They arrived in Uhm'trimbhya in the mid-afternoon. It had been another two-day journey from the mountaintop across the hot wind-swept plains. They now stood in the shade of a giant tree, supposedly a twin to the tree that housed Ky'lei'mei. It was bigger around than the keep in O'siaris, and taller than they could comprehend, and it stood alone in the grass of the plains, mountains gleaming behind it.
A leather-armored individual dropped from the branches above them, landing easily on the ground. "You arrived!" she said, a broad smile on her face. Her dark skin was worn from the sun, and she bore a scar across one cheek. "Was your journey safe?" she asked, as she hugged Ra'liel and her child. The woman's Uhma'zarhin accent was even stronger than Ra'liel's, somehow.
"Ar'eile," Ra'liel smiled and nodded. "We made it fine. There are many more orcs now," she said.
Ar'eile spit, a grimace on her face. "Pests," she said. "Ihr'kahn will explain more."
Looking past Ra'liel to the group behind her, Katerin grinned. All except Brazen were sun-burnt to a crisp. Arjiah was in the middle of pouring water over herself again.
"Please, find some shade with us," Ar'eile said, gesturing to the tree. Her glance moved past them then, to Auglier and Kura, who were not far behind. Her eyes widened, and she dropped into a deep bow. She turned, as if in a hurry and placed her palm upon the tree. A doorway wide enough for two people opened from the bark. Invisible to the eye while closed.
Just inside were two curving wooden staircases in normal Uhma'zarhin fashion, a part of the tree itself. The sight at the bottom of the stairway left Katerin breathless. An open natural cavern spread out before them. Small points of light shimmering between the roots, borne from heat-less lanterns. It looked as if someone had taken Ky'lei'mei, and inverted it.
Ar'eile leaned toward Ra'liel as they entered and whispered just loud enough that Katerin could hear. "You bring the Watcher?"
"He asked to accompany us," Ra'liel replied, just above a whisper.
Houses and buildings were shaped into the roots themselves. Tiers of walkways curved naturally around the space, winding up and down. People walked the space with the calm confidence of trained fighters. Almost every person wore armor and carried weapons--even several children. As they walked, Ra'liel explained that Ky'lei'mei was the peaceful of the sisters. Uhm'trimbyha was the home of the warriors—they fought and protected the lands on this side of the mountains, where fighting was much more common. Katerin noted far fewer women and children here, and the ones here looked quite different. All sure fighters along with the men, no soft dresses or flowers in their hair. Auglier and Kura had moved silently off on their own path, leaving the rest of them to their travel down the thick roots and soft soil interior.
They met Ihr'kahn in a large open room, with benches and simple tables filling the space. He was an older man with long, pure white hair pulled back into a thick braid. Weathered and scarred skin, with a cloth patch covering one eye. He stood straight, weapons glistening in the light.
As they approached, he hugged Ra'liel and nodded to the rest. "Welcome to our home," he said, in a thick, strong voice. "Avris spoke very highly of you and your abilities."
They bowed in customary Ky'leinian fashion, their hands held together, with fingers always pointed toward the person to which they bowed.
"Thank you for having us," Katerin said.
He took a seat on a bench and gestured for them to do the same. He lacked the regal quality Avris held, but he had an air of command to his movements that were similar to Graiden's, in a much less formal way. "You're here to find your mother, yes? Drider was an excellent guest... we hope to see her again."
"Can you tell me what she did here? Who she was looking for?"
Ihr'kahn laughed, a deep rumbling sound. "Right to the point," he said. "She spent most of her time with the relic. She used it first upon herself. A ritual when one wishes to join our people. She was excited to do so." He paused, reaching for a large goblet of water. "Then she used it again. For a man named Arnet."
Katerin nodded, fear lingering in her stomach. "Arnet Voltspear?"
"That's the one. Though I don't know much else about him. Your mother kept her secrets close."
"Anything specific?" Katerin asked.
"She mentioned once that he dabbled in magic that was not to be messed with. Blood magic, and other, darker things."
Katerin felt a pit in her stomach as she remembered the Bloodstone. "Can I use this relic?"
Ihr'kahn gave her a serious look that faded quickly to a smile. "It is what you came for, is it not?" He took a long drink from his goblet. "Yes, you may use the relic. But speak with the sages first. It is a taxing thing and must be used properly. For your safety."
