In both cases, it was his humanity that would suffer.
Though he was gifted, unknowingly, with the power of the alexen, he was, after all, just a young man forging his way in the unknowing world.
The weight of the prophecy and of the expectations was daunting.
Aelin opened his mouth, though the words failed to follow. Ryl sighed, his shoulders drooping a touch as the air escaped from his lungs. Perhaps it was the change in his posture, the crack in his solid, commanding attitude that spurred the words from the young tribute’s mouth.
“Ryl, could you truly have killed them all?” he asked. His voice wavered from the nervousness.
“Aye, Aelin. That I could,” was all Ryl could muster for a response.
With a grim half smile, he spurred his horse forward. If Cadsae Proper burned, their time might be shorter than he anticipated. There was no more time for instruction. He choked down the momentary agitation at the situation Aelin had unknowingly forced upon him. Both horses increased their pace.
With the momentary lull in conversation, Ryl’s mind turned again to Aelin’s question. The truth of the answer was far more complex than he admitted.
Physically, he knew he could have devastated the force of ill-trained guards.
Emotionally, he doubted if he would have survived the aftermath.
Chapter 23
The sun had long passed its apex as Ryl decreased his horse’s pace. The sun’s slow descent toward the western horizon cast long shadows across the ground to their left. He sent out focused waves of compliance and calm, easing the wary mount and unsteady rider at his side. Color slowly returned to Aelin’s knuckles as they loosened their iron grip on the reins. Though the young tribute’s mirth at riding on horseback was unrestrained, he still approached the feat with an air of inexperienced uncertainty.
After the brief conversation, their pace had been rushed. There was little time for conversation. Ryl patted the neck of his horse in appreciation. The beast who had carried him thus far had done so without complaint. They had worked their horses hard, maintaining a trot or canter as the miles passed. Ryl was diligent in his study of the surroundings, yet aside from the ominous cloud of smoke, there were no additional disturbances along the path.
They had thundered past the waystation before turning off the main road near the newly rebuilt camp at Thayers Rest. Ryl knew from his time in the fields that the river, though the rapids rumbled with speed, was shallow and easy to ford. Having destroyed the only remaining bridge before reaching Cadsae, it was the easiest location to cross.
It was a peculiar sensation passing along the road with Aelin in tow. The oppressive feeling that was a mainstay of The Stocks was still noticeably absent, though Ryl refused to drop his guard. His eyes failed to note any hints of movement, and his phrenic mindsight never located any trace of disturbance, whether it be tribute, phrenic, or Lei Guard.
Ryl eased off his horse at the base of a small rolling hill. The wild grasses of the fallow field grew uninhibited here. The rustling of the plants, jostled by the swirling winds from the sea, drowned out the heaving breaths of the two horses.
“We walk from here,” Ryl called to Aelin.
The young tribute struggled as he slid from the back of the horse with the expected grace of one not accustomed to the saddle. He massaged his legs and backside as the discomfort from the ride set in. Ryl smiled at the plight of the youngster.
“You wanted to come along.” His voice dripped with sarcasm though his tone was pleasant. Aelin’s face vouched for his lack of acknowledgment of Ryl’s sense of humor, though his frown was the most he mustered for a complaint.
From where they had dismounted, they were still hidden from sight of the village that lay behind the peak of the rolling hill before them. From the information Ryl had gleaned from the guard before leaving the army behind, they had left few in reserve to guard the city.
From a tactical standpoint, the decision made little sense. Cadsae Proper was overflowing with revelers bent on basking in the festivities of the annual Harvest. To have abandoned the city to the mob of transient citizens, the majority of which were likely inebriated, defied logic. A great many of those now within the city limits likely shared the same irrational hatred of the tributes that had grown pervasive with generations of acceptance.
Yet not all did. The spark still survived.
Much had changed in the cycle since Ryl’s Harvest. At that time he would never have guessed the sentiment existed save for a select few. Though he had no indication of the size of the movement, or if any coordination existed amongst its unofficial members, there was no doubt that there were those who opposed the enslavement of the tributes. Opposed the throne.
The city had been ripe with tension when he last left. After their disruption of the Harvest, panic had fallen upon the city that already teetered on the edge of revolt. If the guard had truly vacated the garrisons, who was to stop the inevitable conflicts from boiling over?
Ryl cast his vision toward the eastern palisade that now dominated the horizon to his left. The looming stone walls had steadily grown throughout the day as they continued to make their presence felt. The palisades had been immensely imposing. They were feared during his time between their ranks. Looking at them now, he viewed them as nothing more than a weathered, cracking facade of a kingdom that was soon to fall.
They would hold him no longer.
They would hold the tributes no more.
True to the guard’s testimony, they had noted no signs of activity along the walkways that stretched the peaks of the great walls. He scanned them again for signs of guards. Nothing moved within the extent of his
