4: The Journey South (Part I)

Chapter 4: The Journey South (Part I)

The Time: Present day, 720 A.E.

The Place: The kingdom of Saimr

The night before the convoy is set to depart, a lone figure crosses the grounds. They walk slowly, but not aimlessly—every step is crisp and purposeful, not a single movement wasted. The moon is high and the sky is clear. The air is alive with the sounds of the woodland nightlife outside the walls.

It’s very late. Almost every candlelight in almost every window is extinguished. Only the evening patrols disturb the stillness, making their quiet rounds.

“Matron,” they murmur when the figure passes them by, but they receive no acknowledgement. They don’t seem to expect it. They don’t seem surprised by the encounter, either.

The figure crosses the bridge spanning the western towers. They slip through the pavilion that Nila ate pastries in not so long ago. They descend the stairway. And finally they approach the Queen’s Garden, the click of their boots on the cobblestones echoing in the enclosed courtyard.

Before, the figure strode forward relentlessly, but now their gait becomes leisurely, almost meditative. They stop frequently to examine some shrubbery or flowerbed or decorative statue, arms clasped sedately behind their back. Sometimes they linger for only a moment. Sometimes for several.

There are still clumps of dried weeds glued to the edges of the cobblestone that the sole keepers of this garden have yet to clear. They’re quite recent—Preceptor Ari had kept her promise to punish her junior disciples for fighting with another long shift in the garden. The figure stops before one especially large clump and almost thoughtlessly toes it with the elegant tip of one dark boot. The clump shudders and then begins to wither. Within seconds, it’s nothing more than dust. Evidently satisfied, the figure continues their stroll.

No one is here to watch, but if anyone just so happened to look very closely, they’d notice the way the flowers dance when the figure passes, the way the boughs of shrubs and trees stretch hungrily towards them, leaves rattling. They’d see the empty sockets of the carved stone idols wink with pale, eerie light. They’d see wilting blooms on the brink of yellowing suddenly perk right up; they’d see scuttling pests and parasites shrivel and burn.

The garden doesn’t look enormously different afterwards. The improvements are subtle, easily missed.

When the figure reaches the bench and the dragon-head fountain, they stop for a moment, folding the starchy lines of their cloak neatly around them as they sit. Their posture is straight-backed and elegant—their body may be at rest, but their mind is perfectly alert. They remain here for quite some time, silent and unmoving.

Partway through this strange ritual, they reach into the recesses of that aggressively unwrinkled cloak and withdraw what looks like a necklace. Strung through a delicate golden chain is a symbol that any witch would recognize—a very finely-made talisman of the Fell Empress as the First Dragon. Or, it was likely finely-made at one point. One of the dragon’s black wings appears to have been partially melted, and the chain is obviously newer than the charm.

The figure’s gloved fingers stroke the outlines of the charm over and over, tirelessly, tenderly, obsessively. Fingertips ghosting across a lover’s sleeping face. And then, all at once, those fingers clench tight and furious over the talisman’s battered surface. The fingertips brushing their beloved’s dewy cheeks now clutch that person’s delicate throat. The metal creaks and groans but does not bend—which speaks well of the strength of its craftsmanship, for this grasp could easily crush bone.

After many long minutes, those powerful fingers relax. The necklace disappears back into the cloak, and the figure stands, detached and unconcerned. They leave as sedately as they entered, and there is naught in their expression but icy indifference.

The garden falls still and silent again in their absence.

***

It’s a cool, misty morning when the convoy sets out from Kachai Fortress. Though the city of Vaomeze isn’t far away, there’s a strip of pristine woodland separating the provincial capital from the fortress. As such, the stretch of dirt road that winds south from the fortress’s gates is quiet, empty, and enclosed by towering green walls of firs, pines, and spruces on either side. The only sounds come from the chorale of songbirds, the chittering of diurnal insects, the rumbling of carriage wheels, and the snorts and yips and growls of the barghests conveying riders in sturdy traveling gear.

The Grand Matron rides in the front of this procession and Ari—with Varul strapped to her hip, transformed into an unassuming dagger of dull bronze—volunteers to bring up the rear, sandwiching the convoy between two of its strongest warcasters. It’s extraordinarily unlikely they’ll run into real trouble on the road, but unlikely is not impossible. The disciples ride in the middle of the line, with the youngest and least accomplished in the very center.

