Rafe placed the wrapped vial in his saddlebags without a word, his expression as blank as ever. Clearly, he needed no foreign wizard to teach him his duty.
Kristlin threw herself into Coryn’s arms. For once, he had no words of easy reassurance for her. Just as he was beginning to squirm, she drew back. Rumail reached out to stroke her head, but she shied away.
“You are not to touch me.” Kristlin lifted her chin, her eyes flashing. “It is not you who is my promised husband, but Prince Belisar, he who will be King.”
“Nevertheless, you must speak politely to Dom Rumail, who will be your kinsman,” Tessa, who had been following behind, said primly. “And a Queen must be courteous to everyone, especially a laranzu of great power.”
“When Coryn comes back from the Tower, we’ll have him and then we won’t need anyone else!”
Tessa flushed, stammering out an apology for her younger sister’s behavior. Rumail waved her words away, saying, “She is but a child, already missing her big brother. I leave her to your care and tutelage, damisela.”
Coryn swung up on Dancer’s back and took a last leave of his father. As he rode out of the yard, with Rafe in the lead, Kristlin darted after him. She clung to his stirrup.
“I would take you with me if I could, chiya,” he said.
Her lower lip trembled, but she shook her head. “I don’t want to go to a Tower, not even with you. I want to stay here forever.”
On impulse, he said, “At the bottom of my chest is a carved soapwood box. Will you keep it for me? Then, whenever you are missing me, you can hold it and know I am thinking of you.”
She brightened, nodded, and released his stirrup. His hand went to the inner pocket of his vest, where his mother’s handkerchief lay safely tucked. As long as it was safe, so was he.
By the time Rafe called a halt for the midday meal, sun and fresh air combined with the exercise of riding to dispel the queasiness from the over-rich breakfast. They were still riding through Verdanta lands, but as the hours wore on, the shape of the hills grew less and less familiar. The trail wound past rock formations pocked with caves, through meadows of sun-parched grass, and down valleys lush with ferns and brambleberries. They stopped to let the horses drink and rest beside a stream.
Coryn sat on a fallen log, picking at the yellow-flecked shelf fungus growing along its length and nibbling the last of his nutbread and cheese. Once this narrow stretch of forest had been wide and deep, and trailmen were said to have roamed it, but the river had become a mere stream and no one had seen the elusive creatures in living memory. Maybe he’d come back some day and look for them. He wouldn’t be staying at the Tower forever . . . would he? He sighed, stretched, and went to get another apple from his saddlebags.
“You’ve a good enough appetite,” Rafe said.
“Yes, I’m fine.” Coryn took a bite from the apple. It was last fall’s harvesting and had lost its crispness. He’d been searching for the right time to speak all morning. “Rafe . . . you’re my father’s man, are you not, and not Dom Rumail’s?”
The old soldier’s mouth tightened at the corners. Coryn had guessed right, that he didn’t like being given orders by a foreign laranzu. He’d handled the wrapped vial of kirian as if it were tainted with wizard’s magic.
“And we both know I don’t need a nursemaid,” Coryn went on. “I think . . . I think it would be less insulting to both of us if I took the kirian, the vial he gave you, and used it when I need to. Instead of you having to watch over me and the trail at the same time.”
He half-expected Rafe to protest, but the man nodded, fetched the leather pouch from his saddlebag, and handed it over.
Coryn waited until Rafe had gone off into the ferny undergrowth to relieve himself. Crouching beside the stream, he unstoppered the vial. A faint lemony smell rose from within. He dumped out the contents, rinsed the vial twice and refilled it with fresh water. Except for a bit of dampness, no one could tell by looking that anything had changed. He tucked the wrapped vial inside his vest, next to the folded handkerchief.
Mounting up once more, Coryn felt as if a great weight had been lifted. He’d broken free of Rumail’s hold. He was going to a Tower, to be trained in laran, to learn to fly a glider with his starstone and maybe learn the secrets of talking to other Towers at a distance or making clingfire. He sang and made jokes as the day drew on. Although Rafe wasn’t much for conversation, he smiled now and again.
