Chapter 5
Quest Continues

aenara’s mind was impregnable, Goran had discovered irritably. Without her knowledge he tried on several occasions to break the barriers and find the true source of her ability, but the protection charm was impervious. Goran thought Luseph had put the concealing spell on her, but it had been done by a man with whom he was entirely unfamiliar. When she was first born, before her father left, he had given her this single parting gift, as much for her protection as his own. It was not good for Rivens to make their presence known in a world that was against them.

After his many failed attempts, Goran believed he was weakened because he was already convinced of her heritage and wasn’t using enough effort, but then his determination not to be outdone by a charm made him exert all his efforts, and still he failed. He had become so put-out that he almost decided to simply lie to Thedred, who had been so insistent that he know for certain.

Thedred was a good man, but had almost a fanatical devotion to the arch mage. He would do Travon’s bidding in the good faith that Travon knew what was best for the collective masses. The individual did not matter. Gonriel’s great lands were proof of Travon’s competence. Thedred was, however, considerably uncomfortable with the task he had been assigned. He quailed inwardly when he thought of it. He had been instructed to dispense with both mother and child. The arch mage was determined to wipe out every last Riven that walked the earth.

The sky was bright and clear. The spring weather had began to grow pleasantly warm. The land was open around them with green rolling meadows, and the sun shone bright upon them, but the sun could not warm Daenara’s face. Leading their horses by foot, the travellers slackened their pace a moment for brief repose. Éomus led his beautiful white horse by Daenara’s sturdy brown mount. Neither said a word to one another, but Éomus’s presence was always a great comfort.

Behind Daenara, several horses back, Goran’s sallow eyes were fixed intently on her with an expression of sheer determination. Goran had come very near to giving up, when at last he broke through. He had done so, so unexpectedly that he gasped when he suddenly came upon the intimate recesses of her mind—seeing images and memories that flicked through his own mind in rapid succession. The memories were all, of course, useless to him, and he pushed them aside irritably. They were not what he needed to see.

Feeling a sharp pain, Daenara suddenly clutched her head. He hadn’t been in her mind long, but long enough to gain the information he needed. The subconscious mind holds a vast resource of knowledge. It knows intimately the nature of one’s own being, down to the very last cell. Rivens’ magical energies are interwoven with the lifeforce that infuses each and every one of their cells. It is the source of their strength, which is why mages of other races simply cannot muster the same power and energy levels of which a Riven is capable.

When the sudden headache had passed, Daenara glanced back at Goran as though she sensed he had been tampering with her. His gaze remained flat and arrogant, though his mouth slowly peeled back into something akin to a smile. A sickening sensation grew in her stomach; the sight of him always left her with a feeling of abhorrence. She turned her eyes front again and saw Éomus was looking at her. His expressions were so subtle it was often difficult to determine what he was thinking, but always did he look on her with kindness, and he took pains to make certain she was comfortable.

“Are you well?” asked Éomus, seeing that her complexion had waned. She nodded wordlessly, her gaze directed upward as though she were listening. The breeze carried dull and mournful moans that resolved themselves into wails and shrill cries. They were faint and barely audible, as though heard from a great distance. Daenara did not know any animal that could have produced such chilling, torture-laden wails.

She had heard them periodically over the past days, but mostly felt them. The men had said nothing, and she wasn’t certain if they even heard them or whether it was in her mind. “Something comes for us,” she said to Éomus, fearfully. “I don’t know what it is—but it comes to us with malice.”

“Wreavers. They have been tracking us for days.”

“Wreavers?” she asked, responding to the concern she felt within Éomus.

“Necromantic monsters,” said one of the Guardians, with a look of loathing. “They walk like men, but they’re soulless beasts, brutal and mindless. A single scratch is all that is required to spread their vile poison coursing through your body. Even the meanest among us could not bear the pain. Men have been known to cut their own throats to escape it.”

Later that afternoon, by a cool stream, the travelling party wet their lips and rested on its grassy banks. Daenara crouched down by Aéoden who was washing his hot-red face. “Who is that man?” she asked him quietly, looking at the sickly man who drank from a water bag painfully slowly, not taking more than the most meagre sips.

“Goran.” Aéoden almost spat. “He’s one of the necromancers that stayed true to Travon, or rather feared to go against him. Now he sets his talents on worming his way into people’s minds like the treacherous little maggot he is. Both mind manipulation and prying are illegal practises, except when we utilize them for investigation. He’s often very useful, which is why that unfortunate creature accompanies us. Should he bother you, tell me, and I will see that he repents it.”