Still, despite their cautious formation, it’s obvious the members of this convoy are quite relaxed. Riders trot shoulder-to-shoulder, chatting amiably with their creed relatives. Within the dignified passenger carriages, the matrons are free to read, smoke, sip tea, nibble perishable snacks, and meditate. Five of the six matrons partake.

The convoy consists of a little over thirty souls. Aside from the invitees, the extra bodies are mostly members of the Lašar—the coven’s trained sentinels. Only these well-trained guards remain totally alert. Several of them scout ahead in pairs.

It’s a bit lonely at the back of this train, but with a week of sleep deprivation and anxiety dragging her down, Ari for once doesn’t mind the solitude. Besides, it could be worse! Lašar Commander Enahi is no doubt lurking around somewhere, but she hasn’t bothered Ari yet. That’s a win no matter how you count it.

Still, she can’t help but glance back as the fortress slowly grows smaller and less distinct behind them, a stony gray splotch against the looming peaks of the Alatali Mountains. Soon she can’t even make out the coven’s insignia on the navy banners hanging from the walls, or the dragon-claw gouges left behind on the roofs by Syuasi years ago. Ari hasn’t left Kachai Fortress for longer than a few days since she wandered here after her rebirth. She feels as unsettled as a child lost at the market.

It’s a ridiculous feeling, but knowing that doesn’t loosen its hold on her.

At least focusing on the simple pleasure of riding lifts her mood. The barghest beneath her is one of her favorites—she’s a tall, energetic yearling named Techa (the Saimerian word for pumpkin). Her short coat shines the color of roasted chestnuts in the gentle morning sunlight, and her massive head with its heavy, powerful jaws turns this way and that as they move, lively and inquisitive. Her short ears remain pricked; her dark tongue lolls from an open mouth studded with teeth as long and thick as Ari’s fingers.

Barghests make excellent mounts, and almost every coven utilizes them. Mundane animals shy from witches almost without exception, but barghests are lesser demons: clever, sociable, resilient, obedient when trained from birth, swift on their feet, fierce in battle, and easy to feed—they primarily subsist upon ambient anima and only occasionally need to hunt. Once summoned from the Eight Heavens, they can reside comfortably in the material plane for the rest of their lives, even to the point of mating and bearing native-born offspring.

Really, of the so-called Five Sisters (Saimr’s five top covens), only the Meye Veless Coven of Tsimeda prefers mounts of a different sort. Of course, that’s because Meye Veless is primarily composed of Deep Elves like the queen, and most of their witches and priests are pilgrims from Leviathan’s Gossamer Church. And true to its name, the Gossamer Church reveres spiders above all else.

In two weeks, Ari is going to have to enter a city filled to the brim with giant spiders. If her disciples ever cause her grief again, she’s going to remind them of this until the day they die.

The convoy slowly but steadily trundles its way through the tunnel of peaceful conifers until the worn dirt road opens out onto the royal highway proper—which is wide enough for three carriages to ride abreast, paved with rugged stone, and flanked by drainage ditches on either side. With the tree cover thinning, it’s also possible to make out the walled city of Vaomeze a short ride to the east. The convoy continues south, of course. As morning marches towards noon, they encounter a handful of other travelers, mostly merchants or farmers who steer well clear of their convoy.

By the end of hour two, Ari’s peace with her own isolation has begun to falter. She’s a chatterbox at heart; rugged solitude just isn’t for her. She could break formation, but the only other Preceptor on this journey rides far ahead of her on purpose and the Matrons are boxed up in their carriages, closed off from the outside world. That just leaves the disciples—but what kind of sad weirdo imposes herself on a bunch of teenagers?

Ari sighs. With little else to do besides keeping an eye and ear out for trouble, she at last decides to people-watch the procession of youths in front of her, who are certainly more energetic than she feels. Even the burgeoning noon heat can’t dampen their excitement.

In this arrangement, her ducklings are on the very outskirts of the central huddle with the rest of the older crop of disciples. It takes her only a moment to pick them out of the crowd: there’s Ambren, riding an old, gentle, white-furred bitch named Gugua (Snowmelt). He’s perhaps the least comfortable on a mount, so Gugua’s subdued nature suits him. Still, he looks at ease, chatting politely with the clique of hangers-on encircling him. Though Ambren technically lacks a clan name or any outstanding reputation, his looks, personality, and elven mystique have made him quite popular anyway. Though a good number of young girls subtly compete to steal the spot closest to him, the person that’s actually glued to his side, chin raised imperiously, is Tselai.

