CHAPTER 9
The Finding
The days blurred together. Elaina thought it had been more than a week since Donlin, but it seemed like a lifetime ago. Sometimes she caught herself staring at the world around her in surprise, wondering how everything could be going on as before when everything was different.
Climbing through the mountains left far too much time for thinking. To keep herself from crying, Elaina focused on running through all the webs she knew, and once that became too routine, she began thinking up different ways to combine them, cobbling things together bit by bit. She’d even managed to create a seed and then make it grow. It had been a straggly, ugly sort of plant.
Even with the extra work, her thoughts would get away from her and she’d be grappling with the pain. She clenched her jaw and refused to blink so the tears just glistened in her eyes but never fell. That wasn't true. Sometimes they fell anyway, and she didn't bother to wipe them from her cheeks. Landon never said anything.
He was as quiet as she was. Elaina was sorry that she wasn't better company, but everything she'd ever shared with Landon was a memory that included Hetarth one way or another. They spoke softly to make plans or choose a campsite, but nothing more.
The agents had found the trail again, somehow. Four men again, but this time all in black. They’d gone for some replacements, she supposed. Upgrades, really. Every day got a little closer. Elaina knew she and Landon would have to break for it soon. But can we really outrun four Watchers? And if we can’t, how could we ever defeat them?
Finally, Landon made a decision. "We have to go into the mountains, like we were planning before." He declared. "I saw smoke to the south—a village or a farmhouse, most likely. Either way, we can go down there and get the things we need. It's dangerous, but so is this, and if it works, we’ll have a real chance.”
Elaina nodded.
"We go together?" she asked.
"Together and fast." he agreed. "Ready?" When she nodded, they turned south to the plains. As they went down, Elaina regretted giving up so much of the height they had gained—it was going to be a hard hike back up. Her feet were already protesting. It wasn't even that much easier going downhill, trying to keep from sliding down with the rocks, they were constantly slipping and grabbing trees and branches to stay upright.
It took hours of this to get back into the foothills, where the trees thinned out enough to look over the plains of Jernal, home of the best horses in the world and the best riders. Elaina grimaced at the view. They were going to be sitting ducks crossing this. Landon didn't look excited either. At least the snow was thinner down on the plain, a light frost on the golden yellow grass.
"There's a house there," he said and pointed to a tilted little structure tucked into the last stubborn stand of pines. Elaina peered down at the wisps of smoke rise from the chimney.
"Lead on." She said, with a glance over one shoulder. It wouldn't be easy for the agents to follow their trail on the rocks, but with the branches they'd broken here and there, it wouldn't be hard either.
The cabin went out of sight behind trees and ridges as they went, but eventually, the squat, listing log building appeared again, half a league away across a field. Elaina searched the hills, scanning for movement. There was nothing.
"We're just going to have to chance it," Landon said, scowling at the heights. "Walk fast, but don't run—that would draw even more attention." Elaina nodded, took a deep breath that stung her lungs with the mountain chill, and followed him out into the tall grass. For a lord's son, he knew an awful lot about tracking and living in the woods.
Any second she expected shouts and arrows or lightning bolts from the sky to descend on them, but nothing happened. They made it to the front door and knocked just loud enough to be sure they'd be heard. There was a moment's pause, then a voice rough with age called out,
"Be gone, yeh pests. I've nothing worth stealing, here. Leave me be!"
"We're travelers, sir, and could use supplies," Landon called back through the door. There was a pause, then a little square section of the door about chest-high and two hands across slid open to reveal a wild grey eyes and a mass of stringy hair. That was all Elaina could see, anyway.
"So go to the village!" the old magician groused at them, "they'd be happy to see you. Leave an old hermit to his hermitage!" he snapped. Elaina frowned at his rudeness, but Landon nodded,
"Certainly, sir, our apologies. Which way is it?" his voice was even, controlled. Elaina snuck a glance at him. His face gave away a lot more of his frustration than his voice, though he was still doing better than she was at faking civility.
"Holdbrine's that way." He gestured. "No missing it." The little window slammed shut before Landon could thank him. Raising his eyebrows, Landon checked the hills again, then hitched his bag farther up his shoulder and set off. Elaina trailed behind, eyes lingering on the hut. That could have been our last chance to stay ahead of them, she thought bitterly. Miserable old hermit! It had the feel of a curse.
The hermit stood at the door a while, listening to them leave. Travelers. No one traveled here! The mountains were too harsh, the plains too empty. No one would come this way unless there was no other path. His lips twitched like a rodent's nose while he thought. Fugitives. They had to be fugitives.
Criminals? No, not the look, and too courteous. He sniffed.
