Terry Simpson - Ashes and Blood

“There’s no need to worry,” Ryne said, the lie rolling from his tongue smoothly. “My power is fully under control. I’ve not used enough of it for me to go mad or cause senseless destruction.” But in training your son I will surpass that threshold. He’d long accepted that fact on the way here. Teaching his ward was necessary, even if it meant he sacrificed himself.

In the back of Ryne’s mind, several other pinpoints came to life, bonds similar to the one he had with Ancel, but of a lesser quality. He frowned as they veered away from the path he would have expected. No sense in worrying over them now, they could handle themselves. His purpose here called to him.

Doubt seeped into Irmina with the thought of the Exalted’s orders to kill Ryne and his mentor. Although she knew it meant Ancel, she prayed she might be mistaken. In her mind, she imagined Ryne visiting Eldanhill only to find he was wrong about the person he thought he’d felt that day in Castere. It helped a little. What didn’t help was picturing Ancel and her when they were younger, flirting, playing together. They would engage in their favorite game of taking a chunk of glass and watching as it reflected rainbow-like colors on the Whitewater Inn’s walls. She gritted her teeth against the memory.

To make the situation even worse was the sinking suspicion that the tiny knot inside her head was Ancel. This close to Eldanhill, she found it incredibly difficult to ignore. And it had grown.

At the Iluminus, her goal seemed so clear. Now, when she considered Ryne’s power and Jerem’s words she wondered how she would be able to complete her mission. She harbored no illusions of defeating Ryne in a fair battle, maybe not even in an unfair one, but she was willing to try. Ryne had said he was going to Eldanhill for Ancel, to help him, and that he needed her too. What can you possibly know of Ancel or me, for that matter?

Hunched into her horse’s saddle, she fidgeted with her clothes, smoothing the front of her thick woolen tunic. The pants fit a bit snug, showing off her shape, but served the purpose of allowing her to tuck the ends inside her boots. She buttoned her fur-lined overcoat once again.

Denestia’s twin moons cast their silvery glow across the land, bathing the snowdrifts and mounds along the plains north of Eldanhill in a ghostly sheen. Even from where she and Jerem stood, the distant roar of the great Whitewater Falls reached them. Silence draped their immediate vicinity in a cold sheet. Directly ahead, the walls around Eldanhill rose like some black monolith, stark against the ground’s white. Beyond it shone the orange luminescence from torches within the town. A town that had grown to the size of a small city in her absence.

“Nervous?” Jerem asked from beside her.

“Not particularly,” she lied even as her stomach fluttered as if she was about to receive Ancel’s first kiss.

Jerem chuckled. “A word of warning,” he said, becoming serious. “Whatever you do, do not let anyone know you’re in the Tribunal’s employ. If you do, they will tread lightly around you.”

“You don’t have to tell me about my own people. Besides, Ryne already knows who and what I am. I’d be more worried about Jillian’s reaction. For years she tried to warn me about the Dorns.”

“Well, Jillian isn’t there. She’s been sent away on another task. As for Ryne, no one must know his true identity. You need to understand that as grievous as your scars are, for some in Eldanhill, theirs are worse when it comes to the man he once was. Those painful memories are another reason I advise against revealing yourself also.”

“Fine, I’ll keep your warning in mind.”

“Well then, I leave the rest to you. Remember, as soon as you move, the guards will see you.”

“You aren’t worried that I carry out the Exalted’s orders?” Irmina avoided looking in Jerem’s direction.

“You will do what is necessary.” With those words, a horizontal slit appeared in front of Jerem, accompanied by a sound akin to a blade slicing empty air. The slash opened into a shape much like an eye before twisting into a vertical position. Beyond was darkness. He stepped through the portal. It snapped shut behind him.

Irmina was abruptly cold and alone. In the silence around her, the thumping of her heart resounded. She was returning to Eldanhill, the only place she ever called home, and she felt like an utter stranger. Why did the task ahead wear on her so? By no means was this her first mission. She’d been on countless such jobs. She’d deceived, manipulated, coddled, cajoled, and killed, all in the name of her profession and the Tribunal. So why did this feel different?

The ties she cut should have left her emotions free, not jumbled. The thought of the Dorns or the Council on a whole upset her stomach like spoiled food. Her craving for revenge boiled inside her until it seethed, but something, no, someone else made her nervous, gave her second thoughts about what she needed to do.

Ancel. A sigh escaped her lips. What will you do when I meet you? How will I react? She drew her cloak tighter around her.

The bell at the top of Eldanhill’s Streamean tower tolled in a long gong as if announcing the dead. Torches brightened the towers along the wall’s length. Voices shouted orders. Several fireballs arched into the air, their flames crackling and hissing as they met the night sky’s cold and moisture.

Cursing to herself as she realized her mistake, Irmina made to flap her reins. Whispers of movement froze her in her tracks. She eased her hand down to her sword hilt and waited.

The snow around her shifted and came alive. In over a dozen places, the white fluff stood in the shapes of men and canines. A few of the animal forms were too huge to be dogs. As if synchronized, they shook, similar to a dog shaking water from its fur. The snow fell away to reveal several large men dressed in furs and animal hides. A torch in one of their hands sparked to life, lighting up the area in orange hues. Beside each man was a daggerpaw or a wolf, teeth bared, tongues lolling in wicked grins.

Slowly, Irmina regarded each. The Seifer and Nema mountain clans were working together.

“After you, little lady,” a gruff voice said.

Someone snickered.

“And nuffing funny. Our babies can run down de fastest horse.” The big rawboned man nearest her reached out and patted his daggerpaw. “Not dat your horse can run very fast in dis.” He nodded to the snow. “But in case you were tinking you could …”

Irmina smiled at hearing those dialects again. Not only did the man leave off the ‘th’ in certain words, but others he converted to a ‘d’ so ‘that’ became ‘dat’ and ‘this’ turned into ‘dis’. Some letters changed to an ‘f’.

“I’ve no intention to be doing anything funny,” she said. “Although, it’s been a while since I’ve seen a good guiser’s play. You know, for a moment there I actually thought you men were dressed the part, disguised as sheep.”

A low growl in his throat, the man stepped next to her. “Dere aren’t any sheep here, lil miss, only mountain lions. I can show you what it’s like to fuck one.” He wiggled his waist, the shaggy fur on the front of his pants bouncing with the movement. His fellows guffawed at his joke.

Irmina glanced from Rawbone to his daggerpaw. Cropped short, the man’s hair reminded her of the tuft on a donkey’s head, and he had a face below it to match. What was worse, his tone sounded much like a bray. She gave him a slow smile. “I’d rather your daggerpaw fuck me than to lay with a mule of a man.”

Several clansmen chuckled. Even in the moonlight, Irmina picked out the angry glimmer in his eyes and the clenching of his hands near the axe on his hip.