Unlike the other disciples, Tselai wears an embroidered traveling cloak of fine make, and he rides like he was born in the saddle. His long, flaxen-blond ponytail is nearly blinding in the morning sun—to say nothing of the expensive-looking hair ornament holding it in place. Ari shakes her head in fond exasperation. She gives it three days before he’s so sick of being on the road that he doesn’t bother dressing up anymore. He doesn’t converse as freely with his creedmates, but even so the crowd of leeches clinging to him is even larger than Ambren’s.

She has to search a bit harder for Ranan, but when she finally spots him, her heart squeezes.

He’s all by himself.

At first, his expression is bright and animated as he tries to keep pace with the crowd, leaning eagerly forward in his saddle to catch the wisps of conversation drifting back his way. But every time he tries to participate, he’s ignored entirely. No one looks back at him. No one offers him a trail snack or invites him to play any of their stupid travel games. He keeps trying, though, offering up little jokes and earnest questions until one of the bolder disciples, a girl riding directly in front of him, finally rolls her eyes and snaps, “I don’t know if you’re stubborn or just stupid, but will you please shut up? You’ve been bothering us non-stop since we left. It’s really annoying.”

Ranan doesn’t say anything, but his smile immediately drops. All of the pent-up elation in his posture drains away. A moment later, his barghest slows—and, heedless of the anguish they’ve just inflicted, the group ahead of him trots away. The distance between them is short, but it might as well be uncountable miles. Ranan gazes after that group for a long time. Then he lowers his head and stares resolutely at the ground, shoulders drawn up tight.

Ari’s heart breaks into a hundred tiny pieces. Her poor Ranan-ša! That boisterous little pup might complain endlessly about nonsense problems that don’t matter, but the things that really bother him, he endures in placid silence.

She can’t help but be reminded of the scrawny kid a recruiting patrol brought back from the streets of Vaomeze two years ago—malnourished, filthy, bruised, and yet somehow still smiling, somehow still unbroken. And yet for all his hard work and all his skill, he hasn’t found his place here. This is his only home in all the world, these people his only family, and yet nearly every time she sees him he’s alone.

It’s achingly familiar. She loves all of her disciples deeply, but it’s within Ranan that she sees herself reflected.

Before she can think better of it, she whistles, short and sharp. “Ranan-daihe!”

The youth jerks upright and twists around in his saddle, blinking rapidly. There might be a bit of moisture gathering at the corners of his eyes, and his cheeks might be suspiciously red, but Ari pretends not to notice. Everyone needs their pride.

“Come ride with me!” she calls lightly. “I’m bored. It’s so dull back here, I’m half-hoping we do get ambushed.”

Ranan surreptitiously wipes his eyes, but by the time his barghest—a short, stocky blonde beast called Hama—bounds over to her, some of the pep is back in his smile. Ah, this kid. He can weather a hundred blows that leave him bruised and bleeding without faltering, but he has no defenses against a single kind word. He really does resemble nothing more than a stray puppy that’s too foolish to learn how to hate and fear and mistrust.

With a grin, Ari reaches out and ruffles his hair. If there’s anything she can do to preserve that sweet, dumb heart, she’ll pursue it to the ends of the earth.

Totally unaware of the direction of her thoughts, Ranan beams, ducking his head shyly but refusing to pull away. Indeed, he unconsciously follows her hand as she withdraws it—Ari thinks morosely that if given a choice between a hot meal and a gentle touch, Ranan would starve himself to death before he ever turned away a scrap of affection.

“Did you need something, Sahan?” he asks, as though he thinks the only reason his master would bother to summon him is to ask him to fetch something.

“Just some company,” Ari says cheerfully.

“Oh.” Ranan looks down again, this time with a pleased flush. “Um, where’s Baza?”

Ahhh, adorable!

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Ari reaches down and tips the hilt strapped to her waist. “Resting. She might like to run around free for a bit, but with so many barghests around I’m worried one of them might bother her. They’ve got a strong prey drive, you know.”

“Uh-huh,” Ranan replies tactfully.

It’s well-known that while Preceptor Ari is one of Kachai Coven’s strongest Preceptors, her spiritual weapon is almost shockingly weak. It’s a baffling shame, but what can anyone do?

