The Chained Adept (1-4)

Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

“Are you saying this Rasesni was trained at the Collegium?” Zandaril asked Penrys as he led the way to an armory wagon, one of several that housed the squadron’s inventory of weapons. The mirror was stored there, to take advantage of the guards already in place.

“No, I don’t know that,” she said. “There may be many places where similar work is done.”

“Skill, blood, and power,” Zandaril muttered. At Penrys’s look, he explained. “Magic comes in different forms and is born in blood. In bloodlines it lives and sometimes skips generations, like hooded eyes or notable noses.”

She nodded.

“Skill can be learned,” he said. “Anyone with magic can better their skills. But power, well, that is partly inborn.”

“And partly not,” Penrys said. “There are ways to get more power.”

“And you are a maker of devices. You know something of how that can be done,” he said.

“Yes, I do.” She eyed him, sideways. “And you do not?”

How could he explain to her?

“It’s not right, to do this. Not… proper.” He could see she didn’t understand. “Good people don’t…”

He cleared his throat and tried again. “The little gods, the lud, would not…”

“Approve,” she suggested.

He detected an odd note in her voice. They walked on carefully through the darkened camp, where most of the fires burned low and the lights in the tents were extinguished. An occasional touch of smoke drifted their way.

“You know,” she said, at last, “the Collegium would almost agree with you. Except that they would consider the line to be drawn immediately after the inventions of the prior generation. It’s only advancement from that point that they consider… unsanctioned.”

This time the bitterness in her voice was clear.

“Yes, I make devices, I spent much of my time there learning how to do that. I’m sorry if it offends you.”

I’m not the one offended. “It’s not my affair,” he told her.

She made no reply.

“Truly, it is not. We of the Zannib do not do this, but other people have other gods.”

He glanced at her. Who are her gods, if she can remember nothing? Do they remember her?

He pointed to the guard walking a path around a group of wagons, drawn together side-by-side. “There, that’s the wagon where they put the mirror. Can you feel it?”

Penrys glanced at the wagon, its high wooden walls topped by a white covering looming out of the darkness in the distance. If not for the watch-fires nearby, she wouldn’t have been able to make it out. She noticed that the fires burned inside the guard’s circuit, so that his eyesight looking outward was not affected. The watchman silhouetted against the fire-light hesitated and then came to a stop to wait for them as he saw them headed his way. She couldn’t make out his back-lit features.

She checked to see if the mirror was detectable, slowing down as she concentrated, and Zandaril matched her pace. She scanned the wagon for a device’s power-stone, trying to see it clearly through all the iron and other metals stored there. Yes, there it was—a faint throb with an odd signature. What is that? What does that remind me of?

Cocking her head as she took another step, she poked further into it, and it vanished. Her instant of puzzlement was overwhelmed by the punch of air that knocked her down and tumbled her backwards. In the confusion, she glimpsed Zandaril rolling until he fetched up hard against the wheel of the wagon they had just passed. What happened? Why can’t I hear anything?

Time seemed to slow. She stopped moving, having ended up on her right side facing what was left of the armory wagons. The one she’d been examining was gone, utterly. A rain of objects flew through the air towards her. She tried to lift her arms to cover her head, but it took far too long. All around her she saw them hit the ground, some bouncing, and some sticking—fragments of swords, unidentifiable crushed metal, in silence, like a dream. Something heavy thumped her on the left shoulder and her arm went numb.

In the deathly stillness, she saw people running through the fire-lit darkness, flickering in and out of the dusty air. Their mouths were open, as if they were shouting. Where’s the guard? With her good arm she groped the ground, trying to brace herself to stand up, but she was clumsy and couldn’t seem to organize herself.

She gave up and looked for Zandaril again. He wasn’t moving. Leaning on her right arm, she hitched her way on her side in his direction, pulling herself through the trampled grass. She felt the juices sticking to her bare arm. Why is my arm bare? People ran past and ignored her. It was strange to see so much activity all around, and not hear a thing, not even her own heartbeat. Her left arm didn’t hurt, but it flopped around loosely in a way that worried her, distantly. She avoided looking at it.

One thing at a time. Let’s find out if he’s alive. She blinked and felt tears trying to wash the dust out of her eyes. Come on, it’s not that far. Is he breathing?

She started to bespeak him, to check on him, but stopped. I shouldn’t do that. That puzzled her. Why not? Something inside told her, it went wrong last time. She didn’t understand why she hesitated, but didn’t let it stop her from dragging herself closer to the wheel where Zandaril lay, crumpled sideways on the ground.

She reached one out-flung foot, stocking-clad. Why was he out here without his boots? The other leg was still shod, and she couldn’t make sense of that. She glanced at her own feet. Still have my own shoes. That’s good.

She pulled herself up alongside him and leaned on the wheel next to his body. Skin to skin should be safe. She held her right hand up in front of her face, surprised at how filthy it was, clods of dirt and bits of grass smeared everywhere. Reaching over her left side, averting her eyes from whatever was wrong there, she laid it along his throat.

It pulsed, and she could feel the shallow breaths. Good. She lay back against the wheel to rest. I think I’ll just sit here a while and see if things get any better.

From a great distance away, she could hear a dull wash of undifferentiated noise. She half-closed her eyes and let her vision blur to match it—the shadows and movements were restful, undemanding.