Mystic (24 page)

And, of course, there was the other man. Sim had no idea who the tall, dark-skinned nobleman was but could only assume he was another candidate for the apprenticeship. He'd been wearing fine clothes, things that Sim would never in his life be able to afford. Why
wouldn't
Pomella choose a man like that over him?

He had to let her walk her own path now.

His fist clenched. Just because she wouldn't accept his help didn't mean he couldn't try to protect her. He couldn't stop the plague from taking Dane. But he could put himself between Pomella and the people who meant her harm. He could still make a difference, even if Pomella didn't know it. Even if she couldn't see him, or feel his presence, he'd be ready.

Ducking through the rain, Sim hurried to the nearest edge of the forest and slipped into the trees. He headed north, always keeping Kelt Apar in sight. Better to edge the long way around the compound than walk directly across the open lawn in plain sight.

Also, the Green Man had insisted on it.

The Green Man. Sim still found it hard to believe that he'd seen the legendary figure twice in his lifetime, let alone spoken to him. Earlier in the evening, Sim had followed Rochella's directions to locate Kelt Apar and had taken no more than a few steps onto the open grass, his eyes fixed on the strange stone tower in the center, when the ground ripped open, knocking him backward.

He'd scrambled away, watching the huge figure form out of grass and dirt and stone. He had looked down at Sim, his pebbled eyes looking straight into his heart.

“I am surprised to see you here, child of Oakspring,” the Green Man had rumbled. “State your business.”

Pushing himself up from the grass, Sim had faced the strange creature directly. “I'm here to warn my friend Pomella about a threat to her life.”

“You are not permitted to enter Kelt Apar at this time. You may give me the message.”

Lightning flashed across the sky, momentarily illuminating the forest, bringing Sim back to the present. He found a massive boulder sitting in the swollen river, the same one that flowed into Kelt Apar. He climbed it and used it to leap the water, landing on the far side. Flinging mud off his pants, he continued his way around the large clearing, lost in thought.

He'd explained everything about the Black Claws to the Green Man. He told him of Zicon's letter and Ohzem's threats. When the Green Man heard of Rochella's capture, his face contorted in anger.

“You did well to tell me this,” the Green Man said. “I will inform the High Mystic. Go warn your friend, but leave immediately after. Find shelter and return to your home in Oakspring.”

Sim shook his head. “I can't. I've left the barony. Baron AnBroke will declare me Unclaimed.”

“Then find shelter and a ranger will come to you in a few days. The High Mystic will assist you when this storm has passed.”

Sim knew he wasn't referring to the weather. He'd agreed to the Green Man's terms, but had no intention of finding shelter and hiding. He still didn't fully trust the High Mystic, or any Mystic for that matter.

Trudging through mud, he tried not to think about what he'd seen in Pomella's cabin. What he'd found still churned his stomach. For years he'd dreamed of someday holding Pomella, of kissing her, and having her love him in return. Seeing her with another man tore his heart.

Pushing those memories away, he reached the northeastern edge of Kelt Apar and found the mark he'd made on an oak tree. There would be another one farther into the forest, and another every twenty steps after that, to ensure he could find his way back in the dark.

With one last look at the tower silhouetted in the clearing, Sim pushed into the forest, hurrying back to the Black Claw camp. The rain continued to pour. The thick trees around him did little to ease his discomfort. He yawned repeatedly as he walked, realizing just how little sleep he'd had. His stomach rumbled, and each step became harder than the last.

Finally, after the rain stopped and just as morning light began to blossom in the forest, Sim tiptoed back into the camp. He glimpsed Dox's hulking form sleeping under the wagon, as expected. Nothing but silence came from Zicon's tent. Stepping uneasily, Sim made his way to the place he normally slept.

“Where you been, scrit?” came a ratlike voice.

The blood drained from Sim's face. He turned to see Jank stepping out from behind a tree. The short man scratched his scraggly chin. As always, Sim's sword hung at his belt.

“Huh? Where ya been?” Jank said.

“I was doing my morning necessary,” Sim said, continuing to where he was headed. He hoped he appeared casual.

Jank followed. “That's strange, because I don't smell any piss. At least, no more than usual round you.”