Looking for a way to casually redirect the conversation, Ari asks: “Have you done much traveling before?”

“Nope.” Ranan shrugs. “Couldn’t. No money, and no reason. There’s not another city like Vaomeze around for miles and miles. I might’ve had better luck begging somewhere with less competition, but there would’ve been a lot less people with coin to spare in some farming village too.”

Ari hums. “True. But most people in little places like that, they trade food and board for work. You could’ve been a laborer.”

Ranan draws up indignantly, but he doesn’t look genuinely upset. “I was a laborer! There’s all sorts of jobs that need doing in a city. I couldn’t do them when I was really little, but once I got older there were a lot of people willing to hire some dumb street rat for a day as long as he was strong and didn’t talk back.”

“And you didn’t talk back?” Ari asks skeptically.

Ranan’s miffed expression turns sheepish. “Well… sometimes I got kicked off a job before they paid me… But they were always assholes, so it wasn’t worth it to just stand there and take it!”

Ari has no doubt about this—she’d experienced that herself when she first ran away from home. She’d never been a street rat before that, but she’d certainly been dumb.

Ranan scoffs and keeps talking. It’s gratifying to hear him—around anyone else, even Ambren (and especially Tselai), he refuses to say a peep about his past. Maybe it’s too painful, or maybe he’s ashamed, though he has no reason to be; either way, Ari seems to be the only person he lets his guard down around enough to reminisce like this.

“Sometimes I had to suck it up though,” he admits. “I didn’t mind if it was just me going hungry for a night, but… there were a lot of people I knew who couldn’t work at all. I tried to help them when I could.”

Ari keeps her expression neutral, but her gooey heart keens. What a good kid.

She tells him so, and he sputters, his face instantly turning red as a radish. “That’s—Sahan is too kind; this worthless disciple was just being prag… Prack… Pra…”

“Prag…” Ari begins, then pauses, realizing she actually doesn’t know the word either. “Practical!” she finishes triumphantly.

“Yeah!” Ranan agrees. “That! We all had to take care of each other. Sure, some people were bitches who’d sooner slit your throat than share a cup of broth, but most of us weren’t like that. It was easier to stay alive if you had other people to rely on when you weren’t strong enough to do it all yourself.”

Ari smiles down at him. The early days of the war had been just like that. Back then, when she was a kid herself, there were no covens to turn to if the Feversong took you, no outposts with medics and soulshapers who might set you back to rights. The witches who survived had to stick together, because gods knew not a sorry one of them had anything else to cling to. Anyone who was born outside of the Dawn’s territory was on their own.

“Well,” Ari says finally, “since you haven’t done much traveling before, you’ll have to tell me how you like it.”

“Has Sahan done much traveling before?” Ranan wonders.

Ari pauses for a moment. She has to do this sometimes, calibrate how much of the truth she can spare. This bit probably isn’t dangerous, though. Ranan already knows she was part of the Dawn. She can bullshit a little about which part.

“Sure.” She reaches down, grabs her canteen, and takes a swig. The heat doesn’t bother her anymore—she barely sweats these days—but she still needs water to function. “During the war, we traveled a lot. We didn’t have many keeps or permanent garrisons back then, and once we went on the march we didn’t stop.”

“Oh.” Ranan’s eyes are big, like they always get when she talks about the war. He was certainly old enough to remember the end of it, but he’d been too young to fight, thank the Sun. Vaomeze had been hit hard by the famine and the Feversong, but it had avoided being occupied or besieged.

Ari considers her story for a moment, then mentally shrugs and tosses away another layer of obfuscation. “And I traveled some with my sahan when I was your age.”

Ranan lights up like a hundred candles. Ari has mentioned her own master only a handful of times to anyone save the Grand Matron, and never in any detail. Like he’s approaching a wild animal he’s afraid to spook, he casually says, “Oh, really?”

Ari almost cracks at his extremely feigned indifference, but she manages to keep her composure and walk into his “trap”.

“Mmhmm. She was a… wandering scholar, sort of. Among other things. Mostly she took care of jobs for the Dawn, though, and we stayed in the north and northwest since it was safest. We even crossed the Gate of Judgment into Yevala once.”

Ranan can no longer contain himself. “Really?! Were there, like, walking corpses everywhere?!?!”

