The Ventifact Colossus (The Heroes of Spira Book 1) (31 page)

Out went the arch-light, leaving behind the pin-prick fires in the eyes of the villagers, though as before there was nothing they might be reflecting. Then a few small flames leapt up as several of them re-lit their lanterns and torches. In a shuffling, shambling, voiceless pack, the barefooted and nightshirted citizens of Seablade Point moved off into the forest, heading back toward their homes.

When the sound of their departure had faded, Ernie moved to stand up, stretch, and have a drink from his water skin. But Morningstar whispered, “Stay down and stay quiet. Someone’s still out there.”

Ernie squinted and tried to see, but after staring at the solid wall of orange light his vision was blotted with pulsing afterimages. Nervous seconds ticked away; Tor on his right and Morningstar on his left were both holding their breaths.

“He’s gone,” said Morningstar, and the fact that she didn’t whisper led to everyone else sitting up, exhaling, and generally creating a stir. Only Aravia stayed where she was, still asleep, snoring gently.

“So should we follow him?” asked Tor.

“No,” said Morningstar. “Not with Aravia still out. It looks like we’re dealing with someone with magic at his disposal, and frankly I want Aravia up and alert when we confront him.”

“Who was it?” Ernie asked. “Someone we saw at the Old Keg?”

“No one I recognized,” said Morningstar. “Tall, on the heavy side, bushy gray beard, red hair. Long red robes. And more importantly, he was walking with a purpose. Everyone else was stumbling around like sleepwalkers, but the fellow who stayed behind, he was wide awake. And unlike the others he didn’t head back into town. I say we camp here tonight, let Aravia sleep off her spellcasting, keep watches in case anything else happens with the arch, and tomorrow morning we find our mystery man.”

Ernie was shaking from a combination of adrenaline and cold, but at the words “camp here” a tremendous drowsiness overtook him. He lay down again on the spongy forest floor and tried to rediscover his dreams of apple pies.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

TOR HAD DIFFICULTY falling asleep.

In other circumstances he would have agitated for immediate pursuit of Morningstar’s red-robed man because what if he was a villain in the final planning stages of something truly awful, and the only time he left himself vulnerable was on his late-night walks back to wherever he lived? Or what if the Arch was about to open? Or it could be the man was Levec himself, and his shenanigans with the arch were
preventing
a gateway opening to what-was-it-called, the other country across the Uncrossable Sea.

Whatever was going on, they needed to know the truth, and the sooner the better! After all, Charagan was in danger, and they needed the Crosser’s Maze to stop the evil banished emperor from invading, but instead they had opted to wait until morning, which, he admitted, was the right call.

They needed Aravia. He rolled over and looked at her, sleeping, mouth slightly open, black hair matted and half covering her face.

She was the reason he couldn’t sleep. She needed protecting, and he wanted to protect her, and if he fell asleep too, who knew what could happen?

No, that wasn’t it. Wasn’t all of it. He couldn’t sleep because he was thinking about her, yes, but he was thinking all sorts of things about her, and it was very confusing.

At his father’s castle in Forquelle, Tor’s interactions with girls had been both limited and academic. His mother had a young lady-in-waiting who had smiled at him once, but his father had already warned him of the wily predilections and uncouth ambitions of the serving class. And a nobleman from mainland Lanei had brought his daughter on a state visit, a girl whom Tor was told might be a potential match for him in several years’ time, but she was obsessed with dresses and combs and centerpieces, all topics on which Tor could not muster even a mild opinion without growing sleepy. Girls and their interests held little fascination for him, and besides, he had known for years that he would be running away eventually, and having to drag a girl along with him would have been much too complicated.

But who could have guessed that there were girls like Aravia in the world? She was fantastic! She wasn’t afraid to say what she thought, and she didn’t shy away from adventure at all, not like he was sure the baroness’ daughter would have done, and she’d already saved his life at least once with her incredible magical powers.

