“So you haven’t even hinted about what we,” Cantor gestured to himself and the Pathfinders behind him with an incredulous expression, “were created for?”
“You get to tell him.” With those words, Galiana turned and headed toward Ancel, knowing Cantor would follow. The clink of armor and thump of boots confirmed it.
Ancel’s eyes grew rounder as they approached. As for Mirza, he glared, eyes seeing through her, lips curling in a snarl. Ryne was expressionless, and Charra simply watched.
When High Shin Cantor stopped before Ancel, he gave a slight bow. The twenty Pathfinders formed a double file ring of shining steel. They placed gauntleted fists to their chests.
“Eztezian Ancel Dorn,” High Cantor said, his voice grave to match his face, “I present to you, your personal guard.”
The young man looked as if he would faint.
Galiana smiled.
Chapter 42
Sitting within sight of the Iluminus and built around the Everlast Mountains’ foothills, the city of Coren during the winter was supposed to be a shell of what it was the rest of the year. Whereas spring, summer, and fall meant prepping the vast fields at its outskirts, growing much of the food that not only supplied the Iluminus but also much of Barham, and then delivering the renowned harvests that brought people from all over Granadia, winter meant rest and a lull in visitors. Not at present.
Tucked deep within her cloak, boots slogging through slush, Irmina weaved her way along streets crowded with more than the farmers and folk from the Iluminus who normally patronized Coren at this time of year. Dagodin in boiled leather, armor, or cloth; Ashishin in colors to represent their essences; dark-garbed Raijin; as well as one or two immaculately clad Pathfinders trod purposefully along the cobbled streets. The cold air reeked of unwashed bodies, beasts of burden, and clogged drains. Foot, animal, and wagon traffic added their sonorous drone.
She’d contemplated not coming here, but several notes from High Jin Quintess had set this in motion. After discreet introductions with a few of those on the list, she followed Quintess’ suggestion to set up this rendezvous. Time was growing short according to the information provided. The refugees in Eldanhill were due to proceed soon. If she stood any chance at freeing the Eldanhill Council, as well helping those associated with Jerem’s cause in the Iluminus, she needed to act. Events were too close to becoming desperate.
Gray, basalt buildings hugged each other, many at least five stories, while others were square or rounded towers. Light glowed from windows. Torches and lamps sprang to life with the encroaching twilight. She’d memorized the map provided by Quintess, and after a few twists and turns down tight lanes and broad walks, she arrived at her goaclass="underline" a nondescript inn, which appeared to be frequented by mostly farmers. Despite her apprehension, she smiled. In her current garb, she would fit right in with this crowd.
The low tinkle of music filtered from the establishment as she approached. A wispy-haired farmer pushed open the door, glanced back inside, laughed, and then muttered something unintelligible under his breath. He pulled his furs around him and shuffled away. Irmina grabbed the large oak door by the handle before it closed on the warmth from inside. When she entered, the light music grew more pronounced, but laughter and chatter drowned it out. Giana smoke scented the interior in a wavy haze, rising to the ceiling to mingle with the waft from various dishes.
A pale-skinned serving girl greeted her, gliding across the wooden floor as if it was dry instead of a muddy mess. “Welcome to the Angry Lion. Table or bar?”
“Table.” Irmina rubbed her arms under her cloak. “So cold this year, don’t you think?”
“Not more than any other year. You could go farther east if you wanted to stay warm.” The serving girl said the words without a change in her demeanor.
“East does have more favorable weather.”
“Yes ma’am,” the serving girl answered. “This way to your table.”
Irmina’s anxiety grew, the flutter changing into a clench. The inn’s smoky innards did little to help. She was certain the serving girl had said the correct words, but the woman acted no differently than if Irmina was a usual customer. The daggers hidden at her sleeves and in the folds of her cloak beckoned to her, but she took a calming breath, fighting down the urge to snake a hand closer to one of them. Whatever happened, she would play this one out to the end.
Eyes absorbing every nuance for the slightest change in the patrons at the tables, Irmina followed the serving girl past the bar and into a separate room, this one also filled with people who were smoking, drinking, and eating. Irmina strained her ears for a telltale rasp of steel on leather. There was nothing but the murmur of several dozen conversations, laughter, and the clink of dinnerware and glass.
Tension easing up her spine with each passing moment, she allowed herself a little space from the girl. Without ever looking back, the girl continued forward to a heavy metal door with a curtain across its entrance.
“Here we are.” The serving girl pushed open the door and ushered her in.
Lamps along the walls lit this room brighter than the ones before it. Whatever conversation had been occurring before came to a halt. An eerie silence filled the room as every face turned Irmina’s way. She recognized quite a few from the Iluminus. Every one of them was an Ashishin dressed similar to her in clothing befitting farmers. At the sight of appreciative nods and pleasant expressions, the tightness eased from her body.
“You may leave us now,” Irmina said.
“Yes, ma’am.” The door closed behind the serving girl.
A man with hair the color of silversteel stood. She recognized the face immediately, as well as the flicker within his eyes that matched his hair too perfectly and seemed to change color the way a chunk of glass does when turned at certain angles to reflect light. It reminded her of the fun she and Ancel used to have long ago playing with pieces of glass, watching the colors change as they spotted it on the side of the Whitewater Inn. The lack of lines around the man’s face served to convince her.
“I know what you are.” She tried to breathe easy even as her hand trembled and inadvertently crept toward one of her daggers. Whatever she did, her mind told her not to attack him. It would break the pact netherlings made ages ago.
The smile on High Shin Hardan’s face stopped her cold. “Good. So does everyone else.” His voice was devoid of inflection, vacant as a dead man’s sightless gaze.
Confirmation flitted across the sea of faces. She frowned. “But-”
“Sorry that your first encounter with one of us has ruined your thoughts on what we might be.” Hardan turned his hands palm upward. “However, like humans, there is good, bad, and indifferent among us.”
She’d read much from Quintess’ books about netherlings. The more she read, the more she became convinced that most sought to replace the gods with themselves. The tomes had been less clear about the function of others among the creatures. Suffice to say that after her experience with Sakari, she trusted none of them. “Which one of those do you fit into?”
“You could say good.”
“How so?”
“Not meaning to answer a question with a question,” he said, “but have you ever stopped to wonder why the Pathfinders are what they are?”
She grimaced in confusion. With every Ashishin group, at least one Pathfinder would be somewhere close in case a Matii lost themselves to the madness. They also hunted anyone said to have broken the Principles guarding Mater, specifically using it to do harm to others or break the Tribunal’s law. However, over the years, their main purpose had been to find any taken by the madness. What happened to that person afterward was mired in conjecture.
“I see, like many, you have taken the Pathfinders for granted, not even seeing their relationship and effect on the Forgers among you.”