“You, Eldest?”
Pellin put his hands on the table, accepting the invitation. “I have served the Vigil for centuries, yet in many ways I’m still the stuttering, stammering boy who encountered Aer in his youth. I learned something that day that frightened me and often still does.”
Mark leaned forward. “What, Eldest?”
“That something perfectly good can be just as frightening as something perfectly evil. That day, as a boy, I learned how far I was from Aer. And the difference terrified me. I’ve never recovered, Mark. I don’t think I’m supposed to.” He lifted a hand to point at Mark’s chest. “What is it about Him that frightens you?”
“He’s like a thief, Eldest,” Mark said. “He doesn’t ask. He just takes what He wants.”
Instead of arguing, Pellin nodded. His apprentice grew up in the urchins. Naturally, he would see and describe the world from that experience. Who was he to deny Mark his fear, his intuition? Yet, he felt compelled to help his apprentice frame it. “I can see that,” he said, “with Lord Dura and even more with Fess. Yet, there is a difference between Aer and any other thief.”
“What’s that, Eldest?”
“Aer already owns it all.”
Mark nodded. “That’s cold comfort.”
“Agreed,” Pellin said. “When I decided to take you as my apprentice, I used it as a temporary solution only. I wanted someone more like me, someone raised to be a priest, to receive my gift. Now I see I was wrong, but if you do not wish the gift, I will not try to force it on you. If you take it, Elieve will age and die while you remain young. Her life will pass you by with a speed you cannot imagine.”
Mark looked at him, the clear blue of his eyes earnest in his young face. “You would let me choose?”
He nodded. Inside, he had no idea which choice he hoped Mark would make. “I would, but in the end it isn’t really up to me.”
“How much time do I have to decide what I want?”
Now, Pellin laughed. “I’m not planning to die anytime soon, but ‘Death comes for us all . . .’” he began.
“‘And some sooner than others,’” Mark finished.
Seven days later, Pellin fell into a bunk on Captain Onen’s ship, spent from the ride. His old man’s heart fluttered in his chest like a bird desperate to escape the hand, but more than exhaustion assailed him. No amount of coaxing or volume had been sufficient to make contact through his scrying stone. Yet he could hear a slight buzzing from it at odd moments, a sign, he hoped, that he might eventually reach the others.
The pop and boom of sails filling as Onen brought about his ship gave him some measure of comfort. Favored with a southerly wind, the ship leapt from port. Dukasti had been as good as his word, paying the price for Onen’s ship to make the return trip empty. The journey across the sea would be quick, but even afterward, they would have to ride for days more to reach the forest.
Chapter 49
We made the trip from Localita to Vadras in three days instead of four, thanks to Mirren’s knowledge of the roads that covered Aille and Caisel like a spider’s web. On the final day, we hit the coast road, a broad affair built to handle the heaviest merchant traffic on the continent, and came upon the city from the south. Riding through a wall of air that shimmered with heat and humidity we got our first glimpse of Vadras sitting at the mouth of the Mournwater, ascending from the delta like a mountain that had risen from the deeps—and stopped. Soldiers blocked the gates. We queued up with the rest of the travelers and waited.
“Any idea what this is about?” I asked Bolt.
He shook his head. “I could spend days speculating about what Boclar is thinking and never come near the mark. His mind was a labyrinth when I met him twenty years ago. It’s doubtful he’s gotten easier to understand since then.”
“There’s your answer.” Rory pointed.
At first I didn’t understand. Our thief pointed at the soldiers, but nothing seemed out of place until I looked closer. Though the practice had pretty much died out on our continent, it wasn’t unheard of for some officers to have pages accompany them to help take care of their mount and equipment. But the young men and women—hardly more than children, really—weren’t attending their superiors. They were scanning the crowd, and every one of them kept up a running commentary to the soldier beside them.
“They’re looking for dwimor.”
Bolt nodded. “Good. That means someone has alerted the kings and queens to be on their guard.”
“And bad,” I added. “It’s going to take us forever to get through.”
My guard shook his head. “Perhaps not.” He pushed his horse through the press of the crowd—unmindful or uncaring of the comments aimed his way—and dismounted in front of one of the soldiers, a man with a bit more decoration on his uniform than the rest.
After a brief exchange, the man signaled the rest of us forward. “I am Lieutenant Astyrian.” He bowed. “You will accompany me to the palace.”
Perhaps my experiences in Cynestol had made me overly wary, but I stepped back to give myself room enough to draw steel and nodded to Rory and Gael. Daggers appeared in Rory’s hands as if by magic, but Gael didn’t move.
Nearby soldiers, seeing Rory’s ostentatious display with his daggers, closed in around us, wary.
“Not here,” Bolt hissed. “Didn’t you see him bow?”
I blinked. “I don’t understand.”
The lieutenant waved the other soldiers away and bowed again. “King Boclar has been expecting you. I’ve been ordered to conduct you to him with all speed.”
“Expecting us?” I asked.
The lieutenant nodded. “His exact orders were to conduct any to him who were aware of the purpose behind the roadblock.”
As we approached the gates, I looked up to view the massive wall and the city beyond.
