Was she under a Sorian’s thrall as well? Earlier she had offered to come along, to show him a secret way into the tunnels beneath the city. How had she known about it? How could he trust that there was another way? It could very well be a trap—even if she did not intend it as such. But he had to know.
Part of him wanted to go on without any of them. It would be easier to leave all his friends behind and embrace the magic of the Stones. How he wished he had had them earlier. But wishes were coins he could not spend on anything more than dreams. He needed to know if Stasy was with the Sorian too. The one known as Mage. There was really only one way to find out.
Such risks. Had Jaerod faced decisions like this? If so, he had certainly masked them well behind his confidence. Thealos chewed his lip, wondering if he had made the right decision by sending Exeres to the southern doors, hoping to draw both Tsyrke and Mage there to negotiate. Yet how does one outfox a Sorian? Someone who knew so many tricks and deceits? The wellspring had given him the idea. But even Sleepwalkers had been killed facing them. He believed that his greatest strength lay in the fact that neither Sorian knew he had sworn the covenants of the Oath magic. No one knew it, save Jaerod.
Where are you, Jaerod? Are you near these woods?
He felt nothing in reply. No tingle of awareness down his back. He smiled inwardly, knowing how it worked. Flent lay still and snoring; Ticastasy was rolled up in her blanket as well, her breathing steady. He closed his eyes and reached out to her, feeling the gentle murmuring of her Life magic. In his mind, he touched her, reaching out with an unseen tendril of his own Life magic. He opened his eyes in time to see her shudder and come awake.
She brushed her arms vigorously then wrapped her blanket around her shoulders.
Thealos stood and came near her. He dropped low and whispered in her ear. “It’s time to go.”
She looked up at him, confused. “Already? I thought we weren’t leaving until just before dawn.”
“We’re deploying in stages,” he said. It was true…in a sense. “Some of the Wolfsmen went ahead to secure the area. Another quaere will go with us. The last quaere will go with Flent and Justin. Come on.” By leaving Flent behind, he hoped to do her a favor by saving his life. It seemed like a fair trade for this shade of dishonesty.
“I’m glad I’m going with you,” she said, rising and grabbing her travel sack.
“Go wait by the trees over there. I’ll join you.”
She nodded, and he slipped over to where Justin sat in the darkness beneath the trees. His eyes glittered in the moonlight.
“She cares for you,” he whispered in Silvan. It was a warning.
Thealos ignored the statement. “Stay with the Drugaen. We’ll send for you soon.”
Justin nodded, digging his arms deeper against his sides. “I pray to Shenalle for your success.”
Thealos smiled and gripped his shoulder. “Be ready, Warder.”
A thin smile painted Justin’s mouth. “I am.”
*
Ravin Kil-Silversheir smelled the Forbidden magic drift into the air and snapped fully alert. He rose silently, straining to see beyond the seething mist that shrouded the lower valley. Had he dozed? Where were the others? How long had it been since Thealos had left with the girl? Or was that a lie? Had he merely sought solitude with her in the woods, a place where their intimacy would not be intruded on? The boy was such a fool! He let himself be tempted by the human. If only he could appreciate the agony of being a Kilshae.
The smell grew more potent, more direct. It was coming towards them. He recognized it and shivered, watching the tendrils of fog creep between the tall stalks of marsh grass. The whistle of crickets trembled in the air. He shifted beneath the mossy cedar, searching the trees towards Landmoor, watching for the black-clothed Sorian to appear.
He shook Flent awake.
The Drugaen started, flailing in his blanket. He mumbled something in that incoherent language of his.
“Can you see anyone?” he asked in the Drugaen tongue.
Flent rolled over and grabbed his weapon. He searched through the mist. “Where are the others? Where’s Stasy?”
An awareness—a familiar aura preceding great power. He had felt it when he first awoke from his long sleep. He had felt it the night they had crossed the Bandit army in the woods with the Sleepwalker. He felt it again in Landmoor. And now. Creeping through the coiling shroud, she came. Fear and excitement caught fire in his blood, and he tried to swallow the knot swelling in his throat. He knew he should run, but he wanted to feel her presence again. The hunger made him weak with expectation. That was why he was a Kilshae. He longed to taste her power again.
“What’s wrong with you?” Flent asked, his brow wrinkling.
“She’s coming for us,” Ravin whispered, taking a half-step backward.
The Sorian appeared through the fog, her black robes wraithlike in the darkness.
The Drugaen swore and brought up his axe. He muttered something in another language.