“I can’t tell where they’ve gone. Can you?” he said. “Damn it. The only person who could have tracked the camp’s movement is with them right now.”
“They likely covered their tracks. Berthal’s smart,” Ladonna said. “If we’re lucky, they used magic to hide their physical trail.”
“Perhaps,” Par-Salian said. “We don’t have much choice.”
Par-Salian thrust his fingers together then apart.
Ladonna was familiar with the spell, the ability to perceive magic or its lingering effects. Par-Salian’s skill with the arcane meant he was better suited for the task. She also knew Berthal would have anticipated all the ways he could be tracked, including scrying and other magics, and he would know in advance all the ways to counter them. There was a reason the Wizards of High Sorcery had to use the three of them to find him.
Par-Salian’s grim expression suddenly changed, however. He spied something and began running for a birch tree.
“This way,” he cried.
The tree was young and pried of its bark by bored children. Had the camp remained any longer, they might well have cut it down for firewood. It had survived, and Par-Salian was examining something on its smooth trunk.
“What is it?” Ladonna asked.
“It’s … an arcane mark. It’s showing us the direction they left in!” he said excitedly. “There, back to the Vingaard Mountains.”
“That doesn’t make sense!” Ladonna said. “Why take all this effort to conceal themselves and then leave such an obvious marker?”
“I don’t know. Maybe for stragglers? Or maybe … someone was following them and marked the route. The highmage said they were sending scouts here. Perhaps one of them-”
“No … they searched and said they found nothing, the idiots.”
“They should have used-”
“Par-Salian, my love, it doesn’t matter. It’s a trap … to ambush whoever we sent after the renegades.”
“This is far too obvious,” Par-Salian said. “But we don’t have much of a choice, do we? Tythonnia is in trouble, and unless you have any other ideas …” he said, trailing off.
Ladonna looked around, trying to figure out their next step. But Par-Salian was right. They had few options left and time was of the essence. “Let’s summon the horses,” she said. “Look for obvious landmarks, places we might find more marks, though if they’ve gone into the mountains, I suspect they’ll follow the path of least resistance with all those carts.”
“Are you all right?”
Tythonnia wiped away an errant tear with the heel of her palm, and nodded at Mariyah with what she was sure was probably a pitiful smile. Mariyah returned the smile enthusiastically, however, and walked alongside Tythonnia as she made her way through the camp.
“Quick to rise, slow to melt,” Tythonnia said.
“What was that?” Mariyah asked, brushing away a lock of black hair.
“My father said it’s how I smile. You also have it … quick to rise, slow to melt.”
Mariyah beamed even more widely, and Tythonnia couldn’t stop the laugh from escaping.
“There you go,” Mariyah said. “You’re much prettier when you smile. You’re certain you don’t want to talk about it?”
Tythonnia considered it before deciding. “Not right now but … would you … like to take a walk? I’d like the company.”
Mariyah nodded enthusiastically and Tythonnia was surprised at how uplifted she felt being around the other woman, somehow nervous and comfortable at the same time.
CHAPTER 16
The journey was two days long, the sunlit hours spent riding up the foothills of the Vingaards and the short nights spent studying the spells lost and catching a couple hours sleep.
Luckily, it wasn’t hard for Ladonna or Par-Salian to find the renegades’ route. They found a few hidden arcane runes planted on obvious landmarks, such as an alabaster column broken by age, the last corner of some ancient building, or a mountain hemlock tree growing askew. They were also rewarded with some visible signs of passage, such as horse droppings, a spent campfire, or flattened grass. Upon reaching the steeper slopes of the Vingaards, the trail became more a matter of deduction. The carts limited the mobility of the renegades, meaning some paths were likely taken.
Again, the arcane runes marked specific branches until finally one winding route of pebbles and dirt up the slope remained. By that point, the mountain chill frosted their breath.
On the second night, in the early morning, Par-Salian roused Ladonna. She groaned lightly, the rocks and hard-packed dirt a poor mattress. Par-Salian gently touched her lips with his finger and pointed to the slope above them. They were well short of the mountain’s cliffs, but somewhere beyond a patch of green grass and the tree line farther up she could hear the faint echo of voices. It sounded like the high-pitched laughter of children. The tree line lay an hour away, the echoes of laughter floating in and out like the ghost of sound.
Ladonna nodded and prepared for the next leg of the journey. At least it didn’t appear as though they were too late.
The air crackled with anticipation, and the children sensed the excitement of their elders. Snowbeard and his entourage of helpers prepared a hearty meal that morning. Everyone ate porridge and finished the bread in danger of molding. That gave the adults the strength to ready themselves for the monumental task ahead. And the meal gave the children a much-needed boost to their spirits. They spent their morning running about and playing or watching Berthal, Tythonnia, Mariyah, and a handful of others construct a giant ritual circle.
None of the children could understand why the adults were going to deprive them the pleasure of watching the sorcerers cast the spell. The adults said it would be too dangerous, and many planned on steering clear of the ritual in case anything went wrong. That was Berthal’s order on the matter.
Tythonnia felt giddy, her stomach filled with butterflies; there was no place for food, though Mariyah finally shoved a piece of rye bread in her face and told her, “Berthal’s orders: eat something.”
She accepted the bread and wolfed it down. Perhaps she was hungrier than she realized. Mariyah smiled at Tythonnia and unfurled a piece of cloth, revealing a small loaf of bread. The two women worked side by side and pinched at the bread laid out between them, sometimes exchanging glances and chuckling.
Any reservations that Tythonnia had in coming there were gone. It felt good to be needed, to be critical to a process, to be appreciated.
Tythonnia felt she was doing something to help the world. She was happy preparing the ritual that would change all their tomorrows. She could hardly wait. They were less than an hour away.
“What’re they doing?” the man asked. He was a brutish fellow with a grizzled face, thick forehead, and a sheared head. Faded tattoos covered his arms, each a mark of the conflicts where he’d served. His chainmail shirt jangled lightly.
“A ritual circle,” Hort said addressing his concern to Dumas more than in answer to the mercenary’s question. He rose slightly to get a better look over the rock at the sorcerers transcribing the circle, but he could no more distinguish the specific runes and marks than he could the renegades involved.
“Ritual?” the mercenary said nervously.
Without regard, Dumas nodded him back, down the rocks where twenty of his men waited with the horses. “Go back to your men and prepare to attack.”
