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Because he wasn’t familiar with the track Arwen had laid out for him to take to Ezra’s compound, Bryar would have been more comfortable taking the busier routes through Stanstead and the Motherhouse. The total absence of habitation along the heavily timbered route felt unnatural. He had walked most of the Midland in his days as a Weaver, and he couldn’t remember ever experiencing such complete isolation.
Still, the barely budding trees allowed sunlight through, warming both his body and his spirits. There were songs embedded in this land. As soon as Ezra removed the shield, he’d return and find them. His mind tingled at the prospect. By his reckoning he’d reach Ezra’s tomorrow, deliver the cell, and be free to resume his life.
He set up his camp later than usual, in a small, natural clearing a few paces off the trail. The ground was stony and uneven, but the best option in the dense woodland. Nights still arrived early, although equinox had to be soon. He ate his simple meal of dried meat, waybread, and a handful of abricoes, by the light of a laboriously created fire – if ever he missed access to templates, it was in fire building – and rolled himself into his blankets almost immediately afterwards, the pack with its dangerous cargo beside him. For three days, the cell had never been more than an arm’s length away.
He woke abruptly, sometime in the night. Had there been a noise, or a change in the quality of the darkness?
Through slitted eyes he watched as a man hunched over the pack, silhouetted by the embers of his fire.
His months of training stood him in good stead. Bryar moved smoothly out of his bedroll and approached, relying on the noise created by the man’s unguarded rummaging to cover any sound.
He’d pin the guy down, then find out where he came from and how he knew there was anything in the pack worth stealing. His Weaver’s sash kept him safe from the ordinary criminals who populated the more isolated parts of the Midland, but this was different. Intentional.
Bryar lunged. His arm locked around the man’s neck as he pounded his lower ribs with his free hand. The man bucked, but Bryar knocked him off balance, throwing him to the ground.
From out of nowhere, a weight slammed into his back, sending him flying onto the dying embers of the fire.
He screamed.
“Hold ’im, Jeffy.” The first man staggered to his feet even as iron hands hauled him up, locking his arms.
This wasn’t sparring with Joss. This was real.
The burn set his chest on fire. He ignored it. He kicked back and high; years of acrobatic performances had given him the flexibility he needed. The man holding him howled and relaxed his grip. Bryar pulled free, wheeled, and launched a vicious fist toward the man’s face.
Only to be grabbed from behind again and thrown, his cheekbone smashing into a jagged rock as the man seized the pack and spilled its contents onto the ground.
Jeffy took advantage of the opportunity and landed blows to Bryar’s face, his gut. The pain and loss of air paralyzed him just long enough for the first man to call out, “Got it.” He held up the cell. Its golden surface glinted in the remnants of firelight.
“What else’s in there?”
“Dirt.” He upended the bag, dumping the protective mulch. Bryar watched through eyes half closed against the pain, struggling to catch his breath. “Who the hell carries a bag full of dirt?”
“Reckon we should leave it packed that way. That’s what he said to do.”
“And he’ll never know, will he? I ain’t carryin’ that weight. We can replace it when we’re close.”
“Suits me. Anything else worth havin’ in there?”
“Nah. Bunch of primitives this side.” The man tossed the power cell into the air, caught it. “This here’s treasure, man. Pure and simple.”
With Jeffy’s attention diverted, Bryar gathered every bit of strength he had left and dove low. He caught the first man’s ankle and yanked. Man and cell went flying.
Jeffy landed on him, nailing him to the ground. A series of brutal kicks pummeled his midsection. The world grew darker, then blinked out entirely.
When Bryar came to in the dim pre-dawn light, the men were gone, leaving his plundered pack and the pile of mulch behind.
One day to Ezra’s, assuming he could walk. More cuts and bruises than he could count, unable to breathe through his nose, his chest blistered from the fire, an eye swollen shut, and his insides pounded into mush.
And his mission a failure, the unshielded cell almost certainly creating havoc among Weavers all over the Midland.
Diou, but he needed a Healer.
~~
PANIC-STRICKEN, WILLOW jolted from sleep in the depths of night, to find herself lost in a far too familiar feeling.
The Aura. Gone.
A relentless pounding filled the suite, not stemming from a dream. Struggling to get her heart rate under control, she pulled on a robe and opened the door to an anxious messenger kid. “Sorry to disturb you, Sister. It’s Quinn, from Scribes. She says it’s urgent.”
“Send her up, please.”
“No, she wants that you meet in the conference room, over in the Centra. Fast as you can get there, she said.”
