He shook his head. “No. Not unless we find the tree where my memories are buried. Maybe I do not want them back.”
She looked up at him, still feeling that visceral fear knowing he was capable of destroying her so quickly. “If you help me end the Plague, Kishion. It would go a long way in your redemption.”
He nodded in silence, then cocked his head. “Danger.”
Explosions screamed from the sky and then struck the cabin.
The ground rumbled with the impact. The Kishion grabbed her tunic and pulled her behind him and the tree. More whistling sounds came, followed by eruptions of flame and a spoiled egg smell. The woods began to catch fire and trees shattered in the showering hail of blazing pitch. Phae glanced around the tree and saw her father running toward them, the prince and the woodsman at his heels. A rock of burning pitch landed in front of them, exploding and splattering the burning black substance everywhere. Part of it struck the tree they sheltered behind and Phae felt it shudder and catch fire.
A howl of pain sounded and Phae could not tell which of the men it came from. The Kishion took her elbow and yanked her away from the tree as another whistling sound came from above and struck it directly, causing another plume of greenish fire and sending shards of wood and broken tree limbs every direction. The Kishion dragged her up as she stumbled and plunged into the stream.
The sky was raining fire.
Phae’s boots sloshed in the water, her heart galloping in fear at the awesome force unleashed against them. It was as if ten thousand burning arrows had been launched at once and descended in a cloud. Tyrus was pulling the old man, whose arm was on fire with the burning pitch. Prince Aransetis grabbed Evritt’s other arm and helped haul him toward them in the stream. The old man’s face was knitted with pain and agony and he cried out. Tyrus removed the cylinder from his robes and held it out for them all to reach.
Another whistle sounded from above, coming straight at them. Phae took the Kishion’s arm and closed her eyes as the world lurched and began to spin.
Trasen gazed at the monstrous city, listening to the sound of the oars lapping the waters and urging the boatman with his thoughts to put more vigor into his strokes. He was beyond worried. He was beyond desperate. He had searched the outer tunnel leading beyond Stonehollow for clues, for any trace of Phae’s passing. What he found alarmed him beyond all reason—a blackened scorch mark on the ground, carving a huge tear in the earth’s skin. He had discovered a twisted iron ring abandoned in the crater, which was now in his pocket. He had heard stories from Holt about the spells of the Paracelsus. He had never witnessed the magic himself.
In the dirt nearby he had found Phae’s tracks. They were unmistakable. He knew the type of boot she wore, the size of her foot. His mind nearly went mad with grief and suspense as he tried to decipher the clues. Some sort of blast or explosion had happened. There were multiple prints as well, the size of men. There were also the prints of a horse coming along the road, mixing up the clues in a way that completely befuddled him. He wished Holt had been there and would have trusted his master’s judgment.
Trasen began to nod off in the boat and jerked himself awake again. He had not slept properly in days. Poor Willow had gone as far as she could go and he had left her with a stableman at the settlement on the lakefront.
Phae had simply disappeared.
The tracks all clustered together, four people in total, and then there were none. It was as if some enormous invisible hand had snatched them away. Without a trail to follow, without anything but hope and the fires of love shoving him on, he had decided to press forward to their likely destination—Kenatos. Trasen would confront the Arch-Rike if necessary to save her. He would do anything to save her.
As he stared at the impassive city, swirling with gulls and pennants, the sense of dread and foreboding increased. He fished the iron ring out from his pocket and stared at it, turning it over in his palm, prodding it with his finger. It was a twisted, blackened thing—not a decorative ring. It had strange black sigils carved on it.
“What’s that, lad?” the boatman asked, nodding to him.
“I paid your fare,” Trasen replied hoarsely. “Leave me be.” He felt the scowl etched in his own mouth. The thought of smiling was a distant memory.
“Don’t be like that. What is it? A ring?”
Trasen stuffed it back into his pocket and folded his arms, feeling the aches all throughout his body. He had never pushed himself so hard or gone so long without proper sleep. His mind was a blurry fog of worry and pain. Would he ever see Phae again? He regretted that he had not confided in her his plans, why he wanted so much to join the Wayland army and save his ducats. He wanted to seek a homestead with her, to be with her always. He shuddered with suppressed emotions. He thought there was a chance she might feel more than just friendship. Not wanting to risk losing what they already shared, he had been reluctant to reveal his heart to her.
