Taras hunched his shoulders against the hunger, against the cold, against the dark. Along with the others in Western crèche, he’d marched to a secret passage of ladders and tenuous holds in the rock, climbing and scrambling all the way back up to a watchtower on the very top of the Bridge itself. From there, they had a vantage point over their original camp, and they’d flown to the landing spot through the night to collect their things and watch over the youngest children, who had stayed behind on their own when the rest of the family flew with Rhae.

His head sagged. He allowed himself the momentary weakness. Clearly, he would have to improve his training regimen when they returned to Laurentum. He was accustomed to hard work, but that climb—and the nerve-wracking sensation of gliding into the unknown on a frame of sticks and rags—had beaten down his resolve. The price of growing old.

Thankfully, he had his shield back. The reserve of power he had imbued within it before the Bridge expedition could give him just enough strength to keep from collapsing.

He resisted the urge to draw on it now. Exhaustion nearly crippled him, but a few aching muscles didn’t warrant dipping into the emergency reserves. Who knew what horrors awaited on the morrow? More life flourished in this place than he’d expected, but that didn’t mean the worst wasn’t still to come. The storm surrounding the Bridge wouldn’t relinquish its hold without a fight, which was fine by him. He’d welcome the challenge. It was the only way to grow.

His conscience needled him every time his thoughts turned back to Rhae, alone down by the water with Thenxi. For all her good intentions, the Seer was holding something back. She had swept along Rhae in her plans, preying on the Qeren’s natural inquisitiveness and trusting nature, but to what end Taras wasn’t certain. A forty-year old prophecy seemed far too young to be believed, too contrived. Perhaps it had been in motion longer? Even so, it was convenient.

He clicked his tongue and stretched out on a mat. He was a traditionalist, but sometimes that blinded him to good sense. He knew that about himself. Not all truth needed the weight and pomp of centuries behind it. One of the Bridge sages could have foreseen this expedition. Their goals aligned with the outsiders, after all. It was not entirely unreasonable.

Outside, rain pattered on the Bridge, pinging on the metal beams—adding counterpoint in a softer, more subdued tattoo on the massive outcroppings of stone and cement—and Rhae’s smiling face instantly came to mind. She would have enjoyed the song in the water sounds. As he listened to the rhythm, Taras let his mind wander back over the last several days, searching for clues about their hosts.

Thenxi and Aravind spoke about a day of deliverance, of freedom from the darkness and death that surrounded them, but when Taras closed his eyes, all he could see was the skirmish that had cut off Rhae from the group. He’d charged after the little Qeren, and been caught up in the pageantry of prophecy and new beginnings, but human nature had made him cynical. What if seizing the Stormorb and crushing Eastern crèche was the real goal?

Rhae might not even realize that the efforts fit together like two hands grasping to seal a pact. Could he allow Thenxi to use the Qeren’s naivete and joy against her? With a heavy sigh, he realized that it was their best option. His mission from Indara was paramount. What was the life of one girl in comparison to saving an entire city?

Sleep was a long time coming.

=+=

Freyman tapped his pheasant drumstick on the table, gathering his thoughts before he spoke to Lieutenant Lasgaard. The man’s late night appearance at his palace had come as a shock, but Freyman had mastered himself and commanded the guards to see Lasgaard to the banqueting room, as though two-o-’clock in the morning were a normal hour for receiving dinner guests. Of course, he could get used to a snack in the middle of the night. The cold meat and warm mead improved his mood, and he allowed Lasgaard a reasonable approximation of a smile.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“We can’t win every gamble, I suppose. We’ll find a new method after a good night’s rest. Do try to look at least a little crestfallen, though; you’re so pleased with yourself that I’m having serious doubts about your appetite for adventure.”

Lasgaard shifted his feet, left hand resting on the hilt of his sword. “The soldiers made it through, Excellency. I had something of a . . . misunderstanding . . . with the mage, however, so I was prevented passage.”

Freyman bit off a chunk of the pheasant, chewing deliberately while Lasgaard waited for a reply. He wiped his hands on a scented hand towel. “Hmm. I think it worked out rather well in your favor. Strange, that. Most magical misunderstandings make for messy mopup.”

“I regret that I am unable to carry out my duty, Sir.”

“Never fear, Lasgaard. I’ve always got plans within plans. ‘A single point of failure is the single best way to ensure failure.’ Do you like that saying? I just made it up, I believe. Aha! I will need to remember that one tomorrow.”

Lasgaard bowed, a little too crisply. “As you say.”

“Now listen, whelp. You’ve made a hash of things. I’ve half a mind to make an example of you over this. Instead, I’ll give you a chance to redeem yourself. That’s far more pleasant, don’t you think?”

“You’re the expert on redemption, I hear.”

“He finds a backbone at last. Bravo, Lieutenant! Yes, I’ve managed to rise from my dank cell like a phoenix. A chance to redeem myself, to make good on my mistakes.” Freyman picked a sliver of bone from his teeth. “And do you know what my chief mistake was, Lasgaard?”

“I wouldn’t presume to rank them, Sir.”

Freyman chuckled. “You’re far better company when you’re irritable, did you know that? I never did like the overly-polished facade. I’ll make sure to poke the bear, as it were, before each of your future audiences.”

Lasgaard’s knuckles tightened on his hilt. Perhaps his nerves were more frayed by whatever had happened with the mage than he was letting on. That was a story Freyman would like to hear—he scratched a quick note on his official letterhead, and handed it to a servant. He had ways to get the unvarnished truth.

“I’ve forgotten myself. Do forgive me; it’s so late that my manners are slipping. Sit, eat. I have a story to tell you, Lasgaard.”

A servant stepped out of the corner with impeccable timing to furnish Lasgaard with a chair. Freyman couldn’t countenance servants who weren’t on the spot. Three more servants ghosted in with a platter of pheasant and sliced pears, lightly sugared, and a flagon of the mead Freyman had recently taken a liking to.

Despite the late hour, Lasgaard fell on the food with a voracity that surprised Freyman. He considered himself a true gourmand, but Lasgaard—he could eat like his life depended on it.

“Now, where was I? Ahh, yes. My first folly, my fatal foilable, my fundamental flaw! If you had asked me a decade ago where I’d gone awry, I would have humbly parroted the words of a certain justicar who banished me from the light and life of society: namely, that I’d defrauded the common man—hoodwinked the horde! He took exception to my generosity. Can you believe the temerity of that small-minded penny pincher?” Freyman shook a second drumstick at Lasgaard. “What good was my exalted position if I did not raise up a few friends alongside me to share in the bounty of my office? Yet he defrocked me for stealing from the people!”

Lasgaard studiously buried himself in his cup.

“Now that I am older and wiser, I’ve come to realize that my error was not in taking from a few outraged nobles, but in not daring to dream. What is the wealth of Laurentum? A bauble! There’s a wide, wide world out there begging for someone with the vision to care and cultivate, to reign and rule. I will be like a god among men, Lasgaard, once I’ve subjugated the Stormorb. A future awaits you by my side, if you’re brazen enough to take it.”

Freyman smiled when Lasgaard put down the goblet and looked him over shrewdly, as though he had a new respect for Freyman’s greatness. “Well, Lieutenant? I take it that you want your chance to redeem yourself.”

“I await your orders, Sir,” Lasgaard replied, his oily tone back as he leaned forward in his chair and spread his hands apart as if to assure Freyman of his sincerity. “Command, and I shall obey.”