She was struggling once again with the interminable task of keeping her eyes open, and clenched her injured hand to jolt herself back to alertness, then froze as something moved on the far side of the courtyard.
A person? An ant? A creature of many limbs of vivid turquoise, and all along its back…wings? Or antennae like a moth’s. The head reminded her of a wasp’s. It moved in their direction—not quickly—and the casting Rennyn’s Wicked Uncle was maintaining intensified.
He really wasn’t breathing. Rennyn noticed that because she held her breath, and recognised an absence from him. But his heart was beating faster. She hated that she could tell.
More movement. Glass constructs, some turquoise, others of deep blue, ranging in size from a small cat to a half-grown person. Their joints made no sound as they picked their way across the vine-covered ground, moving purposefully—but not toward the two escapees.
Rennyn relaxed marginally as the strange procession vanished through another of the archways leading out of the courtyard. So the things were resistant to magic, but not immune to casting effects. Or perhaps were simply not very observant.
Whatever the case, her Wicked Uncle wasted no time debating the possibilities. As soon as the last of the constructs had passed from sight, he skirted the edge of the courtyard and slid around the corner of one of the arches.
A short corridor to a second courtyard, and this time her Wicked Uncle chose speed over caution while picking a circuitous course so that he never stepped from shadow. The next corridor, however, ended not in a doorway, but a ramp leading up to a square of sunlight.
Helecho walked as far forward as he was able, so that Rennyn could glimpse paving, the remnant of an archway, and—further away—a glitter of water. And, just before the end of the ramp, shards of glass. Here was the shield that had stopped him last time, now doubly impassable to an Eferum-Get prince.
Biting her lip, Rennyn did not ask why he had not waited for evening. She would not risk drawing the guard with an incautious word, especially since—after a long pause gazing intently back the way they’d come—he allowed the concealment casting he’d been using to lapse.
Beyond the shield, paving stones began to lift. Shedding showers of litter and sand, they tilted until they were vertical, and then settled neatly back down, one by one. A curving wall to solve the problem of sunlight, with dirt and leaves lifting in turn to plug any gaps, and help hold the stones in place.
Rennyn, her attention divided between this practical solution and the way they’d come, stiffened. "Movement," she murmured, in the softest of whispers.
Her Wicked Uncle didn’t look back, but his casting shifted to a complex twist that was not immediately comprehensible to Rennyn. She attempted to decipher it while watching a new procession of guards—or possibly the same one—patrolling busily around the nearby courtyard. They were less than fifty feet away, moving at the same unhurried but businesslike pace, and gave no sign of having noticed the escapees.
If they came in the direction of the exit, she would pull the ceiling and walls down to block the corridor. That was unlikely to hold them for long, and would risk her hold on consciousness, but delay was a better option than combat.
Her Wicked Uncle’s casting took on a familiar pattern, echoing notes she had half-heard more than once. He was not using sheer power to force his way through the shield—perhaps he did not have the strength for that, without a focus—but was matching and subtly altering the casting itself, sliding a gap into the shield.
Then he walked forward, and they were outside.
Immediately, he stepped right, moving from the shadow of his already-crumbling temporary wall into a narrow band cast by the remains of a pillar. From there he could go no further for the moment, trapped in a sliver of shadow. Behind them, the paving stone wall collapsed.
In the wake of that clatter, neither Rennyn nor her Wicked Uncle moved, listening intently. Rustling. The sound of dozens of delicate footsteps, approaching rapidly. And, then, retreating. It seemed the constructs were bound to the building’s interior.
Her Wicked Uncle promptly set Rennyn back on her feet, and contrived to plaster a smug and obnoxious expression over clear exhaustion.
"And now you say thank you, little cousin."
He would never be anything less than hateful to her, but he had been true to his word, and it would be petty not to acknowledge that.
"Thank you," she said. "You surprised me."
His smile widened. "Did I? Reflect that the absolute worst thing that I could do to you—outside returning to mutual self-destruction—was to keep to our bargain, leaving you not one thing to complain of. How will you hate me now, little cousin?"
"I think I’ll manage," she said, and turned to conceal her annoyance, surveying the terrain.
A lake, or very wide river, dotted with small islands and crumbled buildings, linked by bridges in various states of repair. Directly ahead was a single arch of stone, probably formed using magic. One side had been shattered, leaving only a narrow path intact. Excessively tall statues in various states of disrepair lined the far bank and beyond…more tumbled walls and the remains of a road winding through familiar trees. Semarrak oaks, looking rather bare.
"This is an island as well?" she said, looking back over the corridors they had just exited. A cellar, swimming with magic, with very little sign of whatever building had been aboveground.
"The second prison you’ve broken me from, little cousin. I wonder if that balances your other handiwork."
He began drawing power as Rennyn turned to stare at him. Second? What… But of course he meant Solace. For all his power, Helecho Montjuste-Surclere had been, like the Kellian, a tool created by Queen Solace.
His casting this time was shadow. It reached out toward the bridge like a dark finger. He followed it unhesitatingly, tossing parting words over his shoulder.
"If we meet again…let us hope that we do not."
Rennyn did not move, or respond, until he had crossed the narrow point of the bridge. This man she had travelled so far to kill, the key to her recovery, walking away
"Goodbye, monster," she said, with a shake of her head.
With her back to the problem she could not similarly abandon, Rennyn considered the wilderness before her. Famously dangerous Semarrak, and obviously not a part near the Kellian settlement—or any place frequented by people. The wind was rising and, outside the ivy-covered cellar the temperature was less than pleasant.
No food, no shelter, no allies.
No shoes.
It should be overwhelming, but Rennyn did not let herself be caught up in guessing her chances. She would start with a place out of this wind.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Being under a sleep spell might mean Fallon was getting plenty of rest, but missing breakfast and then lunch was a big problem. As the day wore on and he remained awkward baggage, a dim ache of hunger began to tug at him. But, despite needing to conserve his energy as much as possible, Fallon couldn’t help but be relieved when Auri drew him into the Dream for a second time since he’d been knocked out.
"Does it hurt, being carried like that? Does all the blood rush to your head?"
"Not much," he said, considering his body slung over Darian Faille’s shoulder. "I can feel how much I need to eat, and I need to go to the bathroom, but I just sort of feel uncomfortable otherwise. If my head hurts, I think it’s because Dezart Samarin hit me." And saved his life.
"I wonder if healer-mages have spells to use for when sick people need to pee?" Auri hopped along a ridge of rock, grinning. "Or if they just won’t think about it until you go all over this lady’s shoulder."