Casting. He had smelled it on her, even if she was hiding the Changing. Trouble with the pillars could send you running, he knew. The hermit squinted at the door and tilted his head to listen. Nothing, they were gone. Scuttling forward, he fought to yank the door open. Hadn't been done in a while—it stuck a bit. As soon as he did, the hermit had a fit, wheezing and coughing in the thin sunlight.
Sharp grey eyes looked up after the travelers. Not just casting! That wasn't a little caster, there. He let the burning smell of it fill his nostrils. Only the Creators smelled like that. The hermit had smelled it once before, right after his Skill manifest. Guardians had ridden through Lydendram, trading for black horses. It was like breathing in fire. Regular casters made his eyes itch and his throat burn. This was a hundred times worse.
Yanking the door shut again, the hermit coughed, waving his hands about. He'd be able to smell that for weeks. Scowling, he was too upset to hear the footsteps and jumped around when another knock shook the old door. He crouched down, tense and still. Someone knocked again, harder, purposeful.
"Who's there?" he croaked. Blasted Guardian, tearing up his throat!
"Open the door," came the command.
"I'm a caster," he warned. There was a pause. The hermit grinned. Victory!
Then the door was kicked clean off its hinges, landing with a crash on the floor. He blinked, a ferret caught in sudden light. The awful burning of the Wielder stung his nose and clawed his throat, making his lips twitch again.
"What's this?" he rasped, gathering Air angrily. A man in all black stepped forward and grabbed him around the neck with one enormous hand.
"I wouldn't." he said calmly, and Air disappeared, from his grasp and from his lungs. The hermit blanched, scrabbling against the man's iron grip.
"We're looking for a man and a woman, young. She's a caster."
"Yes! Yes, they've been here!" he squealed, prying at the hand around his neck just as he felt for the pillars—neither effort worked. What is this man? He smelled strange, too. Bad day to open doors. It was always a bad day to open doors. The hermit flinched away from the raptor's stare of the man holding him. Technically, he hadn't opened the door to anyone . . .
"How long ago?" A flat voice, impatient and uninterested. If he is so blasted uninterested, why does he kick in doors and choke people?
"Not long! Not long at all!" The hermit rasped, his nettled curiosity forgotten.
"Tell me what they did." The one in black commanded. Many more waited outside, silently, only four wearing anything other than black.
"They wanted supplies, travelers they said." The hermit babbled, "I told th
em to go to Holdbrine."
"Where." It was not a question.
"That way, south, a little west. You'll see it." He assured the man. Anything to get him to leave, even the truth!
"South," the black-cloaked man called to the others outside. He dropped the hermit and strode away without a backwards glance. Rubbing his neck, the hermit counted seven others like his guest, plus three in browns and greens with patches on their coats, and another wearing charcoal grey. He sniffed the wind.
The smell of the girl remained, but there was more. When the wind shifted, the hermit's eyes flicked around. The one in grey turned to glance at him with matching grey eyes, and the hermit stopped testing the breeze. So. The black guards were the minions of this caster, chasing the Creator.
"My lord, I hope you come prepared." The hermit murmured with a yellowed smile. The caster turned to look at him in thinly veiled disgust. "The one you're chasing is the old kind." For a moment the man on horseback said nothing. Then he pulled a glass sphere from a bag slung across his saddle horn.
"I have this." He replied, as if that were an answer, then spurred his horse toward the horizon, tucking the orb back into the satchel. The guards wheeled after him.
The hermit heaved the door back in place, cursing the lot of them under his breath. He didn't know then that by the time the sun went down, he wouldn't be able to leave his house for months—not that he enjoyed leaving at all. In an hour or two, the scent of Creation would be too strong around Holdbrine, stronger than anything the hermit had come across before.
Tucking the Gift back into its leather pouch, Brother Monren rode for Holdbrine, his men strung out behind him like black pearls on a string. The pair they were hunting knew someone was after them, but they didn’t know they were being herded down onto the plain, and they didn’t know how many they’d face now.
The surprise would be enough to throw them off for the seconds he would need. Monren glanced back at the Watchers. He'd never worked with so many before. Surprise probably wasn't even necessary with this many.
The quarry began to run when they saw his hounds approaching, but they could not escape in the open sea of grass.
Monren gestured for the Watchers to surround the pair. The other agents were insignificant, whatever happened to them was not his concern. The black-cloaked men fanned out across the plain in a net. In the distance, he could see the people of this little village fleeing into the tall grass. They were insignificant as well. Lord Monren slowed his gallop as he approached them, the source of the impossible echoes that troubled him for months: the very last Wielder.