The trouble, of course, was that she was so unbelievably smart. Tor was certain that Aravia was the smartest person he had ever met, except maybe Abernathy, but he was older and had lived longer, and Aravia would know just as much as Abernathy someday when she was an archmage, while Tor himself on the other hand…well, he was intelligent, his parents had always said so, but not in any way that mattered, and his memory was always spotty, and he knew he had trouble staying focused on things, and reading required spending too much energy thinking about only one thing at a time. The only pastime he found worthy of his focus was sword-fighting, and what could possibly cause Aravia to have any interest in a fighting man who didn’t like to read?

The few times she’d spoken directly to him, it was mostly to correct words he mispronounced or facts he had gotten wrong. Not that she was mean or derisive or anything; it was just how she was—smart—and she was working so hard to learn more spells, he shouldn’t distract her.

She was, if anything, even more beautiful when she was asleep, and he tried not to dwell on how his stomach lurched when he imagined what it might be like if he could hold her hand. Tomorrow, with Corilayna’s blessing, they’d discover a bad guy to fight, and life would be simple again.

* * *

When Tor woke the next morning, only his mouth was dry. It wasn’t raining, but there must have been an overnight squall sufficiently energetic to get through the trees, and his clothes were damp and pilled. That only bothered him for a moment; the others were up, including Aravia, sitting on soggy logs and eating a cold breakfast. She was well enough to have a book already open on her lap while she idly chewed her hardtack.

“New spell?” he asked.

Aravia didn’t look up. “Yes.
Teleport.
” She balanced the book on her knees and knit her brows in concentration, while her free hand executed a series of awkward slicing movements. “I almost have it, but I’ve got to get the gestural aspects just right, to redirect the aetheric counterforce.”

“Oh. That sounds important. I’ll let you concentrate.”

“Thanks, Tor.”

He didn’t take the dismissal personally, though it would have been nice to talk with her. She was like that with everyone, and her magical abilities were Horn’s Company’s most important asset.

He had missed some discussion about whether to go back into town or follow the man who had been last to leave the arch. The rest of the company had concluded that town was too risky, that they should first try to find the red-robed observer of last night’s strange ritual. Thanks to Ernie’s brief, well-meaning chat with the serving woman Perri, at least one of the townsfolk knew the company had an interest in Levec and the arch.

Leaving Aravia in peace, Tor wandered over to where Morningstar stood, gazing out of their secluded thicket toward the looming Kivian Arch.

“So you know which way he went?”

Morningstar pointed southeastward. “He left between those two trees, the one with the two knots and the skinny tree with silvery bark. He went in a straight line until I lost sight of him, so that gives us a good lead.”

Tor wolfed down breakfast and grabbed his driest clothes, but the others seemed to be taking their time. They should get moving! Though Aravia he could understand, since she was working hard on learning how to teleport. He wandered out into the clearing with the arch and stared up at its high crosspiece.

An idea popped unbidden into his head. “Hey,” he called back, “maybe something will happen if one of us walks through the arch after last night’s ritual.”

And he did, the cries from the others coming too late to stop him. Maybe it was only his imagination, but the air felt warmer, and just a bit tingly, as he passed beneath its span.

Even Aravia had come running. Her eyes were wide. “Tor, you nitwit! What if that had been a trap? That man was probably a Kivian, and they worship fire. You could have gotten yourself roasted!”

Nitwit? Tor winced. She was probably right. She was staring at him with an expression that he couldn’t decipher.

“But nothing happened,” he said. “And we might have learned something interesting. Besides, all those people stood underneath it last night, and they were even in nightclothes, and they didn’t get burned or anything. We’re here to get information, right?
And
, if anything bad
was
going to happen, better it happen to me.”

He realized as he said this that it sounded like he was bragging. But he
was
the strongest and toughest of the group, now that Grey Wolf was gone. (Kibi didn’t really count; he was stronger, but not in a front-line-of-battle sort of way.) He had thought this through on the ship voyage to Seablade Point. Everyone else in the company had a clear purpose. Aravia was their wizard, and Dranko was their healer. Kibi and Ernie had some connection to the Eyes of Moirel and the Seven Mirrors, though Tor didn’t understand what it was, and Kibi also had the ability to talk to rocks. And Morningstar had prophetic dreams.

So what was his purpose? Only one thing made sense. He was the protector, not just of Aravia but the rest of them as well. It was his job to put himself in danger so that no one else would have to. Which, he supposed, made him important too, and that satisfied him.

