James West - Lady Of Regret

“A patron did the deed?” Rathe asked.

“No,” Horge said bitterly. “She who called that night proved to be a thief and a murderess, hiding behind a comely face.”

“Why would anyone steal what was freely given?”

Horge took a deep breath, eyes faraway. “That night, our mother asked for more than potatoes and cabbages. And for the asking, the thankless handmaiden of Lady Mylene, who could have given more than all the others together without missing a copper, slashed her throat instead, and stole what she had come for.”

“Who is Lady Mylene?” Loro asked.

“She is no more,” Horge said distantly. “Her handmaiden failed to return to Ravenhold in time, and the plague destroyed all those living within the fortress, including Lady Mylene. In that, I believe justice was served.”

“I have it!” Yiri said, racing back to the trio. Behind, her, Samba came bustling out of the forest, grunting as he trotted to catch up.

“Seems your yak knew where to find you,” Loro said.

Horge stared at the shaggy black beast. Where Rathe would have expected elation, the ratty man’s face showed confusion.

When Yiri halted, she held up a small ivory box etched with ugly engravings.

“That’s it?” Loro said, incredulous. “It has the look of rubbish.”

“The worth of enchanted devices is not in their beauty, but their power.”

“Something that small will not hold much,” Loro mused.

Horge moved to greet Samba. The beast showed a rare display of annoyance by swishing his tail, as Horge ran his hands over his back, flanks, and legs. Before he finished checking the yak for injuries, Loro had already dropped his panniers. Despite Samba’s unusual show of displeasure, Yiri began loading the beast. Rathe guessed the beast’s previous luggage must have been lost when it fled Wyvernmoor.

“I don’t care what the box holds, or doesn’t,” Rathe said, coming back to the matter at hand. “What’s important is that we have it, and can learn of Jathen’s third trinket.”

“A long walk back to Skalos,” Loro said, pausing in helping Yiri and Horge arrange Samba’s growing burden. He looked east over the hazed forest and spires of gray rock. “You’d think Jathen would have had a better way to get word of our success.”

“He does,” Horge said, turning to rustle through a pannier. Samba grunted irritably. Horge brought up a leather sack no larger than his fist, untied the drawstring, and poured a cloudy ball into his palm. It might have been glass, but Rathe guessed it was something else. He had seen the like before, something Nesaea owned. Eyes of Nami-Ja, she called them, a pair of magical devices from Giliron. Unlike hers, this sphere did not give off light.

“A seeing glass,” Yiri said, awed. Her lips thinned into a stern line, and her brow furrowed. “Jathen should not have that.”

“Aye,” Horge said. “But then, neither he nor his Brothers should have most of what they do.”

Yiri shook her head in disapproval. “Mark me, the day will come when the brothers of the Way of Knowing stand unmatched. On that day, the fools who exchanged a pittance of gold for so many objects of power will learn their mistake. Worse, all the rest of us will share their remorse.”

Horge, one of the gold-enticed fools Yiri spoke of, gave her a guilty look. “I … I’m sorry. If I’d known, I never would’ve bargained with Jathen. ‘Tis just … well, I no longer wanted to be a-”

“What’s done is done,” Yiri interrupted. “I forgive you. Mayhap the day will come when we can rid the world of their accursed order.”

“Do not hope that day will arise in your lifetime,” boomed Jathen’s voice.

With a squawk, Horge leaped into the air, and sent the seeing glass flying from his hand. Rathe’s sword leaped from the scabbard, as did Loro’s. Horge cowered behind Yiri, who had raised clawed hands, as if preparing to dig out Jathen’s eyes. Or does she mean to weave dire magic? Rathe guessed no matter how powerful Horge considered his sister, she was not powerful enough to reach into a seeing glass and inflict harm upon the warrior monk.

“I suggest more caution,” Jathen said dryly, voice now coming from a clump of thick grass. Samba sidled near, nosed about. “The worth of a seeing glass is a thousand and a thousand times that of your miserable life, Yiri. Or anyone’s life, for that matter. Now, get that damned beast away from the glass, before it tramples it into the mud.”

“How much can he see?” Rathe whispered to Yiri, as Horge drove Samba off with a gentle shove, and bent to pick up the sphere.

“Using the twin to that glass,” Yiri said quietly, “he can see and hear all that we do.”

“All the time?”

She shook her head. “No. Only for a short time can a seeing glass be used, lest you burn it out.”

“I do not understand.”

Yiri flashed him a feral smile reminiscent of Horge. “Why would you?”

“She has you there,” Loro smirked.

Horge gingerly held the orb on the tips of his fingers, as if it were blistering hot. “Better,” Jathen said. “Now, show me the Keeper’s Box.”

Yiri moved closer and lifted the crude object. “This is what you seek. Now, reveal to us the last item, so that we might be done with you and your profane order.”

Jathen chuckled, and Rathe could imagine the man’s blue eyes peering coldly into his own seeing glass. “Ah, little Yiri. Still hateful and misguided, I see. You are in luck, girl, as what I require next puts you on the trail of the one who killed your mother.”

Yiri scowled so fiercely that Rathe drew back a step. “She who murdered my mother is long dead.”

“I’m intrigued,” Jathen mused, “how one with your skills can truly believe death holds any permanence?”

“Speak plainly,” Yiri ordered.

“I think not,” Jathen laughed. When his mirth died, he added, “Go to Ravenhold. There you will find the amulet your mother named the Wight Stone. Five days hence, I will expect your return to Skalos with the amulet in hand.”

“Why five days?” Rathe asked.

“As I told you before,” the monk said, “I joined you and your sword to Horge and his quest because my brothers and I determined stealth was not enough to achieve success. You go now to a place where danger is not a question, but a certainty. If you have not retrieved the Wight Stone and returned to me in the allotted time, you never will.”

They camped that night not far from the ruined cottage where Yiri and Horge’s mother was murdered. The evening was cool, but Rathe did not expect frost. But then, frost was the last thing on his mind.

“Tell me of this Wight Stone,” he said, in a tone that left no room for hedging.

“’Tis a treasure,” Yiri said reverently, then went back to nibbling the roasted leg of a hare Loro had shot with his bow. Rathe did not think she would add more, but she did. “The Wight Stone cannot fall into Jathen’s hands.”

“By what you told before,” Rathe said, “I expect him to seal the Wight Stone in the Keeper’s Box. Doesn’t that mean it will fall into no one’s hands?”

“The Wight Stone is our birthright,” Yiri snapped.

“And stolen at that,” Horge added, licking grease from his fingers.

“As I understand it,” Rathe said, “you have no choice but to give it over, unless you want Jathen hunting you the rest of your days. Something tells me those days would be short. More to the point, on my honor I swore to repay my debt to him by helping you find his trinkets. One remains, this Wight Stone. I do not mean to allow you two to go running off with it, and leave me with my promises unfulfilled.”

Yiri considered him, dark eyes shrewd. “I can make it so you never need to worry about Jathen. I can make it seem to them that you never existed.”