Her prevailing nightmare was that Gauvain’s repair work would fail, casting her once again into the flatness of a world without the Aura. But it wasn’t just her. This was worse.
Quinn’s call to concrete action dispelled the lingering miasma of dread. “I’ll be there,” she assured the girl, then closed the door and swiftly donned a tunic and sandals. With a shawl thrown around her shoulders, she rushed across the green.
In the meeting room, she found the entire board assembled. Even Fergus, usually the most light-hearted of them, looked rumpled and troubled. Arwen alone appeared alert, her clothing and hair impeccable. “Speak,” she demanded of the council, wasting no time.
Willow circled the table and chose a seat next to Quinn, who gave her hand a quick squeeze.
“We need to find Bryar. Someone’s taken the cell, sure as anything.” Daren spoke with assurance, although his demeanor suggested as much annoyance as concern. Willow suspected he hadn’t been alone when the call to meet went out.
“How?” Arwen’s question fell like a... like a pod from space, Willow decided, crashing among them and leaving more problems than answers. They had no way of tracking Bryar, other than hoping to find him on the trail to either Ezra’s or the Motherhouse.
Until that moment, she hadn’t been sufficiently awake to think past those possibilities. He could be lying wounded or...
Sustainer, help him. Help us.
Shaken, she missed the next part of the conversation, snapping back when Daren, as her guild leader, spoke directly to her.
“Willow, you’re the logical person to go. I’m sorry about your planned return to Hallan, but this takes precedence.”
“I beg your pardon, I-”
“He’ll be all right, lass,” Fergus said. “There never was a harder head than Bryar’s. He’s too stubborn to let this kill him.”
“He may need a Healer, though,” Daren said.
“But the Aura...,” Willow began.
“It is what it is. You have healing skills, and your presence will be an assurance.” Arwen’s voice told them she brooked no argument. “You’re already packed. We will assume he was on his way to Ezra’s. You and Quinn be prepared to leave at daybreak. Check with me before you go.”
Quinn gave a brusque nod. So far, she hadn’t contributed to the discussion.
“Any thought about what might have happened?” Cynth asked.
Daren shook his head. “Not for sure. But that distant from settlements, and unshielding the thing... my gut says it isn’t one of the local robbers.”
“Surely it couldn’t be... not Gauvain.” Willow stammered over the question, stunned by the prospect, however unlikely, of his world invading hers.
“Why not?” Arwen’s eyebrows rose as her gaze bored into Willow, challenging her statement.
“Because... he wouldn’t... would he? Is he this side of the hills? Could he send anyone else? How?” The questions chased each other, forming a whirlwind in her head.
Quinn’s cool hand rested on her arm. She took a breath.
“Possibly,” Daren said. “Not long after you returned, we noticed activity in the hills. You tell us, Willow. Is he powerful enough to get a henchman through the spells? Or desperate enough to come himself?”
Quinn’s touch worked its magic; Willow allowed her mind to calm. “Desperate, no. Powerful... maybe. They don’t have a comprehensive training program like we do. He may well know people with Entrée but minimal or no training, who’d be willing to risk the hills.”
“Cutthroats,” Fergus muttered.
“It is possible it’s someone from our side,” Cynth pointed out.
“Yes,” Arwen agreed. “It’s possible. But I don’t believe it.”
“We could talk around this all night,” Daren said. “I suggest we let Willow and Quinn get some sleep. If it helps,” he added to Quinn, “I’ll arrange your trail rations with the kitchen. Then the two of you can grab them in the morning, talk to Arwen, and go.”
“Thanks.”
Willow watched as Quinn and Daren exchanged a smile, one that answered her idle curiosity about who Daren had been with tonight. She’d suspected for a while that they were occasional lovers; now she was sure.
“That’s it, then.” Arwen dismissed them, and the council showed little desire to linger to discuss the Aura’s disappearance as they drifted back to their lodges.
~~
AT THE SIGHT OF EZRA’S homestead, Bryar went weak in the knees with relief. Two days of agony to complete an easy one-day journey. The pain in his side was the worst; he suspected a broken or bruised rib. Swelling prevented the use of his left eye. He hadn’t dared remove his clothing to check on the welts and bruises. If he did, he’d likely never find the energy to dress again and push forward.
He stumbled up the steps to the front porch. Even Rebecca’s vile potions sounded better than the pain and exhaustion assaulting him. Although much lighter without the cell and its protective contents, his pack still felt like a dead weight. He let it drop.
Failure. And worse, because the bastards didn’t have the sense to shield their prize.