Aravia was still staring at him.

“I, uh, didn’t mean to boast,” he said. “It’s just that—”

“Tor, shut up.”

Now
he understood Aravia’s face; she was angry. He had never seen her angry. She always seemed so composed. “Next time,” she said, “tell us before you do anything stupid, okay? That way we can talk you out of it.”

“Sorry,” he said, and he meant it. He still thought it had been worth the risk, but it pained him that he had upset Aravia so badly.

“Hey Tor,” said Dranko. “Now that you’ve determined that the arch doesn’t set you on fire, let’s get moving.”

They trailed behind Morningstar in a line, picking their way over fallen branches and scattered mossy rocks. Unlike the forest around the ruins near Verdshane, this place was full of spring bustle; sparrows and chickadees flitted from tree to tree, chipmunks poked curious noses out from the underbrush, and clouds of gnats clustered in sunbeams.

Forquelle had no woods like these, but Tor had come to love them. They brought him an inner peace, a sense of waiting and watching and absorbing the beauty of nature, filling him with the energy he’d need for the perils and adventures that were sure to come. He was meant for the great outdoors, just as he was meant for a life of heroics, far from the throne of Forquelle.

Less than a half hour’s walk from the Arch the group broke free of the forest. A gusting and salty breeze slapped Tor in the face, while gulls wheeled and cried overhead, riding the wind. He stood at the bottom of a long grassy slope that rose to a wide cliff overlooking the sea, and when Tor shaded his eyes to block the rising sun, he saw a stone building perched there upon the bluff.

“It’s a church of Brechen!” he said.

“Stands to reason,” said Dranko. “It is a fishing village, after all.”

“Why would a fire worshipper be heading toward a church of the Sea God?” Morningstar wondered aloud.

“’Cause he likes fish?” said Dranko.

Who knew what dangers could lie ahead? By unspoken agreement they trudged up the hill. Tor sped his stride until he was out in front, then drew his sword. No one objected.

The increasing grade of the slope forced them to veer away from the church building as they approached. They crested a final weedy rise and struck a wide gravel path that snaked away from the church, tip-toeing along the cliff top back toward the heart of the town.

The building itself was unassuming as churches went, solid mortared stone inset with small stained glass windows, predominately blue and green. The largest of these displayed a series of foam-topped waves, and from the tallest wave an arm was extended, gripping a sea-blue sword.

“Services to Brechen are at sunrise and sunset,” said Tor. “My father…” He bit his lip. “I mean, since I grew up on an island, we revered Brechen most among the Travelers.”

“Hope someone’s still here then,” said Kibi.

“Should we knock?” asked Ernie.

“Depends,” said Dranko, keeping his voice low. “Are we charging in with weapons drawn, or is this more of a friendly social call?”

“We’re here for information,” said Aravia. “We can always resort to violence if we’re pushed to it.”

Tor struck the door several times with its teardrop-shaped brass knocker. When no one came after two minutes, he knocked a second time.

“No one’s home,” said Dranko. He tried the handle, but the door didn’t open. “Aravia, can you—”

A rasping sound came from inside, as of a bar being lifted. The wooden door swung inward. There, looking out, stood a tall, heavyset man with a coarse grey beard, just as Morningstar had described, though he was wearing a long sea-green frock over a light blue shirt. Ocean waves had been stitched up and down the panels of the frock.

His eyes fell upon Tor, who was still holding his sword unsheathed, and he took a quick step backward. His hands went up in a gesture of supplication.

“I’ve got no valuables here, good master!” he exclaimed. “But this house is protected by Brechen, the Seablade, Master of the Waves, so tread ye armed across my threshold at your peril!”

It took Tor a second to understand that he himself was causing this reaction. He quickly sheathed his sword.

“We aren’t bandits!” said Ernie. “We only want to come in and talk.”

The bearded priest lowered his arms and gave them a searching look. “You’re not from the village, of that I’m certain, but in my long years here I’ve had no visitors such as ye. From where do ye hail?”

“We hail from Harkran, mostly,” said Dranko. “That’s a long way from here, and our feet are pretty sore, so we’d appreciate it if we could come in, sit down, and have a chat with you. Might we know your name, father?”