Mystic (18 page)

He missed her.

The longer he was away from Pomella, the more he regretted turning his cheek when she tried to kiss him. What kind of dunder turned down a kiss from a girl like that? He could practically feel Dane smacking the back of his head and teasing him relentlessly. But then he remembered all the reasons he'd done it. It would be simpler this way. She needed to do her thing, and he needed to do his. She would be free to move on.

Looking back over his shoulder, Sim watched the captive ranger walking in chains at the back of the caravan. Her dark hair straggled over her face, but her eyes remained hardened. Mags lumbered along behind the captive, her face like a rock. The ranger noticed Sim's attention and stared at him. He swallowed and looked away.

Something about the virga's demeanor intimidated him more than the Black Claws. But despite this, he knew he needed to find a way to speak to her.

It rained again that night. Sim huddled beneath the wagon and his rough blankets. His worries kept him awake. He adjusted his canvas travel sack behind his head. He felt the hard lump of
The Book of Songs
within, and, after a moment of hesitation, pulled it out. The cover featured a tree woven like a Mothic knot. He frowned as he thumbed the leather. He wanted nothing to do with the Myst. While he accepted that it existed, he doubted it was anything that would ever benefit him. The Myst had been powerless to save Dane and Pomella's mhathir. It hadn't saved the others in Oakspring who'd died of the Coughing Plague that year. Sim still remembered, as fresh as a clear morning, the conversation he'd eavesdropped on one night back then. Firelight flickered across his mhathir and fathir's mantel as the old Mystic murmured to them. Sim remembered having to strain to hear them from outside the window.

“It's beyond me now,” the Mystic had said.

His mhathir muffled her sobs in her husband's shoulder.

“Surely, Master,” Fathir said, forcing his voice steady, “surely the Myst can do something.”

“My son,” Mhathir moaned.

“The Myst is powerful,” the Mystic said, “and wonders can be achieved. But some things are beyond even my power.”

“What about the High Mystic?” Fathir asked.

“You may appeal to him, but he battles this same challenge in the cities. The plague is far worse there. Consider yourselves fortunate.”

On his way out, Sim had slipped from his hiding spot to beg the Mystic to try harder. But no words had come. He'd only cried like a tyke when he tried to speak. The Mystic had put a hand on his head, and hardly spared him a glance, as if Sim were of no consequence.

Then the Mystic had left.

Sim clenched his jaw. Fortunate. The Mystic called them fortunate to lose only Dane, Goodness AnDone, and eleven others in Oakspring. Fortunate! The Mystic's words echoed in Sim's hollow chest that day, and did so again now. In failing to save Dane, the Myst had cursed him once. Now it was doing so again by taking Pomella.

He opened
The Book of Songs
and flipped through the pages. Rose-colored handwriting filled every available space, creating a mesmerizing tapestry of lines, runes, and sketches.

The most common drawings were those of animals and plants, ranging from birds and fish to maple leaves and even a highly detailed diagram of a beetle. He stopped when he came to a sketch of a fox that seemed to be on fire.

No, not fire. It was smoke, or maybe mist rolling off the fox. Sim's stomach sank. Could these animals be sketches of what Pomella had seen? He peered at the letter-runes, trying to decipher them. He wished he'd been born into the merchant-scholar caste so that he would've learned to read the noble runes used throughout the book. His common upbringing only allowed him the right to be taught to read foundational runes, not the noble ones reserved for the highest castes.

His breath misted over the book as he looked at every page, studying the sketches. He loved the beauty of the text and imagery, but wished he could puzzle out its meaning.

*   *   *

The next morning, when the rain gave way to a damp sunrise, Dox unlocked his manacles.

“Isn't that Jank's job?” Sim asked, stretching his ankles.

“With Mags watching the other one, Jank doesn't have time anymore. I convinced Zicon that I can keep an eye on you.”

Sim snorted. “D'ya think you can talk him into giving me another ration?”

Dox snorted and smacked Sim on the back. “You're a hearty country lad. You'll be fine. But I'll see what I can do. Now, come on. I need you to craft something for me.”