Ari throws back her head and laughs. Saimr’s neighbor Yevala is separated from them by the Western Alatali Mountains and largely impassable by land—both thanks to its natural defenses and its restrictive governance. Very few foreigners are admitted into the country and very few emigrants are permitted to leave. The Gate of Judgment is the primary avenue of land-based passage into the country.

But Yevala’s strongest claim to fame is its worship of the Deadly Triad, the traditional pantheon’s three gods of death. Or, that had been the case once. Now, the instruments of Yevala’s faith have been turned in another direction: to worship the Sun Eternal. But true to form, the art most sacred to the Yeveli witches is necromancy.

“There were some walking corpses,” she tells Ranan, eyes twinkling. “Just near the Amaressian Priory, though. You could find them in the markets, there, running errands.”

Ranan looks suitably dazzled. “That’s so cool.”

“It was pretty cool. But the Priory was gross when we toured it.” She wrinkles her nose. “The main halls were all made out of bones.”

Predictably, this sends Ranan into a tizzy. “Ahh! Badass! I wanna be a necromancer!”

While he rants and raves, Ari shakes her head minutely. If he had the aptitude and the desire, and circumstances were different, she could teach him. Necromancy–the Pale Flame—is one of the three Exalted Arts she’s mastered. But it’s too risky. Of the eight Exalted Arts, three are far rarer than the others: the Ascendant Flame, the Devouring Flame, and the Pale Flame. Of these, Ari has mastered the Pale Flame and the Ascendant Flame. (The other, she has not a lick of talent for.)

Her control of the Ascendant Flame is why she was hallowed as Saint Batira. It’s an art only a handful of people in the world have developed. In comparison, necromancy is a much more common field—the most common of the three, in fact—but it’s still abnormal enough to garner attention in Saimr. Attention is the last thing she needs.

Foreseeably, Ranan turns those big, determined blue eyes on her. “Sahan, do you know any necromancy?”

“Nah.”

Ranan deflates, but only for a second. “Okay. You can just teach me the Bloodflame, I guess.”

This is Ari’s third mastered art, and the only one she’s acknowledged publicly. She’s rated in the middle Third Echelon for the Ravaging Flame and the upper Third Echelon for the Beguiling Flame as well, which she doesn’t hide. Aptitude in three arts, never mind mastery of one, is still a rare feat. It puts her on par with Kachai’s most experienced Matrons.

(Technically, she has some aptitude for the Cleansing Flame, but honestly she’s so bad at it that it’s actually more embarrassing to admit she’s rated in the first ring than to pretend she has no skill for it at all.)

When it comes to assessing a spellcaster, whether mage or witch, the mage sects of Imtheria, the Red Citadel, and the covens use the same strategy: a spell called the Twelve Rings of Qanathar. It’s not a precise measuring tool—nor is it meant to be—but it’s an excellent benchmark for an arcanist’s raw talent. The spell’s function is simple: the candidate being tested steps into the center of a circle divided into twelve concentric rings and attempts to “fill” each ring with their magic. Filling one ring and unlocking the next requires stabilizing and shaping one’s numina (magic cultivated and refined through the soul), and each ring becomes exponentially more difficult to access as the amount of magic and the amount of control needed to wield it grows.

These twelve rings are then further divided into four Echelons: arcanists who rate in the first, second, or third ring are placed into the First Echelon; arcanists who rate in the fourth, fifth, or sixth ring are placed into the Second Echelon; and so forth. Most human arcanists are First Echelon casters. Only a relatively small number ever reach the Second Echelon, and only archmages generally obtain the Third Echelon. The bar is much higher in Imtheria, where Sahan once informed her that an elven mage isn’t even considered eligible to become an archmage until they reach the upper Third or lower Fourth Echelons. The Fourth Echelon is largely the domain of gods and their direct offspring.

There is, Ari has heard, a mythical “Fifth Echelon” as well. This is the exclusive territory of only a tiny handful of powerful deities, like Khadrim Korga of Qur Saghal or Imperator Ruloryn of Imtheria.

If Sahan hasn’t yet obtained the Fifth Echelon after her ascension, Ari thinks dryly, it surely won’t take her much longer.

It’s as she’s turning the idea over in her mind that a small commotion behind them draws her attention. She glances over her shoulder to see two mounted figures moving towards the convoy at a swift but not frantic pace. Lašar scouts returning, no doubt.

