Progeny (The Children of the White Lions) (6 page)

Kenders skidded to a stop, wrapping her arms around an old oak trunk to help stop her descent. The rough bark scraped the soft skin of her forearms as she whipped around the tree. Peering up the slope at her brother’s back, she hissed, “Nikalys!”

He did not stop. Raising her voice a fraction, she tried again. “Nikalys!”

This time, he glanced back, but continued climbing. “What?”

Glaring up the brush and rock infested slope, Kenders demanded, “What in the Nine Hells are you doing?”

A dozen paces from the top, Nikalys finally halted. “We can’t just go running into town. They might be down there.” He started to turn back toward the hilltop when he paused. “And keep your voice down.”

Kenders glowered, boring a hole in Nikalys’ back. Had he not rushed up the slope, she would not have needed to speak so loudly. Near the top, he dropped to his stomach and crawled the remaining few feet. Kenders breathed a sigh of relief. Nikalys was not brainless.

Resting the palm of her hand against the trunk, she looked around the forest, scanning every tree and bush for movement. Here, the world carried on as if nothing had happened. One would never know that a mile to the west, every tree and bush had been ripped from the ground. A pair of redbirds burst from a nearby ash, startling her as they chased one another into the sky.

Restless, she glanced back up the hill to her brother.

He was gone.

“Nik?”

Her already quick-beating heart thudded even faster.

A flicker of movement atop the rise drew her attention to a bushy yellow-leafed shrub. Upon spotting a muddy, grass-covered boot, she began to breathe again. “Oh, thank the gods.”

Nikalys rested in a shallow depression directly below the bush.

With her brother safely hidden, she suddenly felt exposed. Pushing away from the tree trunk, she began to climb the grassy slope, intending to join Nikalys. After only a few steps, he spun around, glared at her, and began to silently motion for her to stay in place. She continued, however, ignoring him. Nikalys had no right to make rash decisions and then dictate orders to her.

The higher up the slope she climbed, the more violent Nikalys’ gestures became. His eyes as wide as those of a spooked horse, he jabbed a finger in the air, pointing north.

Realizing what he was trying to convey, Kenders stopped. “Uh-oh.”

Whipping her head around, she peered northward, through the summer-fried forest.

A flicker of gray.

A flash of pale skin and red hair.

“Oh, Hells.”

It was one of the mages, perhaps searching for survivors.

Her instinct was to drop to the ground, but she worried the sudden movement might draw the mage’s attention. Even if it did not, the crash of her body falling onto the dry leaves and grass certainly would.

Kenders stood, petrified.

Halfway up the hill already, she could still try to reach Nikalys and hide. Perhaps the mage would miss them both. She dismissed the idea an instant later. From where the gray-robed mage was, he or she would easily spot—or hear—her hurried climbing. She would give away both herself and Nikalys’ position.

She could sprint down the hill, run away, and perhaps save her brother. Again, she dismissed the idea. Nikalys would never let her sacrifice herself like that. If she ran and the mage came after her, Nikalys would try to help. Ultimately, they would both be caught. Or, more likely, killed.

Staring through the trunks of the trees, she saw the flicker of gray again. She could tell it was a man now. And he was getting closer.

Absent any good idea, Kenders slowly crouched to the ground, stretched her legs out, and lay down, hoping the sparse grass would hide her but doubting it would. If it were spring and the grass was thick and green, she might have a chance at remaining hidden. In the middle of summer, however, the dry, thin grass offered little cover.

As the mage strode near, Kenders closed her eyes and said a quick prayer, moving her lips without uttering a sound.

“Help me, Ketus. Hide me in your shadows.”

She wondered if even the god of Shadows and Luck could hide a girl wearing a lavender shirt on a bare, sunny hillside.

She held her breath and stared into the clear, cloudless sky, listening to the mage’s shuffling steps get closer, crunching leaves and grass. She wanted to look, but did not dare move. She wished Nikalys were beside her. Or Jak. Or anyone, for that matter.

Suddenly, the crackling and colors—new ones this time—returned, startling her.

White. Silver. Gold.

The sensation of colors surged, throbbing and pulsing. Swelling around her. Filling her so that it overflowed like a cup trying to hold a bucketful of water.