“Get spiked, Jank.”

“Oh, you want to spike me now! Look who the tough pup is! So tell me, if you were squatting in the woods just now, where've you been all night?”

Sim's heart pounded and his mind raced. What were the chances Jank had stayed awake all night waiting for him? “I was here, where else?”

“I looked for you last night, culk!” Jank snapped, spittle flying as he jabbed his finger in the air. “You left the camp!”

Dox stirred, and sat up. “What's happening?”

“Jank's blathering on about—”

Jank's shoulder rammed into Sim's chest, knocking him down and crushing the air from his lungs.

“Liar!” Jank screamed, his hands scrabbling for Sim's throat.

Dox ran over and wrapped his meaty arms around Jank, trying to pull him off. Jank landed a punch against Sim's head, rattling him.

Sim surged to his feet and sprang back at Jank. He crashed into the smaller man before Dox could let go.

“Leave off!” Dox roared, but Sim raised a fist, planning to break Jank's remaining teeth.

Another hand gripped Sim's wrist from behind and hurled him backward. Sim staggered, trying not to lose his balance. Zicon stood between them, fuming with rage.

“You jagged scrits,” Zicon said, breathing heavily. “Do you have any idea what you could have done? Stand up, Jank.”

Jank snatched himself off of Dox and stood. “He's a jagged liar, Zicon! He went to warn his girlfriend!”

Zicon loomed over Jank. “By all the dead Graces, if you draw that boy's blood during our mission, I will—!”

“Hold,” came a cracking voice, and all eyes turned to the familiar hunched figure of Ohzem. The Mystic walked past them, slowly eyeing each in turn. Zicon clenched his jaw and gathered himself, bowing slightly. Jank gritted his teeth and bobbed his head forward.

Ohzem stopped in front of Sim. He reached a bony hand toward Sim's face and clutched his jaw, sending a spike of pain shivering through him. The Mystic examined Sim's face, turning it back and forth slowly.

Ohzem turned to Jank and Dox. “Is either of you bleeding?”

Each looked at his arms and torsos. Dox rubbed his bald head with a hand and checked it for blood.

Jank spit to the side. “Why does it matter? You're obsessed with blood.”

“Shut your mouth, Jank!” Zicon hissed. “This is a Mystic you're talking to.”

“He's right,” said Ohzem. “I
am
obsessed with blood. And you should be, too, if you want to survive more than a heartbeat longer on this island.”

“What do you mean?” snapped Jank.

“I mean we are on Moth with ill intent,” Ohzem said. “We are in the heart of the Mystwood, in the shadow of MagDoon, where the Myst is naturally strong, where the High Mystic's power holds the greatest sway. Have you not wondered,
Jank
—” Ohzem sneered as he spoke the name, “—why we have not been destroyed by the ceon'hur?”

“Because it's a myth,” Jank said.

“No! The ceon'hur watches the Mystwood every moment. He knows what happens and destroys all threats. But we are safe, because of me. Because of
my
power, you live another day. Through my sacrifice, through my power, you are hidden from the all-seeing eyes of the ceon'hur.”

Jank shuffled his feet. “I don't see what this has to do with blood.”

“Blood is everything,” Ohzem said in his quiet, raspy voice. “Through it, we are immortal. It carries the history of our ancestors. The promise of our divinity. Because of this, even iron, the embodiment of the ancient world, must yield before it. If you shed the innocent blood of a person under the High Mystic's protection onto the ground, you destroy the iron cloak I have woven around us.”

Silence swallowed them all. After a moment, Zicon stepped forward. “Mags, tie this one up,” he said, gesturing at Sim. “Jank, you're helping Dox. Get the ranger ready. I want us moving in the next ten minutes.”

Zicon dragged Sim away by the arm. “What's your story, boy?” he snarled. “Where did you go, and why? Did you go to the tower? Lie to me and I'll suffocate you with my own hands, the Mystic be damned.”

Sim met his gaze. “Fine,” he said. “I went to Kelt Apar to find Pomella, my friend.”

Zicon's face hardened. “Why?”

A stream of reasons flowed into Sim's mind. Because he needed to warn her. Because he needed to stop the very man breathing into his face at this moment.