Or—no. Is that…?

It is. Oh no. Ari recognizes that barghest and she recognizes that stupid fucking cape.

In a flash, she steers Techa to the outside of the road and forces Ranan and Hama to her left, away from the two rapidly-approaching riders. Just in time, too: there’s plenty of room on the road, but as the larger barghest nears, it veers so close to Techa that the hem of its rider’s dumb ugly fur-collared cape brushes Ari’s thighs. This barghest is the biggest of any in the stables, dark as bistre and mean as a snake dipped in acid, and he only allows one person to ride him.

He whacks into Techa’s shoulder with some force, nearly sending the smaller beast careening—and nearly sending Ari tumbling from her back. His teeth flash and snap the air after, an eerie cackle bubbling from his throat.

“Sahan!” Ranan cries.

Techa snarls furiously, but Ari manages to keep her from taking off after the big bastard and his rider—who, by the way, doesn’t spare Ari enough attention to even gloat.

“Bitch!!!” Ari spits after her. Of course there’s no response; the riders are already gone.

“Is Sahan okay?!” Ranan asks. “Who was that?!”

“I’m fine,” Ari grouses. “That was the Lašar Commander.”

It’s no surprise Ranan doesn’t recognize her immediately; Matron Enahi is frequently away on assignments, and even when she’s in residence at the fortress she’s an anal-retentive loner with a bad attitude. She doesn’t like anyone, but the second she clapped eyes on Ari for the first time she was imbued with some sort of divinely-ordained hatred. Every time she gets a whiff of Ari she’s like a shark tasting blood in the water.

Ari isn’t sure exactly what crawled up her ass, but she’s one of those rich-powerful-beautiful noble heiresses who thinks everyone in the world exists to kiss the soles of their boots. This is a variety of person Ari is used to dealing with (another valuable lesson from her sahan), and from a much greater disadvantage as well. Matron Enahi might be a bully, but she and Ari are creed sisters from the same generation and the same Echelon. Ari simply had to endure Velnyr-sahan’s innate irascibility; she can push back against Matron Enahi.

Still.

“What an ass!” Ranan declares.

Ari, who would ordinarily caution him against speaking ill of his elders—especially such a dangerous one—snaps, “Yeah, she fucking is!”

***

The rest of the day’s trip is uneventful. Ari and Ranan play a few rounds of “I spy” and split some of their trail rations. Eventually, as afternoon begins its slow turn to evening, Ambren and Tselai drop back to join them.

“What have you been doing back here, bothering Sahan all day?” Tselai asks Ranan suspiciously.

Ranan puffs up like a bullfrog. “Sahan asked me to keep her company!”

Tselai snorts disbelievingly. “As if anyone could tolerate riding next to you for eight hours.”

These two exchange petty verbal blows all the time, but Ari sees this one strikes home. Ranan’s face darkens.

Oh boy. Sometimes she can just let them fight it out, but not right now.

“Daiheza!” she snaps. Tselai and Ranan both immediately whip around to ignore each other.

She sighs. “I’m happy for any of you to ride with me.”

Tselai looks like he’s about to say something, but before his lips even form the first syllable Ari whacks him upside the head so hard she knocks his ponytail over his shoulder. He shoots her a very betrayed look that he quickly retracts once he gets a clear look at her face.

“Fucking stop it.”

Ranan snorts. She whacks him upside the head too.

She’s so engrossed in keeping those two idiots from squabbling that she doesn’t notice the dark shape circling the back of the procession like a stalking predator until it’s too late.

“What an inspiring display from Preceptor Gazdani’s dear disciples. Perhaps the learned master can share her insights on raising such fine apprentices with this venerable lord.”

The speaker’s voice is soft and refined and deadly like a knife tucked away in a sleeve. As soon as they hear it, the three disciples twist around in blatant shock. They felt not so much as a stirring in the aether from this person’s aura.

Matron Enahi is a master of the Exalted Art of the Holy Shadow. If she doesn’t want to be noticed, she won’t be. Even Ari, who has the benefit of a very… keen sense of spiritual energies and the tides of the aether, has to pay close attention if she wants to find Enahi when she doesn’t intend to be found.

Techa growls low in her throat.

