“Follow me,” is all the guard says before rushing out of the room. Flummoxed, Cerylia gathers the bottom of her robes, trailing the guard all the way out of the castle and down the hill to the stables. He gestures to a bare stall. “Whitley is missing, Your Greatness.”
Cerylia rushes inside to see for herself, grabbing hold of the metal bars. Sure enough, the horse is gone. “When did you first take notice?”
“Not but ten minutes ago. I came to you as soon as I realized it.”
“Any sign of anyone leaving the castle?”
He shakes his head.
One glance at the ground reveals a pair of footprints leading away from the stables. “Then how do you explain this?”
The guard merely shrugs.
A pit forms in her stomach. Without saying another word, she pushes past the guard and hurries back to the castle. She climbs the many steps to Braxton’s room, only to find that it’s locked. She calls for Delwynn, full well knowing that he can’t hear her, but stops as she sees another guard rushing toward her.
“Open this door immediately!”
“Your Greatness, I don’t have a key.”
“What good is your armor if you can’t bust down a door?”
He seems to consider this, then bashes into the door—one, two, three times—but it doesn’t budge.
“Again,” she orders.
He switches sides, aiming for the weakest part of the door with his left shoulder. Four, five, six. She’s about to kick the damn thing down herself when it finally flies open to reveal exactly what she’d feared.
Yet another Caldari has fled Sardoria.
BRAXTON HORNSBY
DUSK IS UPON him and there’s still no sign of Xerin. Where he’s gone, Braxton hasn’t even the slightest inkling, but he’s made sure to scour every inch of the perimeter. Much to his dismay, he’s alone—besides the company of Whitley.
The horse neighs upon his return. Braxton gives her a soothing pat on the side of her face, then grabs the reins and secures them to a low-hanging branch. Realizing that he’ll probably have to settle in for the night, he begins to scout the area for some shelter. He’s nowhere near the mountain range, so caverns aren’t even a remote possibility. There are a few streams and small burrows dotted along the bank, but the likelihood of finding a hollowed out cavity to sleep in is dismal. He gazes upward at the many trees surrounding him. In this part of the woods, the branches are thick enough to hold him—but he’ll have to rig together some sort of hammock if he hopes to get any sleep.
The sun continues its descent at an increasing speed, and Braxton works quickly to see what supplies he’d been smart enough to throw into his knapsack. He pulls out the harness he’d been able to detach during his escape from Sardoria, but not the lengthy rope that had aided him in landing safely on the ground. His hand sweeps over a wrinkled linen, and fortunately, some knotted rope. It’s not as much as he’d hoped, but if his time in Athia had taught him anything, it’s that he can do a lot with very little. He pulls the linen from his bag, sizing up the length. It’s narrow, but a little over his height.
The chirping of crickets signals the impending nightfall. He doesn’t have much time. On a whim, he chooses a set of trees with the thickest branches. They look sturdy enough to hold him, and they’re close enough in proximity to set up his makeshift bed for the evening. He stuffs the items back in his bag and approaches the tree that looks the easiest to scale. With an underhand grip on one of the branches, he braces his left foot against the bark, then his right. With his other hand, he grabs the branch diagonal to him and repeats until he’s shimmying his way up the tree.
He’s panting and sore by the time he reaches the halfway point, having used muscles that an average innkeeper would never use. He peers below to ensure that Whitley’s still there. Even from this distance, it appears she’s fallen asleep standing up.
For the first time in my life, I envy a horse.
Refocusing, Braxton wiggles his knapsack off and retrieves the necessary items. He works quickly to knot the ends of the linen to make a small loop on either side, then expertly weaves the rope through the openings. He pulls the ends of the linen taut, but the only way to test its sturdiness is to attach it to the tree and apply weight.
Meaning he has to lay on it.
He narrows his eyes, squinting in the fading daylight, as he secures the rope around two trees opposite one other. Fortunately, there’s a thick branch right beneath him to catch his fall—if it comes to that. He places his hand in the middle of the linen and presses down, but, as assumed, it doesn’t give much indication as to how much weight it can hold.
With a grunt, he keeps one hand on the branch he’s currently sitting on, then scoots his body until he’s completely engulfed in the fabric. His heart nearly stops as he feels the linen sink lower and lower, but eventually, it reaches a stopping point. He loosens his grip on the branch, squeezing his eyes shut as he allows the hammock to absorb the full weight of his body. He tries to still the persistent images of plummeting to his death in the middle of the night to no avail. When he opens his eyes again, twilight has fallen all around him. His gaze travels to the sky. From up here, the thickness of the canopy isn’t nearly as full, making the stars and constellations shine ten times brighter than if he were on the ground. The sight nearly takes his breath away, and it immediately reminds him of when he used to live in Athia—when he’d sneak away from the inn and go fishing late at night at Lake Ipcea.
He’d loved going there for the silence, the oneness he’d felt with nature. He’d sit there for hours, sometimes delaying his fishing because he hadn’t wanted to disrupt the stillness of the water—a perfect reflection of the night sky with its glowing moon and flickering stars. It’d always been a pleasant experience, going to Lake Ipcea.
Except for that last visit.
When he’d met Xerin.
The memory flashes across his mind—of the young boy with crimson eyes who’d greeted him that night. A shiver works its way down his spine.
Where had Xerin gone tonight? Why hadn’t he said anything? Why hadn’t he returned? And how was he able to disappear so quickly, so quietly, without so much as a trace?
He braves another look over the side of the linen in
hopes of seeing another horse, or better yet, another human—but there’s only Whitley. With a sigh, he carefully rolls back onto his shoulders, then folds his hands and places them underneath his head.
Xerin is not tonight’s problem—sleep is.
He inches down until his left foot makes contact with the tree, then pushes off with it. The hammock begins to sway, rocking steadily, left to right, right to left, until his eyes finally close, engulfing him in a sea of black.
ARDEN ELIRI
AT A TIME such as this, how I wish I had a way to utilize Haskell’s abilities. I’ve frantically been running back and forth from the cave to where Haskell lay, bringing all the supplies my arms can carry. I dump the most recent haul onto the ground next to my brother. I kneel to check his pulse. His heart’s still beating, and he’s still breathing, but he remains unconscious.