Late into the fourth day, Coryn and Rafe left the forested slopes for barren, rock-strewn hillsides. Haze covered the sky. The air turned icy, with a metallic taste. Thunder rumbled, soft and blurred. The horses jittered on the narrow path and the usually placid pack chervine shook its antlered head nervously.
Coryn pulled his horse to a halt at Rafe’s signal. The old soldier lifted his head, turned to the north. “From up Aldaran way, I reckon. Ages ago, they worked weather-magic there. Mayhap they still do. We’d best find shelter.”
Dancer whinnied and pawed the trail, pulling at the bit. Coryn nudged him on. Clearly, this was no ordinary storm—the taste of the rising wind, the sudden chill, the prickly feeling along the back of his neck—all bespoke some kind of laran at work. He’d never heard of weather-magic, and Aldaran, though fearsome, had always seemed far away.
They urged the horses around the curve of the hill. Hooves clattered on loose rock, sending a rain of chips downslope. The thunder took on a sharper tone.
Coryn lifted his eyes to the featureless white sky, but saw no lightning. “Rafe—”
But the older man, in the lead, wrestled his mount to a halt. The horse pranced and swished its tail. In an instant, Coryn’s heart fell. The entire hillside lay covered beneath a rockfall. Instead of a narrow trail bounded on either side with barren soil pocked with boulders and scrub brush, steep but passable, they faced a pile of jagged boulders, many of them chest-high to the horses. Upward, the entire cliff face had fractured and fallen away. In the V-shaped crevice at the bottom of the hill, a small copse of brush and a few straggly trees still stood.
Lightning flashed across the sky and thunder cracked again. Clouds, gray and swollen, billowed out from the north, building visibly from one moment to the next. The wind, even colder now, whipped across Coryn’s face.
“Which way?” he called to Rafe, raising his voice above the wind.
The old mercenary’s mouth twisted as he brought his horse to face downhill. The horse squealed, refusing for a moment until Rafe reined him in a tight circle and clapped his heels into the animal’s sides.
The horses stumbled down the rise, following the rockfall. Even the surefooted pack chervine lost its footing once. After a few minutes, Rafe signaled for them to dismount and lead their animals.
Dark, angry-looking clouds now stretched from one horizon to the other. Lightning kindled the sky, followed almost instantly by ear-splitting thunder. Dancer whinnied and pulled back, ears pinned flat against his neck. Coryn patted him and urged him on. The horse moved forward, reluctance in every tense line of his body.
Wetness spattered Coryn’s face: huge, icy drops. Within moments, the rain increased to a downpour. He pawed through the chervine’s packs for his hooded cloak. By the time he managed to pull it out, his shirt and vest were soaked through.
Coryn shouted to Rafe, who’d wasted no time in donning his own cloak. “We’ve got to get out of this!” Through the downpour, he could see the copse at the valley floor. It wouldn’t offer much shelter, but it was more than they had here.
Then he saw—sensed—an invisible river tumbling down the V-cleft, gaining power with each passing moment, carrying away everything in its path—men and horses as well as straggly trees.
“Flash flood!” Coryn cried.
Rafe already had brought his horse and pack animal to face upslope. Dancer and the chervine turned eagerly, as if they realized the danger also.
Climbing back up was harder than Coryn imagined possible. His boots slipped on the loose rock, now slick with
rain. A stone tipped and slid away as he stepped on it. Pain shot up the outside of his ankle.
A few minutes later, Dancer lost his footing and slid backward in a hail of stones. The horse’s forehooves pawed the slope frantically. From below, Rafe cursed; one of the stones must have struck him. Coryn dropped the reins rather than risk them snapping. He watched, his heart pounding, as the dun horse slid another few feet and came to a stop, hindquarters bunched. White ringed its eyes.
Coryn clambered down to Dancer and gathered up the reins. “Easy, easy,” he murmured, stroking the horse’s hide. The horse quivered under his touch. He felt the animal’s fear as a battering wave. The more he reassured the horse, the more calm he himself felt.
