Exeres swallowed, feeling that prick of compassion stab him again. He hardened himself. “How long before she comes?”
“Soon enough, boy. Soon enough. The girl is going to Tsyrke right now. I’ve prepared a way for them to leave the city. But it looks like I must stay here a little while to deal with this meddlesome whelp before he cracks the city in half and dooms everyone.”
“You actually care?” Exeres asked with disdain.
The old man’s green eyes hardened. “I can’t let her win, boy. I’m prepared to leave the valley and spend the next few centuries resting by a fireplace. I can guarantee you that she has no such intentions. She has been brewing a magic in the mountains—a secret magic to use for some dark reason. I don’t know what it is, but I can sense its power flickering awake. If you want her to be the next ruler of this valley, then stay down here and do nothing. Cower behind the table and you may live through the night.” His mouth quirked with a smile. “But I sense your hatred of my kind. I can work with that. If you want to free the world of a menace, then I suggest you do as I say. Or you and every Druid priest in the Isherwood will have a new mistress.”
Exeres licked his lips. “What do you want?” Anger boiled inside him.
Mage brought out the Bloodstone. “Help me rescue the Shae boy from her grip.”
His hand itched to snatch the orb. “What about Thealos Quickfellow? And the others?”
“It’s too late for them, boy. I can’t risk letting him find that magic now. Not until I’m safely away. If you help me then I’ll let you free them. You come with me freely, or I keep you locked down here as well.”
He grit his teeth. “You’re using me again.”
“At least I’m letting you choose this time.” The green eyes burned into his. “You’re strong with the Earth magic, boy. I can sense that in you. With this, you’ll be a good ally against her.”
Exeres wrestled with the choice. Help a Sorian destroy a Sorian? Was it even possible?
It was worth everything if it was.
“Give me the stone.”
*
Thealos awoke on a pile of foul-smelling straw that stank of urine. The oppressive weight was gone, but another had replaced it. Iron manacles bound his wrists and looped to a chain in the wall.
“Not again,” he muttered blackly, lifting his head.
A dungeon cell beneath the governor’s manor.
“Ban it. Ban it. Ban it.” He scooted himself up with his elbows into a sitting position and leaned against the cell wall. Sifting through his churning feelings, he tried to delve his way through the flood of them.
He had no weapon. The guards had already taken it. He sensed the presence of several Shae within the aisle of cells—a dozen or so? At least two quaeres probably. He could not sense the Silvan magic from their swords either. He could not sense the Silverkin, but that did not surprise him because he knew he was still too far away. The warding blanketing the city was gone. That surprised him. Yet something lingered in its place, two tides of darkness starting to converge somewhere above him in the city proper. The two Sorian? Both together?
He needed to get the Silverkin!
Hoisting his heavy wrists, he scratched his mouth against his shoulder. What about the Stones? Looking down at his waist, he saw the pouch there. Was it too much to hope for? He tested it and felt something solid within. Carefully, he untied the strings and emptied the glittering stones in his hands. What luck or magic had saved them, he did not know. It was a start.
How to get out?
The stones would disguise him, cloak him in nothingness and dissolve his scent, but they would not unlock the chains. Nor would they unlock the cell door. He stood clumsily, feeling the heft of the chains drag against him. Could he lure a guard close enough? He walked to the end of the length of chain and found that it kept him from reaching the bars of the door. That made sense of course. A warden could bring food and not worry about getting attacked.
Ban it!
The last time he had been trapped in the dungeons, Stasy had saved him.
The connection with her. He had made it back at the camp of Owen Draw. He felt along the thin thread of it, following it through the corridor and up some stairs. She was not far, actually. He closed his eyes, feeling her presence as he drew near her. He knew her proximity, but he could not speak with her, tell her where he was or ask her to free him. He would be able to follow her across the distance without needing a trail. But he could not commune with her, other than give her a sense that he was near. A sense that caused a prickle down the nape of the neck.