Progeny (The Children of the White Lions) (55 page)

Sabine closed her eyes and sighed, “I know.”

“Or in any city where—”

Eyes shooting open, Sabine snapped, “I know!”

Nikalys froze for several heartbeats, then dropped his gaze to the fire and wisely remained silent. Everyone stayed quiet while waiting for Sabine’s decision.

Broedi reached into his pouch and withdrew his pouch of smoking-leaf. With nothing else to do, Kenders watched him pack the pipe again and light it with a tiny Weave of Fire concentrated over the bowl. The leaf’s sweet smoke drifted through the air.

She studied the hillman, wondering about the Blackbark Forest and Storm Island he had mentioned. She had never heard of either. Then again, she had never heard of much of anything beyond Yellow Mud or Smithshill. Broedi could have said they were heading to White Moon and she would have had a better idea of what to expect.

After what seemed a longer time than it probably was, Sabine sighed and looked to Nikalys and Broedi.

“You’re right. Both of you. It is the sweetest among the sour. If you will have us, we will go with you.” She glanced down at the sleeping form of Helene, adding, “I’ll do whatever I can to keep her safe.”

“A wise choice, uora,” rumbled Broedi. “Your dedication to your iskoa is admirable.”

Sabine looked back to Broedi an, ignoring the compliment, asked, “But why Storm Island? What makes it safer than any other place?”

Kenders turned to stare at Broedi and said with purpose, “What an
excellent
question. Why, Broedi?”

“I’d like to know, too,” said Nikalys.

Broedi puffed on his pipe while staring at each one of them in turn. Ending on Sabine, a slight smile touched his lips. “You should have asked that
before
you said you were coming.”

Despite herself, Kenders smiled. A soft chuckle slipped from Nikalys. Sabine, however, remained stone-faced.

Rising from the ground, he stood tall, stretched, and announced, “I will check the area nearby to ensure our safety. The rest of you should sleep.” He motioned toward Jak, lying off to the side of the fire. “We ride as soon as he wakes.”

As he turned north, heading back up the hill, Sabine looked between Nikalys and Kenders.

“He didn’t answer my question.”

Kenders’ smile widened a fraction.

“Sabine, dear, if you’re going to be traveling with us, you had better get used to it.”

Sabine frowned, staring after the retreating hillman. Kenders would have bet good coin she was rethinking her decision.

28
^th
of the Turn of Sutri

Jhaell lifted his gaze from his horse’s mane and sighed.

Before him, verdant fields undulated in a light breeze, the waves of grass rippling across the sun-soaked land, the dirt way upon which Jhaell’s horse trod cutting a russet ribbon through the endless green. Near a rogue clump of oaks, the tan roofline of a rustic house stood against the vast wilderness. Overhead, white clouds climbed upon one another, tumbling and rolling across the sky.

Jhaell stared at the scene, but did not see it. The same frown that had rested upon his face for days on end turned downward a fraction further. He felt defeated, desperate, and—despite the fifty blue and gold-clad soldiers trailing him—very alone.

For days now, he had been heading west simply because he had no idea what else to do. He forced the soldiers to march day and night, driving them to the point of exhaustion. Were he to look over his shoulder, he could assume at least a dozen men would be slumped over, asleep on their horse. It was a wonder they did not slide from their saddles.

He had been in this backward country for over a week now, yet there had been no sign of the Progeny. None. A tiny ember of hope smoldered inside him that this was all a massive misunderstanding. That he was chasing phantoms. That these events were some sort of terrible, cruel coincidence. Perhaps the real Progeny were elsewhere in the world. Perhaps Tandyr would not hold him responsible.

With a long and deep sigh, Jhaell shut his eyes. He was fooling himself. And he knew it.

The thudding of a horse’s hooves yanked him from his piteous reverie. The beast drew beside Jhaell and slowed to keep pace. A man—most likely the Southern Arm’ sergeant—cleared his throat.

Jhaell ignored the soldier.

The man cleared his throat again.

Jhaell did not react. He did not want to talk.

In a quiet, hesitant tone, the man murmured, “Sir?”

Simmering inside, Jhaell opened his eyes, turned his head, and glared at the man. It was the sergeant indeed.

