The Destiny Detour

Scattered

Drake

Drake could have heard Rosaliy's scream if she was in an underwater castle, locked in a trunk and gagged. For the first time, he could feel the spell at work. With every fiber of his being, he wanted to fight these ruffians who dared touch Rosaliy and toss out threats. It took all his tenuous common sense to hang back. They could not hurt her, but that jaguar could rip him to bits, making for a poor rescue.

When Rosaliy told him to leave, he felt unraveled. Was it the spell telling him to leave while he was desperate to stay, or was he desperate to stay while the spell was ordering him to follow Rosaliy's wishes? What would he have done without this muddling magical influence, and even if he could answer his own question, would that choice have been good or bad?

So he left. Temporarily, he told himself. He retreated from the cryptic argument and hauled himself up the ravine, back to camp.

Drake may not have known magic, but he did know kidnappings, and Rosaliy's only shot at staying alive was if her captors did not get what they wanted. He dug through Rosaliy's bag. Since three enemies were about to do the same, he did not bother feeling guilt over the violation of privacy. His fingers closed in around Lillya's book. That was it. He could not explain why, but he was certain. He pulled the book for communicating with Cade while he was plundering and left the rest. They would be here soon.

As an afterthought, he grabbed a wrapped paper bundle from Rosaliy's pile of things and unfurled its foul contents onto the stones of the half-constructed fire pit. Two large catfish—if these monstrosities deserved to be in the same category as fish—tumbled out. Rosaliy was operating under the theory that noxious smells would dampen the effects of a love potion, so she had these in case of emergency. Hopefully they would mediate a different emergency. He might be able to handle himself against a person or three, but the big cat would sniff him out and rip out his throat.

He scooped up his own bag and dropped over the side of the ravine with his other paper plunder, heading upstream to find a rock outcropping to conceal himself while they searched. The thought of them touching Rosaliy filled him with blind rage, but his experience held him back. He would follow them and take them by surprise. It would be safer for her.

Eventually, all was quiet. He crept out and took stock of the damage, on high alert for any lingering sentries. There was no trace of Rosaliy or her attackers. Everything was strewn and broken. The horses were nervous, but unharmed. His weapons were on him. He could salvage enough food for the night. What next?

He searched for tracks before the light was gone, but there were none leaving this place. His search brought him to the glint of metal. His fingers closed around Rosaliy's dagger. He had one job to do, and she had disappeared under his nose. His heart felt empty. How had letting her be taken seemed like a good idea? Of course they had used magic to spirit her well out of his reach.

Magic. If he was going to get Rosaliy back, he would need some magic of his own.

His only advantage in this situation was a big one. He knew where he was going, and they did not. Dawn tomorrow, he would be on his way to a trading post in Taragon.

~~~~~

Shrilynda

Shrilynda hated Sorceresses. Everything about them offended the core of her being. The Naxturae thought them worthy of magic when they were no more than fuel—valuable blood wrapped in flesh. A Sorceress had more magical value than, say, a toad, but she was in the same category—an object meant to be used by those whose lives were of real worth.

This Sorceress, however, was bringing Shrilynda twisted joy. For the fifty-third time—Shrilynda had been counting—Issabeth threw herself at the cloudy boundary of their Nether Realm prison. Each time yielded a slightly different result. Either the clouds turned into a surface that threw Issabeth back, or she sent white flurries swirling with a blast of her pearl, or the pillowy surface sucked her up like a thirsty dog. The last was the most entertaining to watch, as the Sorceress would then struggle to free herself, yelling insults at the unfeeling white atmosphere as she thrashed angrily. Each new attempt flooded Shrilynda with sadistic joy.