Terry Simpson - Etchings of Power

Ryne scowled. He’d known this was coming. “And yet I haven’t killed her or suggested you do. Concern yourself with your people, Bertram. Convene your elders as you will. I’ve had my say. Tell them what I found. Then decide what’s best.” He stood, picked up his sword, and headed toward the door.

“Where will you be? It may be best if you tell them yourself.” Hagan’s voice pleaded for Ryne to accept the offer.

Pulling the door open, Ryne paused and turned to meet Hagan’s gaze. “I have a summons to prepare for. It cannot be avoided if I’m to help you regardless of what decision the elders make.” He stepped out into the night.

Irmina’s hand fidgeted close to her sword. Cloudless, dark skies sprinkled with stars stretched as far as she could see beyond Silvereyes. Sweat beaded her forehead, and her shirt clung to her back as she fixed her gaze on the Ostanian who was watching her from atop a small slope, not making any attempt to hide himself.

Rolling her shoulders, she stretched her neck to one side to work out the tightness from maintaining her vigilance. The throbbing pain along her shoulders eased ever so slightly, but the unbidden urge to nod off gnawed at her. Occasionally, she pricked herself with her Devout pin, the carving of the moons and sun etched into its shiny surface reflecting what little light existed.

She needed to stay awake. The one moment since coming to Carnas that she’d allowed her attention to lapse, she’d almost paid the price. That time, Silvereyes snuck close in the minutes her concentration wavered, and forced her to use every trick she knew to escape him. Since then, she made certain to keep her campsites out in the open on the Orchid Plains. The events in the woods when he’d touched her mind, changed his eye color, and somehow repaired his armor without the use of any materials, only made her more wary.

The humid night stoked her anxiety. Shadows stretched across the sparse trees and layered fescue, making Silvereyes become little more than a silhouette. A flash of memory brought those obsidian eyes screaming back, and she shivered. She touched her sword hilt for its reassuring comfort. Even home in Eldanhill, she’d kept her sword close at all times. Ancel used to say her sword received more love than he did. She squeezed the hilt with the thought.

From the corner of her eye, she saw the commotion still bubbling within Carnas. They must be in an uproar over the boy. She blew out a breath, still wishing she could have helped Kahkon. But at least the giant man had found him. Whatever he had done, she knew he used Mater. She hadn’t needed to open herself to her Matersense to be able to tell. The sheer power he used resonated to her core. A feeling she’d never experienced before. Not even in her master’s presence.

Jerem’s words and his grave expression returned to her.

“Irmina,” Jerem said. “This man is the deadliest person you will ever meet. If he discovers you are a Matus, he will become hostile. If he learns you are a Matus powerful enough to be an Ashishin, he will most certainly kill you without hesitation. Until you learn a way to approach him, you must maintain a distance where he cannot read your aura. Under no circumstances must you use Mater in his presence.”

“My aura?”

“Yes.” Jerem stroked his wispy beard. “His kind has a unique ability to see essences around any living thing without engaging their Matersense.”

“What is his kind? And what is he called? His name? I’d like to know what or who I’m facing.”

“Knowing that part would make no difference. He’s had too many names to count. What he calls himself now,” he shrugged, “I have no idea. Suffice it to say, if he doesn’t wish to accompany you then you will not be able to force him.”

“So how am I to bring him back with me?” she asked.

“That, dear one, is a problem for which you must find a solution. One thing is certain. You must not fail,” High Ashishin Jerem said, his raspy voice harder and more grave than she had ever heard.

A quick movement from Silvereyes broke Irmina from her memories. He darted away toward Carnas.

Irmina’s stomach writhed. She didn’t wish to follow, but what other choices were there? If she needed this to complete her training, to secure her revenge, then so be it. Hand on her sword hilt, she jogged after Silvereyes.

Ancel stumbled through the side door of his parents’ winery with Mirza and Charra on his heels. “Da! Ma!” He rushed down the hall past hanging paintings and startled servants toward the study. He banged the door open.

Ancel’s father looked up from poring over his books, his black hair streaked with white spilling about his face. Stefan’s expression darkened as he straightened in his chair. “What’s all this fuss about? Shouldn’t you two be out picking kinai?”

Ancel and Mirza’s words tumbled over each other at the same time, their recount of the night’s events spilling out in a jumble.

His father’s hard slap rang off the tabletop. “One at a time.”

“Stefan, sir,” Mirza began, wringing his hands.

Stefan stroked his pointed beard and arched an eyebrow at him.

“S-sorry,” Mirza stammered, his cheeks flushing red, “I mean, Master Dorn. Sir, we were just chased by…by…”

“Spit it out, boy.”

The heavy oak door creaked open. Ancel’s mother peeked in, her gray hair wrapped in a bun. Her steady, silvery blue eyes took in both their disheveled appearances before she stepped inside and closed the door behind her. “Why do you two look as if you were dragged through a field? And what’s this mess you brought in with you?” She pointed at the red trail their boots and Charra’s paws left on the carpet. Her nose wrinkled “And what’s that awful smell?” She leaned back outside the door and called for one of the servants, barking instructions before turning her gaze back to the boys. “Well?”

Their replies burst forth again, a jumbled roll of both voices at once.

“Both of you calm down,” his mother ordered, her voice a melodic chime that still carried authority. “Take a seat.” She pointed to the soft, cushioned armchairs as she glided across the room. Her dark blue dress brought out her eyes as it flowed around her. “Give yourselves a few moments to breathe and then begin again. From the start this time.” She nodded to Stefan and then to the large room’s opposite side.

Stefan pushed back his chair from the table and stood. His white silk shirt and biege trousers showed stains from his last meal. Muttering under his breath, he strode past the many bookcases to the second entrance into the room, peered outside, then pulled the door shut.

Ancel and Mirza made their way to the chairs near the table and sat. Books littered the oak surface, many of them open or containing a marker. Charra trotted over and stretched on the rug next to them.

The thick rug under his feet soothed Ancel as he suddenly realized that his legs were watery weak. Taking a deep breath, he stretched them out, savoring the smell of old books and the flowery scented oil his mother favored in the lamps along the walls. This was the only room in the house without a window, and the lamplight played across the wall hangings depicting the history of the Ostanian tribes. Considering how his father often boasted about their ancestors’ bravery, Ancel wondered what they would have thought about how he fled the Greenleaf.

“Well, which one of you is ready?” His father once again took his seat at the table. Mother stood next to him and rested her hand on his shoulder.

“I am,” Ancel answered. He sucked in a great breath and relayed all that had happened, from the missing wolves to the rotten kinai in their secret glen, to the two wolf-like creatures that had followed them.