As Enahi and her huge dark beast, Qovar, draw even with Ari’s group, Ari gets a better look at her creed sister. Like Tselai, she’s dressed more finely than anyone spending such long days on the road really ought to. Somehow, though, there’s not a speck of dust on her dark blue coat. Her ink-black hair falls freely in gentle waves down her back; her skin is pale as milk but smooth in the way only money and good fortune can buy. The visible parts of her face are sharp and lovely, but her eyes are hidden—practitioners of the Art of the Holy Shadow often cover their eyes symbolically, and Matron Enahi’s mask is little more than an ornate silver band that completely covers her brow (though it does nothing to actually impede her vision).

“Enahi-girhe.” Ari greets her with saccharine sweetness. “It’s such an honor! This lowly one thought you’d have more important things to do than gift us with your presence, like kicking orphans or eating kittens.”

While Enahi technically outranks her, Ari is older. By right of seniority, she can call Matron Enahi the overly familiar and mildly degrading “girhe” instead of the far more respectful and appropriate “azim”.

Nothing that might be called an expression crosses the Matron’s face. “You speak to me with such familiarity, Preceptor. One would think you’d never been instructed how to properly address your betters.”

“Betters?” Ari makes a show of looking around, brows drawn up in exaggerated confusion. “I’m afraid I don’t see anyone like that around here...” And now the faux befuddlement on her face slides into something challenging. Her smile could draw blood. “Girhe.”

The Lašar Commander’s shapely lips curl into a sneer. “Must you be beaten into submission like a beast of burden before you learn your place? If so, please inform this venerable lord and she will graciously assist you.”

Ranan makes the beginning of some sound of protest, but Tselai wisely slaps a hand over his mouth.

Ari laughs jauntily, lightly tugging Techa’s reins until the two barghests ride shoulder-to-shoulder, and the two witches ride thigh-to-thigh. Techa and Qovar eyeball each other, lips peeled back. Enahi is quite tall for a woman, but Ari is taller and broader. She utilizes her natural advantages to full effect as she leans in, looming over Enahi with a sly smile. “Girhe! So forward. Restrain yourself in front of my disciples, please.”

Matron Enahi’s sneer only deepens. “Filth.”

Ari winks, flashing her dimples. “You just can’t help yourself, can you? You have the whole road, and yet you snuck all the way back here to see me. That’s a little embarrassing for you.”

“Does it ease your mind, to imagine I approach you out of some sense of affection?”

Ari covers her mouth coquettishly. “I really shouldn’t say in front of the children. Oh, but my heart is just aflutter! Please forgive this lowly one’s forwardness, my lord.”

And with that, Ari rears back, winds up, and delivers two rapid and forceful smacks: the first to Enahi’s rear, and the second to Qovar’s.

The barghest roars ferociously and takes off at a dead sprint, ears pinned back. Matron Enahi swears just as ferociously as she fights to get him back under control, dark hair and cape alike flying in the wind as she shoots past a line of stunned disciples and Lašar scouts who can only stare after the untouchable commander helplessly.

“Hah!” Ari shouts after her. “Sucker!!! Try that shit again and see what happens!!!”

When they finally set up camp the first night, Enahi puts up her tent as far away from Ari’s as she can. Ari laughs softly to herself as she settles down in her bedroll.

For the first time in days, her dreams are peaceful.

***

Pronunciation Guide

Alatali: Ah-lah-TAH-lee

Amarsa: Ah-MAHR-sah. The capital of Yevala and the namesake of its seat of governance and largest temple, the Amaressian Priory.

Azim: AH-zihm. A Heavenstongue word meaning “mother”.

Enahi: Eh-NAH-hee

Gazdani: Gahz-DAH-nee. Ari’s locative byname transformed into a proper surname; interchangeable with the name ei-Gazra.

Girhe: GEER-heh. A Heavenstongue word meaning “lowest sister/little sister”.

Gugua: GOO-guah

Hama: HAH-mah

Khadrim Korga: KHA-drihm KOHR-gah

Lašar: Lah-SHAR. A Heavenstongue word meaning “fang”.

Meye Veless: MEY-yeh Veh-LESS. An Elvish term meaning “victorious blade”.

Qanathar: KAH-nah-thahr

Qovar: KOH-vahr

Qur Saghal: KOOR Sah-GAHL

Ruloryn: Roo-LOH-reen

-Å a: An affectionate Heavenstongue diminutive.

Techa: TEY-cha. Saimerian for “pumpkin”.

Yevala: Yeh-VAH-lah