She nodded. This man was accustomed to fighting every day of his life. If he insisted that she exercise caution, it was wise for her to heed his words. "Thank you."
Fykes shifted, stepping slightly forward. "I heard you fight often with the orcs out here?"
Ihr'kahn nodded. "We do. They are a nuisance and raid us often. But we do well against them. Keep them busy enough, so they do not wander across the peaks." He gestured to a table. "Please, help yourselves to some food."
"Are there a lot of them?" Fykes asked.
Ihr'kahn shrugged. "Yes. But they never attack all at once. I think they see us as a never-ending conquest, to keep them busy."
Katerin floated in a small pool, clear, cold water covering over her. Only she and one of the sages had been allowed to enter this room, once the others had deemed Katerin fit to attempt the ritual. At the other end of the pool, a glowing orb sat upon a pedestal. It glowed yellow, golden and white, like an object of pure energy that somehow had a tangible form.
She took a deep breath and cleared her mind, letting the water cover all but her nose. She had taken quite a bit of time deciding who she would focus on, and she had decided earlier that morning.
She closed her eyes and focused, drifting away from her thoughts. Drifting away from herself, as the sages had instructed her. Her vision faded to black, and she no longer felt her body, her breath, or the water around her. No sound found its way to her consciousness as she let herself fade into the magic of the orb.
Suddenly white space was all she knew, and it clarified into an image. A memory.
*
A young boy stood rigid, with his fists clenched. As bandits raided a small farming village. His home.
He watched his parents hang their heads and shoulders low. Watched as the raiders took everything they had cultivated that year. He watched as his neighbors were beaten in the street for attempting to hide just a little of their food. This happened year after year. They came and took everything of value. Left his home starving and hard-pressed to survive the harsh embrace of winter. He was so angry. He wanted to fight them, to stop them. But his father had forbidden it. Told him that if they listened, they would survive and that if he fought, he could get them all killed.
*
The boy, a little older now, stood shaking in the square. The raiders were here again, too early this time. The harvest had been late and they had already stolen everything of value. Now, they beat people far more often on any excuse they could find, becoming more and more aggressive each year as no one did anything to stop them.
He could barely contain his anger, his shaking fists, as they pulled a terrified girl from the crowd, the one who helped him with writing and arithmetic. He heard her cries and pleas for help but squeezed his eyes shut and bowed his head. Angry as he had ever been, wishing and praying for this to stop.
As the boy grew, he began to resent his parents and the other people of the village. They stood aside and bowed because it was the easier path, and survival was all they cared about. He spent his days plotting and planning, watching with cold anger every time the raiders came to visit. He let his anger fuel him. His determination to beat these men down, to repay them for the years of punishment and torture on his family and his home.
Eventually, he realized he could not resent his family. These people were doing the best they could. No one was willing to make it worse. They needed someone to stand up for them and do what they could not.
*
He was now tall and broad of shoulder--no longer a boy--with thick muscles from the days working in the fields with the livestock, and from his time secretly fighting an invisible enemy behind the barn. He stood as he always did when the bandits returned, with his head lowered, fists clenched. His long brown hair covered his face and covered the mask of seething hatred he wore. The raiders had gathered all the people in the small square, all their belongings to be offered up. Two men jeered at a woman who refused to hand over a small sack of grain, though she pleaded to keep it for her new child—a baby only a few months old.
The men jeered, and one cocked back his arm, slamming a fist into her cheek as she pulled on the bag. The other laughed as she fell, and he moved to kick her as she huddled over the tiny form in her arms.
He snapped his eyes open and charged the man, drawing the raider's own blade and running the man through in a quick, violent motion.
The town was silent around him as the other man turned to face him. The raider tackled him, wrestling him to the ground, but he ran him through as well. The other five were more of a challenge than the first two, but he killed them all, eventually. Blood poured from more than one wound. He held the last of the raiders by the front of his armor, pinning him against the wall of a home.
He gave the man a warning—that any others who came here to pillage would be cut down without hesitation. He watched the man flee in terror as he leaned against the wall. Exhausted and wounded, but no longer terrified.
