Zander
The first primal scream reverberates across the mountain range as the sliver of moon passes the peak ahead of us. The few mortals still absorbing warmth from the fire before they retire to their tents search around in a panic. Being from Norcaster, they wouldn’t be familiar with these wild sounds.
Fearghal waves it off. “It’s a golbikc. Noisy creatures, but they probably won’t bother us.”
“Probably?” someone echoes with trepidation.
“Have I mentioned how much I hate these mountains?” Elisaf picks off a chunk of venison from his share of tonight’s dinner.
“Not much has changed.” The air is still sharp, the scenery still splendid, and the nightly worry that one may be woken from their slumber by something trying to feed off them ever present.
He lowers his voice. “We have two powerful casters with us. You do remember the kinds of beasts they might entice, right?”
“I do.” I throw a sharp look his way, a warning. “And that is why the fires will burn all night. The Legion is prepared, and there is no reason to cause more alarm over something that might happen.” Romeria is already apprehensive enough about the saplings.
Elisaf nods, understanding. “Could you ever have foreseen us running here for refuge?”
“Not in a thousand years. Nor would I believe I would trust a caster.” Again.
Gesine sits huddled under skins on the steps of the wagon she occupied with the seer, her blank stare shifting between the dark nothingness and to where Abarrane and Romeria trade slow-moving parries with wooden swords.
“What do you think of her?” I ask.
“Which her?”
I smirk. “I already know what you think of Romeria.” If there is anyone Elisaf would betray me for, it is her. But his comment is a glaring reminder. “I suppose I should begin seeing her as a caster as well.”
“Everyone else is. And you know whose lead they will follow in that regard.” Elisaf studies the form beyond the safety of our camp, perched on the crop of stones near Ianca’s final resting spot, his unbound hair reaching halfway down his back.
“I respect his counsel and need his sword, but I cannot decide if he will be our greatest ally or our worst enemy.”
“Perhaps both.”
I watch one of the infected mortals Romeria rescued from the pillories leave the fire and walk slowly toward the tents, his cautious gaze on Brynn. These mortals don’t trust the legionaries who are ready to defend them with their lives. I suppose I can’t blame them. As far as they’re concerned, all our kind is capable of is taking.
Their blood.
Their kin.
Their choice.
Their freedom.
The mark on the mortal’s hand glows like a firefly in the dark, blinking in and out with his stride. Did he honestly not know his wife had tainted him, or is that the story he will carry to his grave?
I study the vial of Romeria’s blood that Pan procured with coin in Norcaster. “To have that much poison collected … she must have been sitting for weeks as they bled her,” I think out loud. What must have been going through Princess Romeria’s mind as she allowed it? How does one have that much hatred in their heart for a people they have never met?
Maybe the very existence of my kind deserves it.
“It was not a hasty plan on her or Neilina’s part,” Elisaf agrees. “Neither was sending half their army to these mountains under cover to exploit the north’s trade routes and their animosity.”
“Even if Romeria had died during the attack, Ybaris still would have succeeded in tearing apart Islor.” Is succeeding at it.
He pauses. “But how would they have known this weakness? How would they have known how fragile your rule is in these parts?”
It’s obvious. “Someone has been feeding them valuable information. That is the only explanation. To what end, though, I am still unsure.”
“To end your rule of Islor, or to end Islor itself.”