Somewhere in the distance, a clock bell tolled eight times. Faxon finished the last of his coffee in a single gulp and put the cup down on the table. He stared at the two young people, scratching his chin.
“I want to be in the gate room in an hour. Bring what you think you’ll need, but pack lightly. Tia that means weapons and armor for you. Wynn, whatever books you think will help us find this relic before the Xarundi do.”
Wynn put his cup on the table, his hand shaking so badly that he threatened to splash the last of its contents over the rim. “Master Faxon, I really think I’d be more of a help to you here. Whatever research-”
“Wynn,” Faxon reached out and put his hand on the apprentice’s shoulder. “I need you to come with us. Overwatch is a dangerous place and the more of us there are, the better off we’ll be.”
Faxon raised his hand, forestalling the objection Wynn had started to make. “I know all your objections categorically, Wynn. The only way you’re not coming on this trip is if you renounce your place in the order.”
Wynn sucked in his breath, as if someone had just punched him in the stomach. He looked at Faxon, his hands curling into fists. The young man shook his head slowly, disbelieving what he had just heard.
“So I go with you, or I face censure?”
“Wait, what?” Tia went stiff in her seat. “That’s not what he meant.” Tia looked at Faxon. His lips were pressed together in a firm white line. “Faxon? That’s not what you meant, right?”
“That’s exactly what I meant. Wynn faces a choice that every apprentice must make eventually. He can either accept the full weight of his responsibilities as a quintessentialist, or he can give that up and go lead a ‘normal’ life.”
“Cut out part of his soul?” Tia was incredulous. “A normal life? Are you joking? Most people don’t survive after censure and you know it.” In that moment, Tiadaria came the closest she had ever come to hating Faxon. He had been her champion and mentor after the Captain’s passing, but this…this was beyond the pale. She stood so quickly that her chair toppled over backwards. “I won’t permit it.”
Faxon pinned her with a hard stare. She didn’t know what had possessed him, but this wasn’t her friend. This wasn’t the man who loved a good prank or a bad joke. The lines of his face were set and hard, his eyes unwelcoming.
“You don’t get a say in this, Tiadaria. This is an internal order matter. You have many rights and freedoms, but interfering with a member of the order carrying out his sworn duties is not one of them.”
“I don’t give a damn about your duties or the order. You’re not going to threaten Wynn with censure just because he doesn’t want to leave the city.”
“He’s right, Tia.” Wynn’s voice was soft and even, almost serene. She whirled on him, her anger finding a new home as quickly as it took to turn.
“He’s what?”
“He’s right.” Wynn shook his head, as if trying to clear away some painful memory that wouldn’t quite be banished. “I need to accept my responsibilities, or leave the order. I’m one of the oldest apprentices. I should be an acolyte or journeyman by now. I’ve just never wanted to take the tests. So he’s right. If I choose to leave the order, I know the consequences.”
Tia looked from Wynn to Faxon, her hands clenching spasmodically at her sides. “You can’t be serious,” she whispered.
“This is the way things are done in the order, Tiadaria.” Faxon’s tone tolerated no argument. “Every apprentice knows what is expected of them.”
Wynn got slowly to his feet. He reached out to touch Tia’s shoulder and she shied away from him.
“Don’t.” Her voice was cold and hard. Wynn looked pained, but dropped his hand. The three of them stood in silence, each of them carrying the heavy weight of the conflict like a lead mantle.
“I accept my responsibilities to the order,” Wynn said finally, according Faxon with a bow. “I trust that my Trial of Progression can wait until we return?”
Faxon nodded, his eyes still on Tia. She hadn’t moved and was still glaring at him, her hands balled into fists. The elder quint jerked his chin in her direction. “If you’re going to hit me, hit me. Get it over with. We have things to do.”
For a moment, Wynn was sure she was going to do just that.
“I’m not a bully,” she spat, turning on her heel. “That’s your job.” She ran from the room.
“Tia, wait,” Wynn called after her, but she was already in the hallway. She slammed the door to her room so hard that the walls in the common room rattled.
“Let it go, Wynn,” Faxon said with a sigh. “She’ll come around in time.”
The apprentice said nothing, sinking into his chair. He was being pulled in so many directions. He was glad to have chosen to follow the order’s path. He was embarrassed that Tia felt the need to protect him, but he felt good that she did and wanted to. His mind was a tangled knot of feelings, chasing each other under, over, and through.
“She’s going to be twice as mad at me when she finds out that I’m sending Nightwind back to Blackbeach with the next wagon.” Faxon sighed. He didn’t like antagonizing the young warrior, but there were times when his way was the only way. Wynn glanced at him, but said nothing.
“Well, we can’t take a horse through the gate!” Faxon cried, throwing up his hands in exasperation.
He stalked off and up the stairs. Wynn heard his door close. Forcefully, but not as forcefully as Tia had slammed hers. The apprentice was once again alone in the common room. Part of him wondered if censure wasn’t the only sane choice.
Putting that thought out of his head, he collected the mugs and put them in a basin behind the ruined bar. He flipped the hood of his robe up. He had been wearing it up quite a bit lately. It reduced the number of stares he got on the street. People were kind enough, but his mangled face brought curiosity or sympathy and he really didn’t care for either.
Wynn opened the inn door and stepped out into the morning sunlight. Faxon was right. There was much to be done.
Chapter Nine
“Chrin refuses to go,” Xenir said gruffly. He looked at the High Priest to try to gauge his reaction, but Zarfensis appeared to be unperturbed by the news.
“He’s within his rights, Xenir.” Zarfensis was throwing things into a travel pack as he spoke. His ritual dagger, spell book, and vials of runedust disappeared into the bag. A wooden apothecary kit followed and Zarfensis caught a whiff of the herbs and extracts contained in the little box. Those smells reminded him of his grand-sire.
Xenir was looking at him expectantly and the High Priest realized that he wasn’t likely to just let Chrin’s obstinacy go. He stopped his packing long enough to turn his full gaze on the Warleader. “He was terribly mauled at the Hallowed Vale. If he wants to remain here in the Warrens, that’s his prerogative. I don’t judge him for that.”
The Warleader snorted and Zarfensis continued. “I’d rather have him here and not have to worry about him than have him come with me, under duress, and snap under the strain. The younger warriors are still green enough to bend without breaking.”
“It’s their greenness that worries me, High Priest.”
“They are warriors of the Chosen and will behave that way,” Zarfensis said firmly, tired of Xenir’s negativity. “If we can’t trust our brothers, who can we trust?”
“Perhaps,” Xenir agreed grudgingly. “I’d still prefer it if a few of the more experienced warriors went with you.”
Zarfensis shrugged. “Send who you like, Warleader. Just don’t send so many that you’re left unprotected here. We would be foolish to think that all the vermin are racing us to the relic. They may attempt an attack on the Warrens while they think we are vulnerable.”