If the Red Hand pushed his horse any harder, it would die on its feet. They couldn’t keep chasing after the airship. After a few hours of pursuit, the smugglers had navigated into a windstream and taken off, and no matter what, there was no catching it.
“What do we do now, sir?” Nael asked. He and Khara rode side-by-side. The moment the Hand looked back, his two disciples recoiled apart, cheeks reddening and fingers stuffed in their pockets.
“Sir, I was hoping to take a shot at the heir myself,” said Nael. “It’d be a great honour if I could just attack him…”
“All in due time. We need to get ahead of this Eane-forsaken little pointy-ear.” The Hand stroked the hilt of his sword, fingers itching to use the weapon on his elusive, downright irritating prey. “We might not be able to catch him in a straight race, but we can ensure that we arrive at his destination before he does. You made a gash in the flank of their airship, yes?”
“I did, sir,” Nael said.
“Then they will have to stop for repairs. We have time to get ahead.”
“Where is he going, sir?” Khara inquired. “How do you know that we’ll catch him?”
“He has gotten himself a replacement for a Reyad, that’s sure enough,” said the Hand. “Now, he’ll be wanting to use and improve it. He’ll have to leave this land and find himself a teacher—someone who can show him the true ways of wizards.”
“He’ll have to go to the Mainland!”
“Indeed.” The Hand narrowed his eyes. “But he will make the crossing from the shortest, most convenient point—the Greanewash port.” It was at the tip of a jut, and it would be the best starting point to make a crossing. “Even if he does take his airship overseas, the Greanewash port would be the most logical place to cross over.”
The Hand let out a sigh, then added, “And he has an old friend there. She may held him.”
“Leursyn, you mean? Help him?” Nael exclaimed. “She’s been terrorizing the local garrison, out for nothing but blood and revenge.”
“That may be,” said the Hand. “But I guarantee you, that is where the heir is headed.” He shook his head. “We will stop him in Greanewash. If we ride straight and take no breaks, we should arrive before he does.”
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There wasn’t much daylight left. Pirin took the first watch on the Featherflight, standing on the airship’s upper platform and surveying their surroundings. They’d hooked the ship to the trees at the top of a small hill and furled the sails, allowing it to sway peacefully in the wind.
He watched the landscape roll back and forth gently, and he scanned the shadows of the trees for any sign of their pursuers. Nothing.
While he waited, he couldn’t help but cycle the meagre bits of Essence that remained in his body. Although he didn’t have his mask on, nor did he have a connection with Gray, he could still practice. He forced his lungs to adopt a new breathing pattern, one from the Path manual that he had barely practiced. It was meant for absorbing the Eane into his body and purifying it into Essence.
He leaned against the railing and began. One deep breath pulled air into his lungs, but he also drew bits of the invisible energy field in through his skin, like his entire body was covered in a porous mesh.
He pushed his Essence through three full cycles. The Eane purified into Essence and flowed into his channels, ready to use.
Pirin wasn’t close enough to Gray to include her in the loop, and he couldn’t make gnatsnapper Essence right now. But for now, he didn’t need any. He didn’t have any gnatsnapper techniques.
He fell into a deep trance, using the cycle of his Essence to encourage a slight glimpse of the Memory Chain—if it made his integration techniques more efficient, it might also improve his harvesting techniques.
As he cycled, he caught a few more glimpses of Kerstel and his training as a magic-less healer. No one on Kerstel knew about his Bloodline Talent, not even him. He helped Mr. Regos tend to a few more duties—helping elderly folk who had caught springcough or assisting the local midwife.
Each time they finished, Mr. Regos gave Pirin a heavy clap on the shoulder and some gruff praise to sandwich a series of criticisms. Pirin was never annoyed at Mr. Regos. He only sensed a steadily growing disenchantment with island life within himself. He had wanted to see the wondrous sights of the world, to bring their healing knowledge elsewhere.
But Pirin was training to be Mr. Regos’s replacement, and he couldn’t leave the north shore of Kerstel, lest he abandon hundreds of patients in need.
Pirin grimaced, then shook his head and broke himself out of the trance before the Memory Chain could draw him deeper into the past.
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He’d accumulated enough Essence to use a Shattered Palm, and that was just in an hour. He couldn’t help but feel a buzz of excitement.
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Over the next day and a half, Pirin practiced putting his mask on, fueling the runes, and getting used to the abrupt transition from unstable Embercore to a Spark-stage wizard with an almost-Reyad.
It hadn’t been a week, yet, so he stayed out of Gray’s sight. But to use her core, he had to be within a few yards. The best place to practice was right outside the cargo hold.
Each time he activated the mask, he held his Essence closer to his core for a little longer and let his channels relax. Each time, his limbs felt less and less tired after activating the mask. Knowing what to expect helped, but holding the Essence still and letting his channels rest before each attempt did wonders.
By the last attempt, he only fell to knees for a few seconds, blinded by golden light, before he pushed himself back up. He shook his limbs out, then held his hands out in front of him, ready for whatever he might need to face.
