The Blood Forest (The Tree of Ages Series Book 3) Page 8

  “We’ll wait here,” Kai explained as he dismounted. “I’ll keep watch while you rest, then in the morning we will scout for the others.”

  Finn climbed down and waited as Kai tied the reins of their stolen horse loosely to a small fir tree. She wished he would glance at her so she could catch his gaze. Had he truly meant what he’d said in the storeroom? Did he love her, or was Malida mistaken? And if he did actually love her, did he mean in a romantic way, or did he love her like a sister?

  She watched as he began searching the few satchels tied to the back of the saddle. Next, he moved to the bedroll strapped at the saddle’s base, near the horse’s gray dappled rump. She felt a little bad for the soldier that would have to do without, then corrected herself. He was probably dead. She had never seen Maarav in battle, but Iseult claimed he was just as fast as he, and she knew Anna could take care of herself, and Sativola too. They would all escape, and would find her and Kai. They had to. Preferably before they had time to finish their storeroom conversation. She needed time to figure things out.

  Suddenly, something came crashing toward them. Kai threw himself in front of Finn, dagger drawn, but there was no need. As soon as Finn gathered her wits, she recognized the horse trotting toward them, and its riders. Finn had always thought Rada was one of the prettiest horses she’d ever seen with her black and white coat.

  Heaving a sigh of relief at the sight of Kai and Finn, Bedelia climbed down from the saddle, then helped Ealasaid do the same.

  “We’re lucky there’s a full moon tonight,” Bedelia began, “else we would have never been able to track you.”

  “Which unfortunately means An Fiach will be able to track us,” Kai added. “We should keep moving.”

  “We should wait for the others,” Finn protested.

  Ealasaid stepped forward sheepishly, pushing her frothy mess of hair away from her face. “I agree, we should wait. If An Fiach should find us first, I’ll create a . . . distraction.”

  Bedelia smirked. “You can trust what she says. She’s quite good at distractions.”

  Ealasaid looked at the ground, embarrassed.

  Finn wasn’t sure what was going on. Iseult had mentioned that Ealasaid had magic, so she assumed she’d used it to aid in her and Bedelia’s escape.

  Noticing Finn’s unsure expression, Ealasaid stepped forward and took her hand. “Don’t fret. I’m sure the others will be along shortly. Maarav and Iseult are excellent fighters, faster than any I’ve ever seen.”

  “That’s not saying much, coming from a village girl,” Kai joked as he took Rada’s reins to secure her beside their stolen horse. “I still think we should move on,” he continued, “but I know better than to argue with three women at once. You all should get some rest while I keep watch.”

  “I will keep watch as well,” Bedelia offered.

  Kai finished untying the bedroll from the saddle, then pushed it into Finn’s arms. “Sleep with your boots on,” he advised. “We must be prepared to leave quickly.”

  Nodding, Finn turned with the bedroll in her arms and searched for a place to lay it. She felt uneasy, like her journey was once again about to become greatly derailed. Beyond that, she could not shake what the little Merrow girl had told them. All must fear the Dair. All must fear her. Kai would be a fool to love such a frightening creature as herself, like a sister, or otherwise.

  “I KNOW they passed through here before,” Óengus stated coolly, aiming his icy glare at the diminutive, aged bar mistress. He’d tried kindness initially, but the woman had somehow seen through the act.

  “And how would you know that?” she replied just as coolly. Though she was small in size, with muddy brown hair, and numerous missing teeth, a keen intelligence shone out of the woman’s eyes.

  Óengus knew Kai and Finn had stayed with the woman previously, and were likely hidden away somewhere in her home, along with the others. Still, he’d stationed half his men at the gates, just in case. He had no desire to chase them further down the Sand Road.

  Suppressing a growl of irritation, both at the bar mistress, and at the thought of the men of An Fiach, he turned away from the bar. Though he was used to commanding others, he wasn’t impressed with the soldiers in his contingent. Most of them were mere peasants who’d never held a sword until the day they enlisted.