“What?!”

Shrinking under Jhaell’s withering stare, Sergeant Rowe was quiet for a moment managing to say, “Ah…Fenidar, sir, I would respectfully remind you—again, sir—that some of the horses are nearly lame. The men will go until you order us to stop, but soon, we’ll be walking on foot.”

Twisting in his saddle, Jhaell examined the soldiers behind him. The beasts did look ragged, even more so than the men. If horses started falling, they would never catch their prey. Assuming the Progeny even came this way.

When he had split the soldiers, Jhaell had chosen the westerly route based on what he knew was happening in the Borderlands. It seemed logical the Progeny might head there. With each plodding step of his horse, he regretted his choice.

“Fenidar?” prompted the sergeant. “May we rest or not?”

Jhaell turned to face forward again, barely glancing at the man as he did. He tilted his head back and eyed the sky. Mu’s orb hung low. Early dusk was not far away.

“Can they not hold out until sunset, sergeant?”

The sergeant paused a moment before answering.

“They are exhausted, sir. They need rest.”

Jhaell squeezed his eyes shut, drew in a deep breath, and mumbled, “I should have never gone to Yellow Mud…”

The sergeant leaned over.

“Pardon, sir?”

Jhaell ignored the man, too busy blaming himself for everything that had led him here.

Had he not tried to impress Tandyr, had he not reacted rashly while standing on that bluff, had he not done a half-dozen other things without prior thought, then he would not be here. Most likely, he would be sitting in the library at Immylla, reading, searching, and seeking for some mention of what Tandyr sought.

That was Jhaell’s purpose.

That was what he was good at doing.

That was what would reunite him with Syra again.

Feeling the tiny, dark crinkling of Void he opened his eyes and stared down at his bag. Someone was writing to him, the first time in three days. Looking up at the soldier, he said, “Tell the men to make camp. We will stay the night but leave before the sun rises, understand?”

Relief spread over the man’s face.

“Thank you, sir.”

Drawing reins across his horse’s neck, the sergeant rode away, shouting orders to halt and set up the tents. The soldiers gave a weary, almost-mocking cheer. Jhaell did not appreciate their tone.

After stopping himself, he dismounted and walked away, leaving his horse unattended in the road. Someone would come and see to the beast.

He moved to the roadside and sat to wait for the soldiers to stake his tent. Reaching into his bag, he pulled out the parchments and shuffled through them. Finding the one with writing, he placed it on top and read. It was from a nobleman of the duchies loyal to Tandyr.

Baron Morus was an advisor in the court of Duke Rholeb, the sovereign of the Marshlands, and had proven adept at both providing information as well as gently guiding the duke’s decisions in advantageous directions. The baron’s missive reported that even more refugees were coming from the west, bringing with them tales of countless Sudashians in the Borderlands. Duke Rholeb had dispatched yet another rider to Duke Vanson in Gobas to see if assistance was required. Knowing that Duke Rholeb would never hear a reply triggered a slight smile to spread over Jhaell’s wide lips.

The baron also wrote that he had managed to send the soldiers Jhaell had requested. A patrol of Marshlands’ Reed Men was heading east in Jhaell’s direction, along this very road. He inquired as to why Jhaell needed them and expressed surprise that the saeljul was even in the duchies.

Jhaell dismissed the message with a simple Weave of Air and watched the writing disappear, the black letters fading from the parchment. He slipped the parchments back in his bag without writing back. There was no good answer to the baron’s question. A message that included, ‘I tried to kill the Progeny, but instead, I think I let them loose, and now I cannot find them’ would not help his situation.

He glanced up to see if the soldiers had his tent ready. They did not. The men were slogging about, moving slowly, and truly exhausted. Sighing, he dropped his head and stared at the ground.

“
Beelvra
…”

While he was at a lost as to what he should do, he knew with certainty what he could not do. His time at Immylla was finished, his prolonged absence at the Academy long past the point where he could explain it away. Distinguished One Hovathil had probably already set in motion the requisite process to terminate his position.