Only a minute after Pirin activated the mask for the last time, Alyus climbed down the ladder and said, “Pirin, we’re at Vēl Tallomn.” He hadn’t spoken with Pirin much over the past few days, and when they had, it had only been in passing remarks.
“Coming,” Pirin replied. He took off his mask, watching runes fade and feeling his blood fall out of synchronization with his Essence. He stuffed the mask in his pocket, put his glasses on, then followed Alyus back to the gondola.
They were approaching an elven city of respectable size. Its houses, made of interwoven and intertwined branches, sprawled across the land for a few miles, eating away at the forest. At the top of the hill, a brutalistic stone castle watched over the city’s residents, armed with trebuchets and ballistae and smaller catapults.
“They’ve got some decent air defences,” Alyus remarked, pointing at the castle.
“Air defences?” Pirin walked to the front of the gondola and peered out the window.
“Flak catapults, elfy. They’ll spew some gravel at a bird and shred it before it can get to you.”
“Well…it does overlook an air harbour…” Pirin whispered, trying not to let his voice rise. An unpleasant image of small pebbles disintegrating him and Gray plagued his mind.
Alyus angled the Featherflight toward the air harbour—a set of thin wooden piers extending far out off the hill. Only one other airship docked at the harbour, and it was a dingy craft with a tattered envelope and ragged sails.
The Featherflight slipped into the piers right beside it, lining up the gondola with the length of the wooden boards. The smugglers tied the ship down tight.
“Right.” Alyus opened the gondola door and placed a thin gangplank down between them and the harbour. “Pirin, Brealtod, I’m putting you two in charge of getting us some more liftgas. I’ll see if the harbour aqueduct won’t hook us up with some ballast.”
Pirin and Brealtod set off into the city. Pirin took one last look at the airship, hoping for a moment that he could bring Gray with them. But the sparrow Path manual agreed with Brealtod—while a Familiar’s mind was forming, it was best for a bonded wizard to keep away, so as to not disrupt the process.
Instead, Pirin and Brealtod walked down the pier and stepped onto the deserted wharf. They followed a cobblestone street down the side of the hill and deeper into the city. Every step, the sun dipped lower below the horizon, and the candles and hearths of the houses flickered to life.
When they passed a pair of elven guardsmen, Pirin checked to make sure he had pulled his hood all the way up over his hair—he had. No one would recognize him.
Brealtod let the way through the streets silently, and Pirin followed close behind. The nearby civilians went about their evening duties with somber faces, looking over their shoulders as if lighting lanterns or sweeping their doorsteps was somehow wrong. When their heads turned towards Pirin and Brealtod, they scampered inside.
“Is…something wrong?” Pirin whispered.
“Dominion…ssssoldierss…are…sss…here,” Brealtod said. He pointed a clawed finger at a pair of soldiers on the street corner. They wore clean steel armor, with white waist capes and glittering brass mail. At their hips, they carried a straight longsword without a crossguard. Both were ostal; they had a set of horns poking upwards from the sides of their heads. Pirin hadn’t expected regular soldiers to be so ornately-dressed or clean.
“Why are they here?”
“Itsssss…isss…a…big…sssscity. Garissssson.” Brealtod rubbed his throat and winced. “Thisss…land…issss…ssssick.”
These were part of a garrison, then. Aerdia was an occupied nation.
Grimacing, Pirin said, “Alyus doesn’t think we can help them. What do you think?”
Brealtod paused, then tapped Pirin’s chest gently with one of his fingers. “Wizsssard. You…can…sss…help.”
He and Brealtod kept walking. Pirin winced at all the helpless elves fleeing to the edges of the street and dipping out of sight.
After a few more minutes, they arrived at a store on a dim street corner. A lumawhale-oil sign marked it, but the oil paint was dry and it barely glowed anymore. Pirin could barely make out the shop’s name. The Wyvern Lung: Airman’s Equipment and Supplies. Boards covered the windows, and the singles were falling off the roof. But Brealtod stepped inside, and Pirin didn’t want to be alone in the street.
There was no one inside, save for an elven shopkeeper sweeping the floor. “We’re almost closed,” she said. “Please be quick.”
Brealtod hissed inquisitively.
“Sorry, don’t speak the dragonfolk tongue,” she said.
Brealtod nodded, then opened his mouth, ready to speak in his hissing language. But Pirin stepped forward. “We need some liftgas, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“How much?”
Pirin glanced at Brealtod. The dragonfolk raised two fingers.
“Two barrels?” the shopkeeper guessed.
Brealtod nodded. The shopkeeper turned away and disappeared through a door deeper in the shop. When she emerged, she rolled two barrels in front of her. They were just like the ones they had used to refill the airship’s gasbags at Laurill’s hovel.
Brealtod picked up both barrels under one arm and paid.
“Thank you,” said the shopkeeper, keeping her gaze low. “Have a pleasant evening, as much as anyone can these days.”
Pirin offered her a faint smile, then looked up at Brealtod. “Let’s get back to the ship before we get in any trouble.”