  He strode through the double doors of the establishment without a word. The icy wind played with his short silver hair, tickling the whiskers of his neat beard, but he hardly noticed the cold. He knew there was a back entrance to the establishment. He’d take the time to post several men outside of it, then would find himself a hot meal while he waited for his quarry to reveal themselves. Just because he was now an imposter Captain of An Fiach, didn’t mean he wasn’t allowed to enjoy himself.

  Before he could walk around the building, the sound of steel on steel caught his ears. He sighed. Incompetent fools. He had no doubt the clanging steel came from his men battling those he sought. His men would lose, and their quarry would escape. Of that he had little doubt.

  Taking long, confident strides, he walked past the townsfolk trickling out into the streets to observe the commotion. He resisted the urge to cut down the curious onlookers getting in his way. He would be too late to catch those he sought, and it would take time to gather all his men and give chase.

  Keiren would not be pleased.

  ANOTHER DAY HAD COME and gone while they waited outside of the Archive. Anders had expected more Travelers to join them, but none had shown themselves. Instead, he was stuck with Niklas, eating meager portions of a grouse he’d snared, along with a few foraged roots, all boiled in a pot with no seasoning. While it was no fine meal, Anders ate it with abandon. Since he’d started traveling with Niklas, his breeches had grown loose, and the occasional reflections he caught of himself in ponds and puddles showed gaunt cheeks and sallow skin. His parents would hardly recognize him, if he managed to see them at all.

  He couldn’t help but wonder where he’d be if he’d stayed with An Fiach. He’d never gone hungry after joining, and had even felt almost safe with Radley and the other men at his side. He’d even briefly envisioned returning home after finding his sister, a proud man in uniform, his life sworn to protecting the weak.

  Unfortunately, protecting the weak wasn’t what An Fiach was really about. He would never be able to clear from his mind the battle with the refugees, and Ealasaid’s conviction that he had somehow been involved in destroying her village, murdering her kin. Though he’d had no involvement in what happened to Ealasaid’s family, the dead of the ruined city in the North would haunt him forever.

  He shook his head and glanced at Niklas, who stood immobile, staring at the distant Archive. While Anders was terrified of the Ceàrdaman, they weren’t going around slaughtering entire villages or attacking refugees . . . at least, not to his knowledge.

  “There,” Niklas pointed.

  Anders squinted past his outstretched finger. A woman dressed in fine black silks conversed with a guard at the main entrance to the Archive. Her long, fiery red hair stood out in contrast, even from a distance. “She is not one of the Archive scholars, unless someone new was appointed after I left.”

  “Not a scholar,” Niklas replied, “but our cue to approach the Archive.”

  “I told you before, even if the guards know me, they will not let one of the Ceàrdaman past the gates.” He turned to raise a skeptical eyebrow at Niklas, then jumped back in surprise.

  Though Niklas still maintained similar facial features, his skin was now a healthy, tan hue, and his odd eyes were now a normal, deep brown. He gestured toward the archive. “Our cue is getting away from us, and your sister’s life is still dangling in the balance.”

  Anders darted his gaze back toward the Archive to find the woman had been let inside the gates. Shaking his head in disbelief, he started forward, prepared to finally fulfill his part of their bargain. Niklas hurried along beside him, still unnaturally graceful despite his human appearance.<
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  Anders felt lightheaded. His boots crunching over the rocky dirt road seemed impossibly loud. He would be questioned by the guards. Then he would be questioned by any scholars he met. Finally, he would be questioned by his parents. He could scarcely bear to face them. With a steadying breath, he forced his shoulders to relax. First thing first. He needed to get past the guards.

  He exhaled in relief as they reached the massive gates. He knew both guards who stood there. One, an older man named Lochlan, he had known since he was a child, and the other, a youth named Barrett, was Lochlan’s son.

  “Anders!” Lochlan gasped after looking him up and down. “I almost didn’t recognize you, lad. You look like you haven’t eaten since you left!”

