, studying the natural shadows cast by trees and brush, then he shivered and kept walking.
As he crested a boulder-strewn hill he heard a shout that sounded like Sodar’s and immediately changed course, angling towards it, but he heard nothing more. He slowed, ears keen for any sound.
‘Fifty artisans?’
Annev frowned. It was Sodar’s voice, but his tone was so sorrowful …
‘It can’t be,’ Sodar continued. ‘That’s … impossible.’
‘I assure you, it’s true.’
Annev edged closer to the voices, careful not to alert either to his presence. He felt ashamed for not immediately running to seek aid from the priest, but he burned with curiosity to know the cause of Sodar’s strange disappearance and the reason for any possible dissembling. When he was close enough to hear the priest’s conversation, he stopped and looked for a stout tree. He wasn’t sure he could climb, but he had often trained to do difficult activities with one hand – though, admittedly, usually with his right hand rather than his left.