Chasing the Prophecy
Page 68
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Rolling flat onto his back, Drake shuddered. Then he inhaled deeply. He stared up at the night sky. “We’re going to win,” he said, his voice calmer, less strained. “This is nothing. Keep going. They can’t stop us. Jason, give Rachel the necklace. Tell her . . . tell her I’m sorry. Tell her . . . I wanted . . . to show her . . . my little valley. Tell her I tried.”
His voice was growing weak. Farfalee smoothed a hand over his brow. “Shhh,” she whispered. “Be still, Drake. You can rest now. You did it. Rest. We’ll take it from here.”
“Failie,” he whispered, his hand twitching toward the back of his neck with little jerks. “Where’s my seed?” His head tipped sideways. The breath went out of him.
Farfalee went stiff, her expression impassive, damp eyes sparking in the moonlight. Jasher placed his hands on her shoulders to still her trembling. She looked over her shoulder. “You’re hurt!”
Jason looked at Jasher. Blood seeped from one eye. His upper arm bled. Jason had been so focused on Drake that he had almost forgotten about the other injuries.
“Nothing fatal,” Jasher said. “I’ll survive. The eye is shallow. Barely reached me. I might not even lose it.”
Heg took Jasher by the elbow. “Come,” he said. “Let me see to your wounds.”
Jasher nodded, releasing Farfalee. She stood straight, struggling to hide her grief. Corinne hugged Jason. He hugged her back. She felt too slender. She had lost weight while seasick. The effort to comfort him seemed distant and insufficient, but he appreciated the attempt. Despite her presence, despite everyone aboard the ship, Jason had never felt more alone. The profound sense of loss left him empty, but not numb. Drake was gone. He tried not to look at the body.
“Where is our wind?” Jasher cried as Heg led him belowdecks. “Aram, more wind!”
“I’ll see what I can do,” the half giant growled.
CHAPTER 19
THE WESTERN PASS
On a bright morning, as Rachel prepared to mount her horse, a soldier sheepishly approached her. His tentative attitude did not match his large stature or his sharp uniform. He held a small scroll. He looked a bit like a child who had been dared to venture alone into a graveyard.
“Pardon me, milady,” he said. “A moment of your time?”
“What can I do for you?” she asked, trying to sound friendly.
“Nothing, milady. I have a message for you from the king.”
Rachel noticed Tark and Ferrin watching the exchange from a short distance away. She held out a hand, and the soldier passed her the scroll. She broke the seal and read it. Her veil caused a little interference, but the message was brief. Galloran meant to come speak with her tonight.
“The king is welcome anytime,” Rachel said, returning the scroll to the soldier.
With a little bow he backed away, then turned and walked off. Did he seem relieved? Rachel thought so.
As she mounted her mare, Rachel wondered how a conversation with Galloran would go. She had a lot of pent-up feelings. Part of her looked forward to a visit from him; part of her dreaded it. Her fears about the validity of the prophecy remained unresolved.
Each day that the army advanced without trouble reminded Rachel of their danger. The emperor knew they were coming but did nothing to hinder them. And why should he? His enemies were handing him victory. Rachel would not have been shocked to find complimentary refreshments waiting along the roadside.
Ferrin had conferred with Galloran. The displacer had reported that it was hard to read whether the king had already taken the possibility of a false prophecy into consideration. In the end Galloran had firmly maintained that they could not turn back.
Ferrin and Tark had accepted the verdict. Rachel was not comfortable with the decision but felt she had to hide her dissatisfaction. She had already vented her concerns through Ferrin. Her misgivings had been considered, and Galloran had made his choice. The others had moved on. Who was she to keep complaining? Who was she to be more doubtful than a displacer? Who was she to question a king?
Rachel took her place near the front of the column. Tark and Ferrin followed a respectful distance behind. Over the past days Rachel had found her confidence in Galloran eroding. Since their last meeting he had spoken with her twice on the road—short, pleasant conversations. Superficial conversations. He had not mentioned his discussion with Ferrin, and neither had she. The topic had not seemed appropriate anywhere they might be overheard.
Galloran had not reached out to her mentally for days. Rachel had decided not to trouble him by using her private telepathic access. If he wanted to communicate, he could reach out any time he wanted. He had a private tent.
Now he had announced that he would be paying her a visit, but not until the evening. She was left to stew about her concerns. The more she thought about the potentially false prophecy, the more disappointed she became in Galloran for dismissing such a likely danger, and the less she wanted to think about him, let alone speak with him.
After a long day alone with her thoughts, Rachel felt a blend of terror and relief when Galloran appeared at her tent that night. Only Io accompanied him. Ferrin and Tark left the tent, and Io stood guard at the door.
With a low groan Galloran sat beside Rachel on her cot and put on his blindfold. “Ferrin is worried about you,” he said without preamble.
“I’m all right,” Rachel lied.
“I regret that I have been so occupied,” Galloran said. “There is much to manage.”
“I don’t want to be an extra burden,” Rachel assured him.
“Ferrin suspects that you continue to fret about the validity of the prophecy.”
Rachel stared at his blindfold. Maybe her friends weren’t as oblivious to her worries as she had assumed. She realized that she was pausing for too long. “Actually, yes. I’m still suspicious that Maldor could have used the oracle to direct us right where he wants us.”
“I can see how this idea would trouble you,” Galloran said. “The possibility would make you feel as though my misapprehension was leading us into a massacre. You would feel bound by duty to quietly accept my ruling, even though that very silence could be killing us all.”
“Something like that. I don’t want it to be true. It just really seems to fit.”