Rain came down in a torrent, making it impossible to see more than a few feet. Wind blew steadily, driving the droplets deeper into the folds of Coryn’s cloak. Step by agonizing step, Coryn led the horse up the slope to where his pack chervine stood, shaking its antlered head to send sprays of water in all directions.
“No point in going on,” Rafe said as he brought his own two animals level with Coryn. “Stop now, wait it out.”
Rafe was right. It would take hours to work their way to the top of the rockfall and find some way across. Even then, they might find themselves in exactly the same situation without adequate shelter, only wetter and more exhausted.
Rafe, not waiting for a reply, moved toward the rocky barrier. This close, the barrier gave a slight but perceptible shelter from the wind.
“There!” Rafe said.
Coryn couldn’t see what the old soldier pointed to, but as they approached, he made out a rough overhang where a huge flat shard extended like a tabletop beyond its supporting boulders. It was barely deep enough for the two of them, but the ground underneath looked relatively dry.
“Saddlebags—there. Blankets—there.” In a few terse commands, Rafe organized the little shelter. “In!” He half-pushed Coryn to the back of the overhang. “Out of those clothes!”
“But—” Coryn bit off his protest. His shirt and vest were soaked to the skin, and now that he was no longer climbing, chill seeped through. It was better here, out of the wind, but not much. Even as a child, he knew wet clothes would steal body heat even when the outside temperature wasn’t that cold.
He set aside his cloak, which was thick enough to be dry on the inside. Shaking, he tugged off his boots and wet clothing. A sudden gust cut across his bare skin like a knife edge. The next moment, Rafe shoved a bundle into his hands—his winter-weight shirt and pants of soft thick wool, which Rafe had somehow dug out from the bottom of the chervine’s pack.
By the time Coryn had pulled on his dry clothes, Rafe crawled in beside him and forced the chervine to lie down, its body blocking the worst of the wind. The horses, tethered close to the opening, assumed postures of sullen endurance with their heads down and tails clamped against their rumps.
Thunder sounded again, shivering through the rockfall. Coryn couldn’t tell its direction. The rain redoubled its strength; the sound shifted to a harsher note.
Hail.
Coryn caught a glimpse of the pellets of ice over the chervine’s shoulder. He began to shiver again.
“Ah, there,” Rafe said gently, drawing his own blankets around Coryn.
A sudden deafening noise, louder than thunder, jolted Coryn. His eyes focused on gray light outside. The din increased, as if some giant were slamming boulders into the hillside above them.
Rafe sat bolt upright, grabbing for the chervine’s reins. The animal let out a terrified bleat as it struggled to rise. Rafe grabbed the chervine’s head, using it as a lever to force the animal back down, on to its side.
Coryn caught a glimpse of rocks pelting down the hillside. Their impact quivered through the boulders around him, through the very earth itself. Rain sleeted, now straight down, now gusting to spray his face with half-frozen droplets.
The outer edge of the overhang splintered with a resounding crack! One of the horses screamed, suddenly cut off. Coryn flinched and gathered his feet under him. Every fiber in his body shrilled to get out now!
As Coryn scrambled for the opening, Rafe reached out with his free arm and grabbed the neck edge of his cloak. Coryn spun around under the power of the older man’s grip. For an instant, he struggled as mindlessly as had the chervine.
“No chance out there.” Rafe jabbed his thumb back at the avalanche and shouted over the racket. “Only hope—wait it out.”
Coryn’s eyes focused on the hillside beyond. There was no sign of the horses. Some of the hurtling stones were small as pebbles, others massive. If one of those struck him, or even the fist-sized stones, a lucky blow to temple or spine, a slip on the wet ground . . .
He shuddered, drew his knees up, and crossed his arms over his bent head. A moment later, he felt Rafe hunker down beside him, placing his body between Coryn and the hurtling stones.
Help . . . Help . . . ran through Coryn’s mind. The syllables pulsed in time with his racing heart. Without thinking, he reached for the pouch which held his starstone. His fingers pushed through the folds of silk to grasp the crystal. It warmed immediately under his touch.
Help . . . Help . . .
For an instant, Coryn thought he felt a response, but could not be sure. The uproar outside seemed to lessen. A short time later, he made out the sounds of individual stones from the differences in pitch.