  Anders forced a smile onto his face and ruffled his cloak to hide his thinness, as well as his uniform. He’d had no opportunity to change out of the dark brown jacket with a red wolf embroidered on the breast, but Niklas had at least given him a cloak to cover it. “My journey has been an eventful one,” he explained vaguely. “I’m here to see my parents.”

  Lochlan blinked at him several times, as if not truly believing he was there.

  Barrett moved to his father’s side and cleared his throat. “Father,” he whispered, “the gates?”

  Lochlan startled back into awareness. He met Anders waiting gaze and shook his head. “Sorry lad, I just can’t hardly believe you’re real. After no one heard from you, we all assumed you were dead. Where is Branwen?”

  Anders felt his face flush.

  “She’s up North,” Niklas cut in smoothly. “We wouldn’t dream of bringing the young lady on such an arduous journey, when our visit shall be short.”

  Lochlan nodded, his gray mustache bristling. “And you are?”

  “Lord Seastnàn,” Niklas lied, bowing his head in greeting. “From the Gray City.”

  “Ah,” Lochlan began, comprehension in his eyes as he turned back to Anders. “One of the emissaries?”

  Gritting his teeth, Anders nodded. All in the Archive knew Anders and Branwen had departed with an emissary from the Gray City, along with a guard. Unfortunately, both were fakes. Kai and Anna were lowly thieves, nothing more.

  “Now please,” Niklas continued. “We’ve had a very long journey, and I must admit, I’m not used to waiting.”

  “Of course, of course,” Lochlan muttered. He still seemed unsure, but nodded to his son, who trotted back to his post and gestured up to the gatekeepers watching from the high wall.

  Seconds later, the gates swung inward.

  Anders smiled in relief. Feeling slightly more at ease, he turned back to Lochlan. “By the way, who was that woman you let in just before we arrived?”

  Lochlan squinted in confusion. “What woman? You’re the first to approach the gates in several days.”

  Anders’ jaw dropped. He felt Niklas tug at his sleeve, hurrying him along before he could ask any more questions. He said his goodbyes and hurried through the gates, but he still felt Lochlan and Barrett’s suspicious gazes on his back.

  Even once the gates closed behind them, Anders could not relax. Niklas observed the grand entrance of his home, while he stood still for a moment, suddenly close to tears. The main gates led to a wide corridor that opened out into a massive courtyard. The gardens were tended year round, filled with bright colored flowers in the warm half of the year, and waxy leafed holly and hearty snow flowers in the cold half. Right now, they were somewhere in between. The last of the bright flowers were dying, to be replaced by more muted tones.

  Niklas cleared his throat, drawing Anders’ attention. “Where is the main library?”

  It took him a moment to respond. Shaking his head to clear his mind, he pointed. “The left wing houses the more ancient tomes in need of preservation. The right wing,” he pointed in the other direction, “houses the transcribed volumes, available to all scholars no matter their station. The central dome,” he pointed to the large golden structure at the far end of the courtyard, “houses the volumes belonging to the Gray City, mainly histories and local lore.”

  His eyes continued to dart around the courtyard, searching for his parents, though he was not sure he was ready to face them. He’d hoped to avoid the Archives all together until he had Branwen back by his side.

  “The left,” Niklas said simply, then eyed Anders not-so-patiently to lead the way.

  He took a steadying breath, then cut across the courtyard toward the first entrance into the left wing. He’d had access to the wing previously, but would have to speak with one of the watchers before he could enter. Niklas would likely not be allowed inside, but he decided against voicing his concerns. Niklas would not listen anyway.

  Reaching the door, he held it open for Niklas to walk inside. He followed him, glancing each way down the hall, half-expecting to spot the red haired woman they’d seen at the gates.

  Instead, they saw a brown-haired woman, peeking her head out one of the many book-filled rooms. “Anders!”

  He sighed in relief. “Lissandra,” he greeted, approaching her. “Could you perhaps give me access to the High Wing?”

  Her smile faltered as she moved fully into the hall. “Anders, where have you been? We expected at least the occasional messenger. Everyone thinks you’re dead.”