She cracked her eyes open and tilted her head to stare back to the old oak beside which she had stopped, certain the colors were coming from that direction. A faint gold filament hovered in the air, a few paces from the tree, visible only if she did not look directly at it. Every time she focused on it, the string disappeared. It was like chasing a black moth on a moonless night.

She felt rather than saw the colors fly up the hill and settle over her, hanging in place like an invisible gold, silver, and white spider’s web.

Hearing footsteps, she forgot about the colors and looked back down the hill. A gray-robed mage was approaching the oak tree. He was skinny and pale, perhaps a few years older than Jak, and had reddish-blond hair. The ordinariness of the man surprised Kenders. Had he been wearing field clothes, she would have never looked twice at him.

He strolled through the trees, turning his head back and forth, scanning the area. As his gaze drifted up Kenders’ hill, she reflexively clenched every muscle in her body and bit her lip so hard she tasted blood. When his stare reached where she was lying, she nearly leapt from the grass and charged him, but remained frozen when it skipped over her and continued to sweep the grassy hillside without pause.

He had not seen her.

Stunned, she watched the mage trek southward, down the hill and away from her and Nikalys. As he dipped out of sight, she sat up a little, twisted around, and looked up the hill. Nikalys was already sitting up and staring down at her. He looked as befuddled as she felt. Staring at her, he mouthed a single, silent word. “How?”

Kenders’ answer was a silent, astounded shrug of her shoulders.

After several quiet, stunned moments, Nikalys twisted around, lowered himself back to the ground, and peered west. He waved to Kenders, indicating that he wanted her to come up.

Before she moved, she took a quick look around to ensure there were no more wandering mages. As she scanned the forest, she realized she could not feel the colors any longer. They were gone.

Deciding that it was safe to move, she climbed the ridge and lowered herself beside Nikalys, laying in dirt and leaves. Below them and to the west, the wet ruins of Yellow Mud waited.

The devastation was complete. Not a single building remained. Everything was a mess of broken timbers, tumbled stones, matted straw, shattered furniture, and twisted, wrecked bodies. The air smelled of mud.

Moments passed
where
while neither Kenders nor Nikalys said a word.

Eventually, Nikalys looked over and asked, “How did that mage not see you?”

“I don’t know,” mumbled Kenders, never taking her eyes off the remains of their village. “Just be happy he didn’t.”

She had no intention of telling Nikalys about the web of colors. Undoubtedly, it had been magic and she wanted nothing to do with that now. Or ever, for that matter.

“I tried to warn you,” whispered Nikalys. “When I saw the ijul all alone, I started looking around for the others just as that man came over the ridge.”

“Where’s the ijul?”

Nikalys pointed northwest.

“Up there.”

Looking to where Nikalys indicated, she spotted the crimson robes and bright blondish-white hair in an instant. The ijul stood atop a bluff, staring down into the remains of the village.

“And the rest?” muttered Kenders.

“Out here, I guess.”

Staring at the bluff, Kenders shook her head. “Gods, we were lucky.”

“Well, you certainly were,” agreed Nikalys. “How he didn’t see you is a—”

Shaking her head, Kenders interrupted him, saying, “Not what I meant. If we had kept running, we would have come out down there.” She pointed to a clump of oaks just as the reddish-blond mage emerged from the trees. Nodding back to the ijul, she added, “And he would have seen us.”

Peering between the two mages, Nikalys grunted, “You’re right.”

“What made you come up here?”

“Seemed like a good idea,” muttered Nikalys. “Didn’t make sense to run straight into the village.”

“Have any more good ideas? We still need to get down there.”

“Not now, we aren’t.”

“Our family needs us!”

Jabbing a finger at the bluff, Nikalys hissed, “If they see us, they will kill us. And we can’t help
anyone
if we’re dead! For once, think before you act!”

She dug her fingers into the dirt and leaves beneath her. It took all of her self-control not to rush into their village. Her nose twitched. “Fine. We wait.”

“Thank you,” mumbled Nikalys. Though the point was settled, he did not look away. After a few moments, he asked, “Any more feeling colors?”

“No,” lied Kenders. “Nothing at all.”