Galloran nodded. “The absence of resistance has created a terrible suspense among my soldiers. I feel the tension as well. Let me share what comfort I can offer. I knew Esmira better than most, both personally and through my aunt, the Pythoness. You realize that I could see her mind when we conversed. I searched hard and found no trace of deception.”
His voice was growing weak. Farfalee smoothed a hand over his brow. “Shhh,” she whispered. “Be still, Drake. You can rest now. You did it. Rest. We’ll take it from here.”
“Failie,” he whispered, his hand twitching toward the back of his neck with little jerks. “Where’s my seed?” His head tipped sideways. The breath went out of him.
Farfalee went stiff, her expression impassive, damp eyes sparking in the moonlight. Jasher placed his hands on her shoulders to still her trembling. She looked over her shoulder. “You’re hurt!”
Jason looked at Jasher. Blood seeped from one eye. His upper arm bled. Jason had been so focused on Drake that he had almost forgotten about the other injuries.
“Nothing fatal,” Jasher said. “I’ll survive. The eye is shallow. Barely reached me. I might not even lose it.”
Heg took Jasher by the elbow. “Come,” he said. “Let me see to your wounds.”
Jasher nodded, releasing Farfalee. She stood straight, struggling to hide her grief. Corinne hugged Jason. He hugged her back. She felt too slender. She had lost weight while seasick. The effort to comfort him seemed distant and insufficient, but he appreciated the attempt. Despite her presence, despite everyone aboard the ship, Jason had never felt more alone. The profound sense of loss left him empty, but not numb. Drake was gone. He tried not to look at the body.
“Where is our wind?” Jasher cried as Heg led him belowdecks. “Aram, more wind!”
“I’ll see what I can do,” the half giant growled.
CHAPTER 19
THE WESTERN PASS
On a bright morning, as Rachel prepared to mount her horse, a soldier sheepishly approached her. His tentative attitude did not match his large stature or his sharp uniform. He held a small scroll. He looked a bit like a child who had been dared to venture alone into a graveyard.
“Pardon me, milady,” he said. “A moment of your time?”
“What can I do for you?” she asked, trying to sound friendly.
“Nothing, milady. I have a message for you from the king.”
Rachel noticed Tark and Ferrin watching the exchange from a short distance away. She held out a hand, and the soldier passed her the scroll. She broke the seal and read it. Her veil caused a little interference, but the message was brief. Galloran meant to come speak with her tonight.
“The king is welcome anytime,” Rachel said, returning the scroll to the soldier.
With a little bow he backed away, then turned and walked off. Did he seem relieved? Rachel thought so.
As she mounted her mare, Rachel wondered how a conversation with Galloran would go. She had a lot of pent-up feelings. Part of her looked forward to a visit from him; part of her dreaded it. Her fears about the validity of the prophecy remained unresolved.
Each day that the army advanced without trouble reminded Rachel of their danger. The emperor knew they were coming but did nothing to hinder them. And why should he? His enemies were handing him victory. Rachel would not have been shocked to find complimentary refreshments waiting along the roadside.
Ferrin had conferred with Galloran. The displacer had reported that it was hard to read whether the king had already taken the possibility of a false prophecy into consideration. In the end Galloran had firmly maintained that they could not turn back.
Ferrin and Tark had accepted the verdict. Rachel was not comfortable with the decision but felt she had to hide her dissatisfaction. She had already vented her concerns through Ferrin. Her misgivings had been considered, and Galloran had made his choice. The others had moved on. Who was she to keep complaining? Who was she to be more doubtful than a displacer? Who was she to question a king?
Rachel took her place near the front of the column. Tark and Ferrin followed a respectful distance behind. Over the past days Rachel had found her confidence in Galloran eroding. Since their last meeting he had spoken with her twice on the road—short, pleasant conversations. Superficial conversations. He had not mentioned his discussion with Ferrin, and neither had she. The topic had not seemed appropriate anywhere they might be overheard.
Galloran had not reached out to her mentally for days. Rachel had decided not to trouble him by using her private telepathic access. If he wanted to communicate, he could reach out any time he wanted. He had a private tent.
Now he had announced that he would be paying her a visit, but not until the evening. She was left to stew about her concerns. The more she thought about the potentially false prophecy, the more disappointed she became in Galloran for dismissing such a likely danger, and the less she wanted to think about him, let alone speak with him.
After a long day alone with her thoughts, Rachel felt a blend of terror and relief when Galloran appeared at her tent that night. Only Io accompanied him. Ferrin and Tark left the tent, and Io stood guard at the door.
With a low groan Galloran sat beside Rachel on her cot and put on his blindfold. “Ferrin is worried about you,” he said without preamble.
“I’m all right,” Rachel lied.
“I regret that I have been so occupied,” Galloran said. “There is much to manage.”
“I don’t want to be an extra burden,” Rachel assured him.
“Ferrin suspects that you continue to fret about the validity of the prophecy.”
Rachel stared at his blindfold. Maybe her friends weren’t as oblivious to her worries as she had assumed. She realized that she was pausing for too long. “Actually, yes. I’m still suspicious that Maldor could have used the oracle to direct us right where he wants us.”
“I can see how this idea would trouble you,” Galloran said. “The possibility would make you feel as though my misapprehension was leading us into a massacre. You would feel bound by duty to quietly accept my ruling, even though that very silence could be killing us all.”
“Something like that. I don’t want it to be true. It just really seems to fit.”
Galloran nodded. “The absence of resistance has created a terrible suspense among my soldiers. I feel the tension as well. Let me share what comfort I can offer. I knew Esmira better than most, both personally and through my aunt, the Pythoness. You realize that I could see her mind when we conversed. I searched hard and found no trace of deception.”