They readied the field-forge, which Dox described as a common utility used by armies throughout the Baronies. “Weapons get broken, armor gets torn, and horses lose shoes. Every army needs blacksmiths.”

“And small mercenary bands?” Sim ventured. It was a calculated risk to say this to Dox, but he suspected he could push it with the older man's growing sympathy.

Dox muttered something Sim couldn't hear. He pointed to the bellows. “Get pumping.”

“What do you need?”

“You're not repairing anything,” said Dox. “You're crafting something new. Zicon needs thirty iron spikes made, each about the length of your forearm. Nothing fancy, but they need to be solid. Can you handle that?”

“Yah.”

“Good. We're nearing our destination. We'll divide the work. Should have extra time today to finish.”

Sim watched Dox prep and hammer the first spike. Dark ideas crossed his mind as he wondered what they would be used for. He pushed away his misgivings, though. Refusal wouldn't help his situation.

When Dox finished, Sim worked on his own, taking his time to ensure it matched the blacksmith's. They used one of the tent spikes as a starting point, although Dox wanted them longer and thicker. The old man approved of Sim's first attempt, correcting him only in that the tip needed to be sharper.

They worked in camp all day. Nobody but Dox spoke to Sim, but he had the impression that the whole company waited for them. In the late afternoon, as he hammered out the twenty-second spike, Sim caught a glimpse of movement at the edge of the camp.

He paused and stared as a glowing silver mountain lion prowled the perimeter. A fine mist rolled off its back, wafting away like smoke caught in the wind. The lion seemed only half-present, and Sim could see through it as if staring through melted glass.

“Dox,” he said, “can you see that?”

Dox followed his gaze. “See what?”

Before Sim could reply, Ohzem emerged from the large tent, iron staff in hand. He swept his gaze slowly around the camp until it fixed on the place where the mountain lion stood. The Mystic pulled back his hood, revealing the sharp metal plates sunk into his head. The lion crouched and its eyes narrowed. Ohzem stared straight at the silvery creature, and the lion prowled forward.

“He does this sometimes,” Dox said.

The lion leaped at Ohzem, who swung his staff and caught it in midair. The staff burst with light. Flecks of black dust stormed across the Mystic and lion. Ohzem snarled and slammed the lion to the ground. His movements seemed stiff to Sim, but he threw the lion as if it weighed nothing. Lifting the staff again, Ohzem drove its end down hard onto the lion's head. He repeated the action until the lion lay still. The Mystic stepped back, and the lion melted away, its silver light spreading out and vanishing.

“Did you see the lion?” Sim asked Dox, thinking of Pomella and the silvery creatures she'd claimed to see.

Dox shook his head. “Stay away from the Myst, lad. It'll be better for you that way.”

As if to punctuate those words, a low rumble sounded in the distance. He and Dox looked in that direction. An explosion. Sim shivered. He didn't like being in the forest anymore.

That night, after completing the spikes, while the rest of the Black Claw camp slept Sim eased himself out of his blankets. Dox had convinced Zicon to provide him with a second large helping for their evening meal. Sim rubbed his wrists, grateful that he'd also managed to convince Dox that he didn't need to be chained to the wagon anymore.

Glancing at the snoring blacksmith, Sim eased himself up and crossed the camp. No fires burned after dark, no whispers allowed, nothing to reveal the Black Claws trespassed in the Mystwood. Sim crept as quietly as he could, heel to toe, knees bent. He made his way to the tent where he'd seen Jank and Mags take the ranger. He eased a portion of the tent flap open and peered inside. Darkness filled every corner. Sim managed to spy a single lump in the same place they'd initially chained him up.

Checking once more to ensure nobody was watching, Sim slipped into the tent and hurried over to the ranger. She lifted her head and lurched to a crouching stance before he could get to her side.

“Shh! I'm here to help,” Sim breathed.

The ranger remained motionless. The black stripes across her face mingled with the shadows. “Who are you?” she asked in a low whisper.

“My name's Sim. I think the Black Claws plan to hurt my friend. Are you really a ranger?”

The woman nodded and eased into a slightly more relaxed crouch. “Yes. My name is Rochella. Tell me why you are here and what you know.”

Sim recounted his story as quickly as he could. Already he worried that somebody might have seen him sneak into the tent.