He lifted his head. Rocks blocked three-quarters of the entrance. In the gloom outside, he saw that the rain had dropped to a drizzle, then a mist. For seconds at a time, no stones rushed past.
When several minutes had gone by in silence, Rafe straightened up, handed the chervine’s reins to Coryn, and clambered toward the opening. He had to push aside a heap of rocks in order to climb through. Widening the opening did not, however, bring any more light into the little cave.
Coryn crawled forward, enough to see that dusk had come upon them. A stray gust brushed his face with icy fingers. The temperature was falling fast.
Rafe came back a few minutes later. Even in the gathering darkness, Coryn felt him frown.
“Not good. Whole hillside’s slid down on us. No way around now. Take us hours just to climb out.” He reached for the saddlebags with their trail food and handed a packet to Coryn. “Stay here tonight.”
“The horses? Are they—”
Rafe shook his head, barely visible. “No sign.”
Dancer . . . And Rafe’s two mounts, innocent beasts they had ridden into danger. Coryn’s heart tightened into a knot of pain. They could have escaped, he told himself, but he did not believe it.
Although he was not hungry, Coryn managed to eat some jerked meat and fruit-nut bars, along with sips of water. His stomach tightened ominously, but eventually, his tired young body relaxed. He drifted into an unsettled dream of wandering naked across a sheet of ice under a featureless sky, of lying helpless while a shadowy cloaked figure drew near, of fire. Fire racing across the forested slopes, fire raining from the sky . . .
Fire lapped at him, strange blue flames. Shivering, he tried to avoid it, but as he moved away, the flames rose even higher, closer. Tongues of brightness consumed whatever they touched. From his outstretched fingers, the blue fire ran up his arm. The flesh of his hand crisped, leaving blackened, smoking bones.
“Help! Fire! Help me!” he shouted as he tried to smother the fire with his good hand. Instantly, it, too, caught fire.
The flames slowed their course as they worked their way inward, into one shoulder and deeper, toward the core of his body. He screamed in earnest now, his own terror crystallizing into sound. His cries reverberated in his skull. In the distance, someone called out a name which he vaguely recognized as his own. The more furiously he beat at the blue flames, the faster they burned. If he ran outside, the rain might quench them—
“Coryn! Coryn, lad, what is it? Be no fire here! No harm, see?” A shadowy figure reached for him, blurred fingers closing around his arms. His charred bone
s splintered under the pressure.
“No! No!” Coryn threw himself backward, desperate to break away. Horrified, he watched the blue fire creep up the hands of the figure. Any moment now, the very walls of the shelter would catch fire, too.
Then he was held immobile, clasped in an embrace as unyielding as stone itself. A glass vial was forced between his teeth and liquid gushed into his mouth. He sputtered, swallowing a little but spitting more out. His stomach twisted sickly. Turning just in time, he vomited, heaving again and again until there was nothing more to come. His eyes watered, and acrid saliva filled his mouth.
He heard a voice, so low and resonant that he could catch only a phrase or two. “Holy St. Christopher . . . Bearer of Burdens . . . Protector of children . . . Into Thy care . . .”
He looked down at his hands and saw, as if the images were painted on layers of gauze, his hands, whole and unharmed, and his other hands, his dream hands. Bits of heat-blackened flesh clung to splintered bones. Pain shrilled along his nerves. And still the fire burned, eating through the muscles of his chest, his ribs, his heart. . . .
Evanda and Avarra, Aldones the Son of Light, even you, Zandru of the Forge—help me! Help me!
As if from an immense distance, a voice whispered through his mind. It reminded him of tiny silver bells, sweet and full of light. Who are you?
Who was he? For a panicked moment, he could not remember his name.
The fire! The blue fire! Help . . .
Hold fast, little brother. We will send help . . .
Though the voice faded into silence, though the words were few, a sense of immense calm flowed through Coryn. His muscles softened and grew heavy. His body sagged in Rafe’s arms, in some other, invisible arms. The blue flames flared once more, then receded. Finally, he slept. This time, no dreams came.