  He chuckled, attempting to give off an air of calm, though he’d never been a skilled liar. “It was a long journey, and I was given few opportunities to send word. I’ll explain everything once I’ve seen my parents. I simply wanted to look over a certain tome to compare it to the information I have to share.”

  “Information worth recording?” she asked slyly, her attitude quickly transitioning. “I will be your chosen scribe, won’t I?”

  “Of course,” Anders replied.

  “Well if that’s the case,” Lissandra replied, “I suppose I can wait to hear of your adventures until later.” Grinning, she scurried back into the room and began riffling through the drawers of a parchment scattered desk. Candles littered the desk’s surface, dripping wax onto papers yellowed with age. Anders bit his tongue before he could insult her. Lissandra had always been careless.

  “Aha!” she chuckled, turning around with a golden key in her hand.

  She walked past Anders into the hall, then finally took the time to observe Niklas. Her eyes narrowed. “Greetings, do I know you?”

  “An emissary from the Gray City,” Anders explained.

  “Ah,” she replied, nodding. She continued past them further down the hall, her shapeless burgundy scholar’s robe trailing behind her

  They followed her as she chattered about what had been happening in the Archive since Anders’ departure, though he could scarcely gather his thoughts enough to listen to her. The corridor curved at the end, leading to a set of ornate wooden doors with heavy gold locks. A guard was stationed at either side of the doorway.

  “Greetings,” Lissandra muttered, barely even looking at the guards as she unlocked the doors. As one of the Archive’s head scholars, her access to the secured room was a normal affair.

  She led Anders and Niklas inside, then froze. The fiery-haired woman stood by one of the massive shelves, running her fingers along leather-bound book spines.

  Lissandra gasped, then stepped inside the room. “You’re not supposed to be in here.”

  The woman turned around casually, piercing Lissandra with her sparkling blue eyes. “You’re not supposed to be here,” the woman purred, then muttered some words under her breath.

  Lissandra dropped to the ornately pattered rug.

  Anders rushed to her and knelt, then exhaled in relief to find her still breathing. She just seemed to be in a heavy sleep. He looked over his shoulder toward the guards, but they both faced forward outside the door, still as statues. What in the Horned One’s name was going on?

  Niklas stepped fully into the room as the woman muttered a few more words. The doors slammed shut behind him, seemingly of their own volition.

  “One of the Ceàrdaman,” the wom
an observed, curling the corner of her rouged lips. “How . . . interesting.”

  Anders stood, glancing at Niklas in confusion. He still had his tanned skin and normal eyes. How had she distinguished his true identity? He would have asked her, if he didn’t feel frozen as that piercing blue gaze turned to him.

  “And you,” she added. Using only her eyes, she looked him up and down, seeming to recognize him.

  “D-do I know you?” he stammered, straightening his cloak to make sure his uniform was covered.

  She rolled her eyes. “No, but I know you. Not that you’re special. I know most everyone.” She moved her gaze back to Niklas. “Perhaps you can offer me aid. I’m looking for a particular volume.”

  “Ar Marbhdhraíocht?” he questioned.

  The woman widened her eyes in surprise. “Why yes.”

  Humming to himself, Niklas glided across the room to a shelf far from where the woman had been looking. He pulled out a massive, black volume, then walked back to the woman, thunking it into her waiting palms.

  She looked down at the book like a noblewoman examining a fine jewel. Her eyes flicked to Niklas, then to Anders, then she clutched the book against her chest protectively. “I suppose I’ll be off.”

  Niklas stepped forward and placed a hand on her arm, still hugging the black book. “Not quite, my dear. You have bargained for information from one of the Ceàrdaman. Now you must grant me a boon.”

  She scowled at his hand. “I’ll grant you your death if you don’t remove your paw.”

  Niklas tsked at her. “You may be powerful, girl, but you do not want to incur the wrath of the Ceàrdaman. We are . . . many.”

  She glared at him, stepping back out of his reach. “What do you want?”

  “I want to help you,” he explained, letting his hand drop to his side. “When I come to you next, I expect to be welcomed with open arms.”