*
He stood at attention, again older, in a finely sewn commander uniform. It was not as fine as those in Uhm'bantha, but it was his. He walked the lines of his men—his recruits—with swelling pride. The blue and black of their uniforms was not the finest of cloth, but it was theirs. They had earned it with sweat and blood.
He was as proud of them as he was of his own children. He had trained them with a blade, showed them how to defend themselves, organized them, worked with them, protected towns with them, labored in the fields with them. They were family, as much as his wife and children were. He stood by their sides and fought with them to bring justice to those who sought power over smaller defenseless communities.
He taught his oldest son to fight, how to care for armor and how to command men. He taught his daughter how to grow the fields and grind flour. Showed his youngest how to read and plant flowers. His youngest son was much like his grandparents, holding no urges to fight, but Byron did not despise that as he once had.
The boy had no interest in a blade, but more in the art of healing. He was a peaceful child with much of his mother in him. He had pondered making him fight anyway, but as he watched the boy chase a butterfly, laughing with the innocence of childhood, he held nothing but love and compassion for his son and the countless people like him.
His wife called them all from the door of his modest but perfect home. He tucked in his children after a meal, reading them the same old stories from the same old book that he always did.
*
He stood in another small town, feeling torn, scratching the minuscule stubble on his chin. This place needed almost all the force he had to offer. It reminded him of how his home used to be, raided and destroyed at every turn, cowed and broken. The people begged and even his men stationed here begged him to take the job, saying the people needed it. He would give the order to march. His home was the safest place he could imagine because of all he had accomplished, and it would remain safe while he helped this town that reminded him so much of those days long past, where no one slept peacefully.
This could be a big step for him and his men. Bigger jobs could give him and his men a better opportunity to serve justice to those who tried to gain power and wealth through the manipulation of the people.
He paced back and forth, checking his uniform again. He waited as patiently as he could, but worries wormed through his mind. Maybe they had decided against attacking or seen the march coming to help the town and turned tail. He would wait until evening to hear the reports back from his scouts. The attack never came, and finally, after a few more days of anxiously awaiting, he gave the order to go home.
*
He stood on the main street of his home, looking at broken windows, smoldering buildings. Blood flowed through the streets, mixing with the rain.
Bodies lined the streets, filed the houses and the shops, and he knew every name. He walked numbly toward the square, toward his home. Praying that his home was safe, that his wife would be there smiling with a warm embrace to welcome him back. The small square held a lifetime of memories for him, and as he looked upon it now he fell to his knees and wept.
The large tree that had stood for eternity looked cold and gray. Lifeless, barren, and devoid of life. Blood soaked its roots and stained its bark, and four ropes hung from its thickest branches, each holding a body by the neck.
His youngest boy, innocent and kind. His daughter, stubborn and tough. His oldest son, a natural at command and better than anyone with a blade. His wife... the best woman he had ever, and would ever meet.
Gone.
He wept so long his tears turned to blood, and he fought his men as they dragged him to a cot and tended to him.
*
He stood now in another rainy town square. It had taken him months to exact his revenge. To find each man that had aided his destruction, and the murder of his family. Now there was only one left. He hoped this one would be the one to fix it all. To make it less painful, or make the nightmare disappear. Two of his most trusted men, his most favorite—when he had chosen favorites—held this last enemy before him, bound and shackled and still bloody from the questioning.
He had already known this man was the one responsible. One of his very own. A man who had months before begged him to stay in that small town where he was not needed, for the good of the people. A man who deserved all the pain he felt, in the moment.
"What will we do with him?" one of the men asked.
"Is there a tree here?"
The solider only nodded.
"Big enough for a noose? An oak would be best."
The solider paled, but nodded again.
He pulled the knife from his belt, and slit the beaten mans throat with less ceremony than he would have given a sheep he might eat for dinner. "Hang him in the tree, and leave him until he rots."
He felt powerful as he spoke. But a moment passed, and then another. Still, the pain in his chest did not lessen. For a moment there was horror over what he had done, but it was replaced by righteousness within a blink.
His men pulled the body away, and he watched the trail of blood without any feeling of remorse. He had his revenge. His justice. And still, it changed nothing. He still felt the same as he did that day in the square. Hollow, lesser, and as if all he wanted to do was weep.
It would change. He was only trying to rush things. Revenge had been found. The pain would ease, soon.