A relieved sigh slipped from his lips as he stared back to the bluff. “Good.”

Brother and sister rested beneath the ridge and watched one gray-robed mage after another rejoined the ijul on the bluff. Once all nine had returned, the willowy ijul turned and began speaking to them.

“What do you think they are saying?” asked Nikalys.

“I don’t care,” murmured Kenders. “Does it matter what murderers—” She stopped short. The crackling and colors were back.

Blue. White. Silver.

Despite not wanting to admit what she sensed, she muttered, “Nik?”

“Yes?”

“Something’s happening.”

Moments later, the gray-robed mages began to grasp their throats and stumble about the bluff. One by one, they collapsed to the ground. All nine fell. Only the ijul remained standing.

Jhaell stood motionless, staring at the ruins of the town below him with a grim frown on his face. Streams of muddy water drained south, following the natural slope of the land. Debris and bodies littered the ground, deposited haphazardly by the runoff. Of the people he could see, none appeared alive.

He shook his head slowly, frustrated. “This was too easy.”

Had this been the correct place, there would have been some sort of resistance. It seemed Jhaell had found yet another false lead. Making things worse, he had acted on it.

Grinding his teeth, he muttered, “
Beelvra
!”

A few days past, he had ported himself and nine acolytes to a secluded courtyard in Redstone. The ten of them traveled via cart along the Southern Road, disembarking a few miles southwest of Yellow Mud and continuing the rest of the way through the forest on foot, reaching this very overlook this morning. He observed the village for a time, trying to determine if he was in the correct place or not. Short of going through the town and knocking on every door, he had no real way of knowing. And he did not dare do that. Prey was most dangerous when cornered.

Years of waiting had driven Jhaell to make a rash decision. Recalling the map of the area, he knew that a large lake lay to the north.

The opportunity had been too tempting.

The acolytes had followed him to the lakeside and listened to his instructions, only briefly showing alarm at the task that required their assistance. He had left the weaving of Water to the acolytes, intertwining additional Strands that only he knew how to manipulate. Fate gave him an entire class of acolytes that could touch Water, yet not one could reach Will or Soul. He took it as a sign that he was meant to do this.

They had stood on the lake’s surface in plain view, knowing full well magic was banned in the Oaken Duchies. Jhaell did not particularly care about laws, especially ones born
e
of ignorance in a nation that was not his own.

When the Weave was complete, Jhaell instructed the fibríaal to follow the irrigation ditch that the townspeople had so kindly dug into the middle of their town. Using a port, Jhaell ensured he was in place atop the bluff to watch the destruction unfold.

Now, he regretted it all. He had made a spectacle, one that could not be easily explained away. He pressed his lips together. “This was foolish.”

He lifted his gaze to stare at the surrounding hillsides. The forest was quiet. Perhaps the luck of Ketus was with him today and there were no witnesses. Turning around, he stared at his students. Seeing none moving, he released the Weaves binding their airways, letting the water spill from their noses and mouths.

He searched the students to ensure that nothing would tie them to the Academy at Immylla, not that anyone in the duchies would ever conceive of the possibility. With a few quick Weaves of Air, Jhaell lifted the bodies off the ground and started down a narrow path leading from the bluff. He directed the acolytes ahead of him, carelessly bumping the dead students into rocks and dragging them through bushes. When he reached the edge of the dissipating flood, he stopped. Any further and he would get his sandals muddy.

For a time, he studied the ruins with a cold, unfeeling stare. Bodies hung from trees and bushes, random bits of stone and wood lay half-buried in the yellow mud. A dead horse lay draped over a pot-stove. The frown that had been affixed to his face since releasing the fibríaal deepened. He could live two lifetimes and never come up with a rational explanation for this. He could only hope Tandyr never discovered his indiscretion.

Adjusting the Weave, he tossed the limp, lifeless bodies of the acolytes into the mess. One got wedged in a tree while the others landed in the mud with a soft, squishing sound. He should have never involved them in his pursuit. Explaining their disappearance to the registry would be challenging but doable.

He stood in place, listening intently for anything that might indicate someone was still alive. All he heard was the sound of running water as countless, spontaneous streams carried away the last of the fibríaal.