Before he could do more than step over the threshold, they were with him, his two oldest friends, Quinn supporting him, Willow soothing his hair back from his face.
Later, after they’d stripped and bathed him, doctored his wounds and eased him into bed, he finally allowed himself to relax. The ordeal over, he gave them an abbreviated version of what had happened.
No detail needed. His battered body told the story.
For the next two days, they were in and out, pouring healing tisanes down his throat, changing the poultices on his wounds. On the third morning, he sat up on his own, allowed Willow to administer to the nasty bruise under his eye, and ate every bite of the porridge Rebecca brought him. “Caff?” he asked, almost the first words he’d risked.
“Tisanes only, until you’re better.” Willow was brisk.
“The Aura?”
She smiled sadly. “It’s good to see you’re curious. Let me call the others. It’s time for a confab.”
Ezra and Rebecca, Quinn and Willow gathered around his bed and gave him the grim news. “We don’t believe these were ordinary brigands. We believe the cell’s on its way across the hills.” That was Quinn, not sugar-coating her words.
“Gauvain?” he asked. The man had saved his life, but he radiated a sinister energy. Bryar had hated watching Willow descend into Borgonne to be with him.
“Perhaps,” Ezra said.
“If they cross the hills, they’ll need twelve or thirteen days,” Quinn said. “Hopefully, the cell will end up with Gauvain, because he’ll shield it immediately. This affects him as much as us.”
“How is your head?” Ezra asked Bryar. “Do you sense the weave?”
“What’s caused by the weave and what by the cell... I can’t tell.”
“I would remove it if I could, to lessen the pressure on your head. Unfortunately, without the Aura, I can’t guarantee it’s even there.” Ezra’s hand twitched as it moved toward Bryar, as if to work with the currently inaccessible energy, then fell back.
“In the meantime,” Quinn said to Ezra, “teach me what you’ve done. More than one person should understand the template, and I found nothing in the Aura.”
“We’ll work together today. The screening weave needs to be added to our fund of knowledge – but for this, we rely on written records. The Mages of Borgonne may be able to access our records in the Aura – we’ve certainly tried to retrieve theirs. The potential value of this is too great to risk losing control.”
“Agreed.” Quinn’s voice was grim, as it had been most of the time since they’d reunited.
Bryar swallowed hard. “I’m sorry. I’ll do whatever-”
“Hush, dear.” Rebecca’s hand soothed his arm, as if she really were his mother.
“You are not at fault, Bryar,” Ezra said. “We never expected an assault like this. It means only that our work is not done.”
“We must get it back somehow,” Willow said softly from her perch on his bed. “But if it means going to Borgonne... I’m not sure I can agree to that.”
Bryar sagged against his pillows. “I can’t even contemplate it yet. But I promise.” He stopped and swallowed again, both because his throat pained him and for courage. “I’ll retrieve the cell. Here, Borgonne, wherever. I’ll do it.”
Willow planted a gentle kiss on his less scarred cheek – by chance, the right one, without the birthmark. Ezra ushered Rebecca from the room, Willow in their wake. Quinn lingered.
“What?” He was exhausted. Couldn’t she just go and let him sleep?
“Something else is bothering you.”
“You’re imagining things.”
“I’m not. I know you too well.”
She perched on the edge of his bed and waited. Bryar sighed. Knowing Quinn, she’d still be there if he dozed off. “Tai,” he said.
“Being here brings it all back?”
“Yeah. Quinn...” He hesitated, knowing that even speaking the words risked rending his heart open. “...do you think there’s any chance....”
“That she’s alive? Yes, I do.” Quinn rested her hand on his bare arm, her fingers smoothing the blond hairs. “No one in Scribes thinks Tai’s dead.” She studied him for a moment. “I don’t have an answer. Tai’s always been like this, following her own path. Years ago I vowed never to seek leadership of the Scribes’ guild, for that very reason. I don’t want to try to control her.”
“Neither do I. But damn it-”
“Let it go, Bry. She goes her own way. I don’t know where she is, and I suspect she disappeared so she wouldn’t be a distraction, but I have no proof of that. There’s nothing to do but wait.”
“I’ve been to hell and back.”
“Maybe that’s what she planned. You’re a warrior now. Her going tempered you.”
“I’m so tired, Quinn,” he whispered.
“You’ll get your strength back. We rely on you, love.”
He smiled. Quinn never used endearments. The brush of her fingers on his arm was soothing. He let weariness overtake him.
Quinn leaned over and dropped a kiss on his forehead, an echo of Willow’s.
Not Tai, but they cared.
He drifted into sleep.