It had to.
*
He stood tall with his shoulders straight, as he always had. He kept the face of the man he was before. The hand of justice. Kept up the facade of justice and good, for his men. No one knew he had forsaken his oath, shoved aside his god of meaningless good and its empty promise of meaningless justice. The people only saw the perfect mask and looked no deeper. They saw no hint of his truth, of what he worshiped now.
And they never asked him of his family.
All the good he had done, all the lives he had saved, mattered not. Justice was not a constant, it was a naive dream. All the justice he had served had done little to stop the injustice and the betrayal committed upon him, and upon his home. It had spared him no pain, given him no comfort. He had felt like a child again, helpless and angry. He could not have saved them—for he had brought it upon them. Justice was fickle, an unreliable thing. Dependent on so many other twists of humanity and fate, but the pain was always there. Lurking where you thought it could never find you. Like an old friend, waiting with its arms outstretched.
So he found a new purpose and a new oath. He embraced the pain and its goddess. He listened to her direction, hungered to please her. He was made to feel pain—cause pain—embrace it upon himself and give it back out into the world. His cunning and logical mind had helped him in his pursuit of justice and would help him now.
He lounged in a chair, staring curiously at a blond elven man with a skeletal arm, as the elf enthusiastically explained how long he had searched under the goddess's direction to find him. Though he was disbelieving of the man at first, he soon learned they were very much alike. They followed the edicts of the same goddess, they sought the same goal, and they knew the same pain and betrayal.
The images, sounds, and thoughts slowly faded from Katerin. The last glimpse she got was of the two men standing upon a mountain, a black spire rising behind them.
She gasped, opening her eyes. The only person in the room was the sage, sitting quietly in the corner with a towel across her lap. Katerin pushed herself from the water and held her bare knees, letting her tears fall. She had seen and felt it all, and the emotions still clung to her, making her ill. So much anger and hatred, cunning and cold like the finest steel, so much love, and hope twisted to something bitter and cruel. And the pain... the pain was like a knife that had torn through her center and stolen away everything she loved—leaving her empty of all that was good, all that the heart yearned to find.
When she had chosen to look at Byron's life to better understand him, she had not believed she would feel it all, too. The room was spinning, and she was barely aware of the woman draping the towel across her shoulders. She tried to speak but nothing came out, and she focused solely on trying to breathe, when she closed her eyes, she could still see four bodies swaying with a rope about their necks, she could still feel the pain of that loss.
After some time, the sage came and helped her to her feet with steady hands, surely noticing that her own attempts had been failures.
"Thank you," she whispered, standing shakily.
The sage nodded sternly. "You need to eat. What you did is very taxing." She escorted Katerin from the chamber, to find Fykes and Arjiah just beyond.
"What happened?" Fykes said as he looked her over. She was pale, shaking and crying, her wet hair plastered to her face.
"She needs to rest and eat," the sage repeated sternly. "Let her take her time."
They helped her to the small root-home they shared. Fykes sat beside her while she slept, and was still there when she woke up, the familiar sketchbook in his hands.
Arjiah was across the room when she stirred. "Feeling any better?"
Katerin nodded. "I'm fine, now... sorry about that."
Fykes scoffed. "You going to tell us what happened?"
"It was strange. I saw his whole life... and... and I could feel it, too." Katerin shuddered.
"His?" Arjiah asked.
"I thought you were going to use it on your mother," Fykes said.
"No. I was... but our conversation about Arnet had me thinking," she said.
"You used it on Arnet?" Arjiah paled, her eyes widening.
"No. I used it on Byron."
It was Fykes' turn to pale. "Why?"
"My mother was here searching for Arnet. Ihr'kahn said he had a fondness for the darker forms of magic. And he had to be doing something big to gain attention..." She sighed. "Something that you might need a lot of blood and dark rituals for..."
"That doesn't mean they're working together, though. How did you connect this?"
"In the dreams... Byron told me he has my mother and that he could trade her back. Arnet's the one who would want the person trying to find him, right?" She shrugged. "He has her somewhere. In that tower, I think."
"Trade her back?" Arjiah asked, "For what?"
Katerin swallowed.
"Katerin what does he want? I'll—" Fykes' began.