The ranger listened, showing no reaction. When he finished, she asked, “Have you learned anything about who these people are?”

“Not much so far. They're from the Baronies of Rardaria. Dox, the blacksmith, told me most of the Black Claws are mercenaries, and that Zicon is paying them triple for this job.”

“It's not the mercenaries who worry me,” Rochella said.

Sim nodded, thinking of the cowled Mystic. He leaned in. “I overheard Jank say they're after my friend, Pomella, the commoner who was invited to Kelt Apar by the High Mystic. They didn't mention her by name, but I think they plan to hurt her.”

Rochella nodded. “Do you have proof?”

Sim shrugged. “Not really.”

Rochella sighed. “Can you get me out?”

Sim looked at her manacles and shook his head. “I can't break iron.”

“Then find a key.”

Sim clenched his jaw, then relaxed it. Getting upset with her wouldn't help either one of them. “I'll try. What else can I do?”

“Find something that tells us their plans,” the ranger said. “If they really want your friend dead, it's for political reasons. These bandits work for hire. Find out who hired them.”

“What about Pomella? Can we at least warn her and the High Mystic?”

“Kelt Apar is guarded by the ceon'hur. I'm not worried about a band of mercenaries lumbering in with swords and bows.”

Sim glanced back over his shoulder at the tent entrance. “I need to go. I'll try to learn more, but everyone's keeping their mouths shut about what's going on.”

Rochella caught his arm. “If they were hired by somebody with enough resources to fund a mercenary group this large so far from their base of operations, there's likely to be a contract or other clues to their plan.”

Sim's pulse quickened. The heavy chest. Only something of real value would be kept in a thing like that.

Sim nodded. “I'll come back when I can.”

The ranger slunk back into her corner, her chains not making a sound. Sim checked to make sure nobody was nearby before slipping out of the tent. He made his way back to the wagon and blanket, but couldn't get back to sleep.

*   *   *

They continued their slow crawl south at first light. Sim learned from Dox as they trudged behind the other wagon that they were only a day, two at most, from arriving at their destination, though the blacksmith couldn't say where that was. But he did say they would pass Kelt Apar later that day.

Sim frowned. “Oh, yah? We're not going to Kelt Apar? I was hoping to see the tower.”

Dox shrugged. “Kelt Apar is a place of Mystics. If they don't want their tower seen, it won't be. But if you really want to see it, you'd be better off asking that one.”

He nodded ahead toward Ohzem, who rode in his usual place atop the front wagon, head bowed within his robe. He was probably asleep again, or concentrating. Meditating, perhaps?

The attack on the mountain lion still lingered in Sim's mind. It still staggered him to know Pomella had been right about the existence of the strange creatures. What were they? He hadn't seen another of the silver animals since Ohzem killed the lion.

The morning passed quickly, and Sim never saw the tower. They continued to follow the road south, but began to veer eastward. MagDoon, the great mountain Sim had grown up hearing legends about, loomed above them.

Jank walked beside Rochella, one hand on a long chain bound to a collar around her throat and the other on Sim's sword. Ahead of them, the forge wagon trundled along.

“Dox, what's in there?” Sim asked, pointing toward the large, iron-strapped chest.

Dox stiffened. “I told you, it ain't nothing that concerns you.”

Sim frowned. “I just wanted—”

“You just wanted to put your nose where it don't belong!” Dox snapped. “Leave it alone. Not tell'n' you again.”

When late afternoon arrived and they began setting the camp for the night, Zicon gathered everyone. “Starting tomorrow, there won't be any more lazing about. We'll arrive at the designated place and do our jobs. Then we'll get the hells off this island.”

Jank and Hormin scouted ahead, while Mags went to find a place to secure Rochella. Zicon muttered something to Ohzem, then mounted his stallion and rode off into the forest.

Sim began to unpack the forge wagon, but Dox stopped him. “Not tonight. That work is done.”

Sim opened his mouth to ask why, but a hissing voice stopped him. “That remains to be seen,” Ohzem said. “I would speak with you, Master Engrav.”

Dox swallowed. “Go set up the main tent, lad. Be quick about it, and don't disturb us.”