He settled on a version of the most honest answer. “Because I overheard Jank say we were near the tower. I didn't know if she'd made it there safely or not. I-I wanted to see her.”

Zicon narrowed his eyes. “There's more. Tell me.”

“No, there's not,” Sim said, holding his ground. “I miss her, OK? I figured this would be my only chance. I won't see her ever again, and the thought of her not being in my life is hard. Surely you understand that? You ever had a woman snare you into thinking about her and doing dunder things for her?”

He knew he'd struck the metal right. Zicon's jaw tightened. Mags arrived with iron cuffs for Sim. “You're under lock until this is done,” Zicon said.

Sim didn't argue. Mags bolted the metal cuffs onto his wrists. Rochella waited on her knees a short distance away. Her lank hair spilled across her striped face.

Perhaps sensing him, she looked up and held his gaze.

*   *   *

Zicon led them south to a crossroad. The company took the east road, heading toward MagDoon. Exhausted, Sim straggled along as best he could. They allowed him to eat some dry meat and wilted vegetables. It tasted terrible, but he wolfed down every bite.

MagDoon loomed before them, even larger than the stories implied. It cast hard shadows across their path as it blocked the sun at this early hour.

“As soon as our business is done, I'm gunna enjoy skinning you up,” Jank said from behind him as they walked. “You know, to make this trip worth it. Even with triple pay, I was beginning to think it wasn't. But you're making things look brighter. Maybe I'll use your old sword to do it.”

Sim ignored the taunts. He kept his eyes down and concentrated on walking. They arrived at the base of the mountain, where at least four winding paths led up. Sim's heart sank at the sight of the steep slopes. “Are we climbing that?”

Zicon reined to a stop, his muscular stallion dancing with energy. “Hormin, you and Jank unpack what we need from the wagon. You'll come up with us. Mags, remain here with the ranger and the horses. Dox, get the chest ready. You'll stay here, too.”

Confused, Sim watched as Dox and Mags lifted the heavy wooden chest from the back of the wagon.

“You,” Zicon said, kicking Sim's shoulder with the toe of his boot, “you'll be carrying that up.”

Sim looked at the heavy chest and glowered back. “Yah? And how am I supposed to to do that?”

“Figure it out, boy,” Zicon said, and trotted his horse to the trailhead.

Jank stuffed a tangle of ropes and leather strips in Sim's face. “Get going, scrit.”

Mumbling curses to himself, Sim set about securing the chest. He examined the jumbled lines, trying to figure out where to start. Why were they climbing MagDoon? Pomella was in Kelt Apar.

Dox helped him unwind the straps and loop them around the chest. “Wrap it around your shoulders and waist like this,” he said. “Don't use your arms.”

“What's in there?” Sim asked.

“You don't want to know. I don't understand it myself, anyway.”

At Zicon's command, Sim began dragging the chest uphill through mud. The leather and rope dug into his shoulder, and by the time he'd taken four steps he knew it was going to be a miserable haul. Within ten minutes, he thought he would die. He lagged behind, but Jank walked behind him, murderously taunting him.

“You're filth,” Jank said. “After we reach the top and Zicon does his task, I'm going to kill you. Or maybe I'll maim you and let you starve as Unclaimed.”

Gritting his teeth, Sim poured his hatred of Jank into pulling the chest. Somehow he survived an hour, and found himself looking back across the forest from a short way up the side of the mountain. Ohzem led the way up the path, using his iron staff as a walking stick. Sim eyed it enviously.

The rain held off, thank the Saints, but the muddy trail seemed endless. Zicon ordered a rest when they came to the base of the switchbacks. Hormin passed out food, as quiet as ever.

Sim welcomed the food, but the time spent resting only reminded him how tired he was. As they packed up, he stepped off the path and found a heavy oak branch that had fallen. He checked its height and thickness, and judged it to be good enough for a walking stick. Between dragging the chest and having his wrists cuffed, he thought he could manage if he used both hands. He snapped off a few extra branches and hitched the straps over his shoulder.

“Put the stick down, scrit,” Jank said, hands resting on Sim's sword hilt.

Sim held his hands up to show how they were bound. “It's just to help me walk.”

“I said drop it, or I'll crack you with it.”