"No!" she said, almost shouting. "We aren't trading him anything. I don't give a damn about the dreams."
"What is it that he wants?" Arjiah asked, in a soft and quiet tone.
Katerin sighed, trying to think of any way to change the subject. "He wants... he wants me to bring you to him." She looked at Fykes. "He said he would trade. One life for another."
Fykes' face grew angry, his posture stiff, and he said nothing.
"I would never—"
He grabbed her shoulders and hugged her, nearly pulling her off the bed, his lips on her forehead. "I know. I know... I'm so sorry," he said, voice almost breaking.
She leaned into his shoulder. "What do we do?" Usually, she was content to trust her own judgment. It was her best weapon, despite her recent practice. She was not physically strong, nor had she ever been coordinated. Her mind was all she had, but she had learned quickly since coming here that these two were the best help anyone had ever been to her.
They were knowledgeable in their own ways, ways that were not her strong suit. She was by no means infallible—her emotions could still overrule her logic easily enough if the subject was important to her. They had gone through a lot together. More than she could truly process in one sitting.
"We need to get to that tower," Fykes said.
Arjiah nodded. "We need a good place to assault it from. A plan. Pick a spot and simply wait for it."
"I can speak to Auglier and find out more about it," Fykes offered.
"I want to find out more about how it moves. Make sure we won't be stuck there, or come out somewhere else," Katerin said, her face a mask of anger and stress. "If Byron and Arnet are there... are we ready to face them again? Face him again?"
Fykes laughed and Arjiah gave her a mock hurt expression. "Of course we are, dear," Arjiah said. "We came out fine last time. And we'll be better prepared."
"Fine is an overstatement," Katerin said, eyeing the Amerlyian. She turned her gaze to Fykes who still looked gaunt, his eyes dull. Something had happened to him, and it had not yet healed. She remembered watching her father's eyes lose their color in the same way, and a shiver ran down her spine.
"She's right," Fykes said gesturing to Arjiah. "Besides. Brazen is really good in a fight. Got a penchant for disarming his opponents... literally." He grinned at his own joke.
Arjiah sighed, and Katerin smiled despite her mood. "True."
Brazen was still changing. He was becoming far more human than he had been. He was still completely naive in many things and still stuck to Katerin like glue. But his knowledge of fighting techniques and battle strategies was greater than anyone Katerin knew. He was strange, but he was an irreplaceable part of their little group, and it had been obvious for quite some time. No one felt right without him nearby. He had a fiercely protective nature, and more bravery than any knight.
Arjiah studied Katerin for a moment. Her eyes were still sunken and she still looked exhausted. "Are you okay?"
Katerin nodded, giving her a small smile. "I will be."
Arjiah studied her, and when she was satisfied with Katerin's words she stood up. "Then I'm going to go finish my tour of this place, and maybe go find Kura... I still have a bit of smoked fish," she said, leaving the room.
Katerin waited until she heard Arjiah leave the small house. She turned to Fykes, sitting beside her. "Is there any chance I can convince you to stay away from the tower?"
"No," he said, giving her a sidelong look.
"Fykes, they want you to be there and I—"
He sat up, frowning at her. "I'm going. I'm not going to sit on my hands while you're out fighting... I'm not going to leave you on your own. Not now, not ever." His tone was stern, but it held affection. "You can't ask me to do that."
"It would be safer if you didn't go."
"For me," he laughed. "I'm more worried about your safety. Finding your mother won't do any good if you're not alive to find your answers, will it?"
She groaned. Giving him a pleading look. "I don't want you to get hurt," she said. "He's going to do everything he can to kill you."
"I know." He smiled. "But I'm not going to argue this. I'm going with you, and we will end this together." He leaned toward her, looking at her earnestly.
She looked at him and her breath caught. 'Not now, not ever,' he had said. She wondered if he knew how he made her feel, though she doubted it. He was sharp, but never the most intuitive. She leaned toward him and kissed him. Not a quick peck, not just a brush of the lips. She moved so quickly he fell backward, laughing and pulling her close.
After a minute she pulled away and glared at him. "You are stubborn. And you are an idiot for insisting on walking into this." She tried for a reprimanding tone, but it did not match the flush in her cheeks and the look in her eyes.
He laughed again. "I've been called far worse than that, love."