She looked up at him, still feeling that visceral fear knowing he was capable of destroying her so quickly. “If you help me end the Plague, Kishion. It would go a long way in your redemption.”
He nodded in silence, then cocked his head. “Danger.”
Explosions screamed from the sky and then struck the cabin.
The ground rumbled with the impact. The Kishion grabbed her tunic and pulled her behind him and the tree. More whistling sounds came, followed by eruptions of flame and a spoiled egg smell. The woods began to catch fire and trees shattered in the showering hail of blazing pitch. Phae glanced around the tree and saw her father running toward them, the prince and the woodsman at his heels. A rock of burning pitch landed in front of them, exploding and splattering the burning black substance everywhere. Part of it struck the tree they sheltered behind and Phae felt it shudder and catch fire.
A howl of pain sounded and Phae could not tell which of the men it came from. The Kishion took her elbow and yanked her away from the tree as another whistling sound came from above and struck it directly, causing another plume of greenish fire and sending shards of wood and broken tree limbs every direction. The Kishion dragged her up as she stumbled and plunged into the stream.
The sky was raining fire.
Phae’s boots sloshed in the water, her heart galloping in fear at the awesome force unleashed against them. It was as if ten thousand burning arrows had been launched at once and descended in a cloud. Tyrus was pulling the old man, whose arm was on fire with the burning pitch. Prince Aransetis grabbed Evritt’s other arm and helped haul him toward them in the stream. The old man’s face was knitted with pain and agony and he cried out. Tyrus removed the cylinder from his robes and held it out for them all to reach.
Another whistle sounded from above, coming straight at them. Phae took the Kishion’s arm and closed her eyes as the world lurched and began to spin.
Trasen gazed at the monstrous city, listening to the sound of the oars lapping the waters and urging the boatman with his thoughts to put more vigor into his strokes. He was beyond worried. He was beyond desperate. He had searched the outer tunnel leading beyond Stonehollow for clues, for any trace of Phae’s passing. What he found alarmed him beyond all reason—a blackened scorch mark on the ground, carving a huge tear in the earth’s skin. He had discovered a twisted iron ring abandoned in the crater, which was now in his pocket. He had heard stories from Holt about the spells of the Paracelsus. He had never witnessed the magic himself.
In the dirt nearby he had found Phae’s tracks. They were unmistakable. He knew the type of boot she wore, the size of her foot. His mind nearly went mad with grief and suspense as he tried to decipher the clues. Some sort of blast or explosion had happened. There were multiple prints as well, the size of men. There were also the prints of a horse coming along the road, mixing up the clues in a way that completely befuddled him. He wished Holt had been there and would have trusted his master’s judgment.
Trasen began to nod off in the boat and jerked himself awake again. He had not slept properly in days. Poor Willow had gone as far as she could go and he had left her with a stableman at the settlement on the lakefront.
Phae had simply disappeared.
The tracks all clustered together, four people in total, and then there were none. It was as if some enormous invisible hand had snatched them away. Without a trail to follow, without anything but hope and the fires of love shoving him on, he had decided to press forward to their likely destination—Kenatos. Trasen would confront the Arch-Rike if necessary to save her. He would do anything to save her.
As he stared at the impassive city, swirling with gulls and pennants, the sense of dread and foreboding increased. He fished the iron ring out from his pocket and stared at it, turning it over in his palm, prodding it with his finger. It was a twisted, blackened thing—not a decorative ring. It had strange black sigils carved on it.
“What’s that, lad?” the boatman asked, nodding to him.
“I paid your fare,” Trasen replied hoarsely. “Leave me be.” He felt the scowl etched in his own mouth. The thought of smiling was a distant memory.
“Don’t be like that. What is it? A ring?”
Trasen stuffed it back into his pocket and folded his arms, feeling the aches all throughout his body. He had never pushed himself so hard or gone so long without proper sleep. His mind was a blurry fog of worry and pain. Would he ever see Phae again? He regretted that he had not confided in her his plans, why he wanted so much to join the Wayland army and save his ducats. He wanted to seek a homestead with her, to be with her always. He shuddered with suppressed emotions. He thought there was a chance she might feel more than just friendship. Not wanting to risk losing what they already shared, he had been reluctant to reveal his heart to her.