Jhaell still wondered what had become of the tomble mainlander and the stolen letter. At least twice a day, he considered porting to Redstone and speaking with Duke Everett to determine if it was a danger to their efforts, but he never did. The man would turn Jhaell straight over to Tandyr to further his own position.

Jhaell ran his elongated fingers through his hair and sighed.

Perhaps he should simply tell Tandyr what he had done. Perhaps the god would allow him to serve in another way. Jhaell could certainly help with the advance in the Borderlands. The Sudashian mages were crude with the Strands. The thought of being surrounded by oligurts, mongrels, and razorfiends was more than unpleasant, but he would do what was necessary.

Jhaell lifted his head and stared at the tired soldiers, watching them stumble about in a daze. If he managed to stumble on the Progeny, these exhausted men would be of little use to him. Perhaps he should visit Tandyr’s army and attempt to arrange something with one of the demon captains. Sudashians, while vile creatures, were more resilient than these men were.

He thought the idea through and realized it was his best option. As soon as he could, he would port west and find the nearest Sudashian camp. They should litter the Borderlands now. It would not be hard to find one.

He also decided to visit the agent Tandyr had in the Southlands tonight. If the Progeny had headed that way, there was a small chance some sort of rumor had made its way through the land. Jhaell silently chastised himself for not having given the woman one of the parchments.

“Sir, your tent is ready.”

Jhaell glanced up—he had been staring at a stone in the road—and found a soldier standing a few paces away.

“About time.”

If he was going to open a port, he needed the privacy of the tent. He did not dare weave openly in the presence of these men. They would stab him in in the back the moment they realized he was a mage.

He stood and scanned the area for his tent, looking for the red and black pennant on it. Spotting it, he took a single step toward the camp and stopped. The tent was a dozen paces from where the soldiers had staked the horses. Jhaell had to sit upon one of the reeking beasts all day long. He had little interest in resting next to them.

“Soldier, who thought it a good idea to put my tent next to the horses?”

The man glanced to where the tent stood before turning back to face Jhaell. With eyes wide, the footman said, “I’m terribly sorry, sir. We will move the horses immediately.”

Jhaell looked toward the staked horses and saw that a few of them already had relieved themselves on the ground. He glared at the man and, restraining himself as best he could, muttered, “I do
not
want to sleep next to their filth. Move the tent, not the horses. Do you understand?”

The blue and gold clad solider nodded once, apologized again, and went scampering away quickly toward Jhaell’s tent, shouting for the men to take it down.

Letting loose a disgusted sigh, Jhaell sat by the side of the road again.

Staring at the scurrying men as they hurried to complete his order, Jhaell congratulated himself, pleased that he had managed to keep his patience. Bad things happened when he did not.

Zecus awoke and slowly opened his eyes.

At first, he thought it was late dusk or early dawn, but the light was wrong. Seeing some type of cloth or canvas wall facing him, he reasoned he was in a tent of sorts. No longer draped over a bullockboar’s backside, he was on his left side, lying in grass and dirt, his ankles and wrists still bound.

The air was warm, stuffy, and filled with an unpleasant odor he could not place. Outside, he heard metal clanging, the thudding of wood on wood, and deep voices shouting. After listening for a few heartbeats, Zecus grimaced. The tongue spoken was not Argot. Rather, it reminded him of the guttural grunting of an angry boar.

As he lay there, unmoving, he noticed the sound of slow, steady breathing inside the tent. He was not alone.

A man spoke, his voice raspy. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to eat you.”

Relieved that his company was not an oligurt, Zecus rolled onto his right side and peered through the dimly lit tent. A man lay on his back, arms folded across his chest, staring at the peaked ceiling. A thick rope ran from his legs to a large metal stake driven into the ground, pressing the rope into the dirt. Zecus followed another length of rope running from the stake to his own legs.

Looking back to the man, he asked, “Who are—” His voice cracked, failing him. He tried to cough, but his throat was impossibly dry.

“You may want some water from the bucket,” said the man, pointing to a side of the tent. A short cackle followed his suggestion. “Then again, you might not.”

Zecus tried to sit upright but what should have been a simple task was a struggle. He was weak, light-headed, and bound. It took him a few tries, but he eventually succeeded. The old man made no effort to help.