“The symbol itself could represent something entirely different in your world. It is not uncommon for words and ideas to lose their original purpose as they’re passed down through generations and appropriated by other cultures.” She shakes her head slowly. “But it means you have much to reveal during our travel north.”
A shout rings out, pulling our attention to the fence line, where wagons and soldiers on horseback appear like apparitions through the mist. Rengard is at the front, his plum-purple cloak marking him among silver armor.
I curse, scouring the camp until I spot the curly brown mop among the horses. “Pan!” I holler, waving him over.
“That is the mortal? He looks so young,” Gesine notes as he jogs toward us.
“He’s eighteen, though he seems a lot younger sometimes.”
“Hey, Romy,” he says, panting. “You were right about Eden. She’s great. Helped me get set up with a bed and a meal, and now I’m helping—”
“I’m happy to hear it, Pan. But right now, I need you to give us your hand so Gesine can mark it like we talked about last night.”
“Mark it?” He squirms as he looks at her.
She bows, shifting into her usual serene demeanor. “Hello, Pan. I am Caster Gesine, and I’m here—”
“You’re a caster? Like a real one?” His eyes widen. “I heard people talkin’ about you, but—”
“Pan!” I cut him off. I’m learning the guy blathers when he’s nervous. “We need to do this now.”
“Okay.” His head bobs. “Is it gonna hurt?”
“Not as much as what Abarrane will do to you if we don’t get you marked before Rengard arrives.”
Pan’s arm shoots out.
“So, this is what’s left of the Legion.” Lord Rengard’s gaze swings over the trampled grounds and the warriors readying their horses. His face is a portrait of noble elven tranquility, his skin smooth across high cheekbones. He seems older than Zander, though by Zander’s words, they grew up together. Maybe it’s the gray hair that ages him.
Is it surprise or concern that laces his tone?
“Each of them is worth fifty soldiers,” Zander says coolly. He appeared as the company pulled in, his tall, powerful form a portrait of confidence strolling across the foggy camp.
But I now know it’s all an illusion to hide the weight of the turmoil that tortures him.
My chest aches as I watch him close in on the nobleman.
Rengard drops from his saddle, his boots hitting the ground with barely a sound. “Can I assume the smoldering bodies we passed on the road here are thanks to you?”
The two leaders clasp each other’s wrists. Anyone watching can see they’re more than court acquaintances, more than a king and his nobleman.
They are friends.
“Raiders attacked us on our return last night.”
“They did not realize who they were challenging, Your Highness.”
“They learned. Thank you for this.” Zander waves a hand toward the four wagons, each one twice the size of the sanctum’s rickety cart and constructed with solid wooden walls painted in deep burgundies and forest greens rather than simple stretched leather canvas.
“You will find plenty of provisions inside for your travels north. Grains and cured meats, warm skins, new leathers, and weapons, including a few from my collection. And enough tributaries to satisfy this lot, hopefully.”
Zander’s brow pinches. “We’ve discussed this already. It is not safe for mortals where we are going, and the trip will be grueling.”
“I would wager it is not safe for any of you. And it will be far less so if you are too weakened to fight. But fear not, I asked rather than ordered, and they agreed to aid their king. They are skilled in various tasks, whether it be cooking or mending or hunting, so they will prove valuable in more ways than one.”
“It is more likely their loyalty to their lord that sees them here. Still … thank you.” Zander dips his head. “In return, we have seven mortals from Freywich who want to find homes in Bellcross. Good homes with decent keepers.”
“I will make it so, my king.”