Aéoden continued to wash his face and neck, drenching his hair entirely. Daenara rose to her feet. “It’s growing warmer,” she said. A soft wind brushed her face and softened her strained features.

“It’s going to become more so,” Aéoden told her. “The tracks we’ve been following have persistently led south toward the Surian desert.

“No,” Daenara corrected with such blatancy as to cause Aéoden to pause midway and look up at her with curiosity. Wiping the water from his eyes he rose to full height, looking at her. “I see snow,” she said absently, her eyes lightly closed. “Mountains laden with snow and frost—and rising taller than the rest, a great mountain, and a dark structure obscured in its mists.”

Aéoden rubbed his brow frustratedly. “Are you certain?” Without waiting for a response, he said, addressing no one in particular, “We have been deceived; we are going the wrong way.” He impatiently took the reins of his horse.

He had come to trust Daenara’s visions. She had warned him of dangers and guided him and the men safely through unknown and treacherous terrain. They had been deceived; the tracks had been false. Necromancers have many deceiving powers, such as illusion, and can make things appear as they are not, even to a trained eye.

“Let us proceed now. We have lost too much time.” Aéoden said.

“In which direction are we to go?” asked one of the men.

“The only mountains to have snow this time of year are in the realm of Illésmore,” said Éomus, assisting Daenara to mount.

Aéoden nodded. “We go north,” he said, settling himself in the saddle. In an attempt to make up for lost time, they had not taken a break in many hours and rode into the night over dark fields with only the stars to light their path. They eventually set up camp in a dark wood. An unfortunate boar on a spit had become dinner for the evening. As she partook of something to eat, Daenara found her attention again drawn to Goran and Thedred, even though the two now sat apart and seemed to speak little.

Goran had lost interest in her entirely, while Thedred had his eyes always upon her—always with the same dreadful look of remorse—eyes always slightly averted as though he could not bear her gaze. His face was heavy with some burden. His haunted glances made her deeply uncomfortable. He, at times, gave her the feeling he wanted to get her alone with him, where she would not have the safety of the other men. His strange attitude pressed against her already weary soul and made Daenara feel as though she would wilt with the pain of it. Her arms ached to hold Deacon, to feel his warm little body against her own. She feared that he was afraid and alone.

Not far from Daenara, another’s heart was aching for hers and had a great desire to soothe her. He stood with his shoulder against a tall tree, never far from her. He settled kind, pale eyes on her with grave interest. He could see that she grew paler and fainter with each passing day, but the absence of bloom on her cheek did not diminish her beauty in Éomus’s eyes. Her loveliness was of the earth, warm and natural. The soft glow of the fire touched her face, bringing warmth back into it.

Presently, a hand gently rested on Daenara’s shoulder. It was the whitest as well as the lightest ever to have been laid on her. She looked up into the face of Éomus. He smiled down on her with the look of promised alleviation, and she felt herself soften at his touch.

“This will all soon be at an end,” he said, and the calm intensity of his voice held her with a sense of assurance. “You will again, very soon, behold him and take him into your arms. This is all just a terrible dream from which you are soon to wake.” A deep frown creased his otherwise smooth brow. “I pledge my life on it.” The moment he removed himself from her side, it was as though a light had been extinguished, leaving her in darkness.

Later, when the men were settling into their tents, Daenara noticed Éomus vanished deeper into the woods as quietly as the breeze passing. She had in fact noticed that every evening, wherever they might be, Éomus would silently steal away to be on his own for a time. She followed him this evening, treading softly through the moonlit trees. The soft sound of rushing water came to her ear and led her to where water flowed down from rocks and collected in a pool of shimmering water. Éomus stood at its edge. The moonlight outlined his slim well-proportioned figure.

She could hear him speaking softly in a language that was of the earth, the trees, and the wind. The words flowed from his graceful lips reverently as though in prayer, though his face was not down-bent but raised to the night sky. His luminous features were smooth without any sign of care. The meaning of his words eluded her but were nevertheless healing. Without making her presence known, she listened long to him. Her face rested upon her hand as she leaned against a tree. The lilting, melodious words filled her with a deep sense of calm.

“Does it bring you comfort?” he asked quietly. The unexpected address brought her back with a slight start. She believed that the trees must whisper to him, for she fancied she had made no sound. Yet still he knew she was there.

“Yes,” she said in a half-whisper, feeling somewhat ashamed. It was after all his personal moment. Perhaps he wished to keep it for himself, but his expression when he turned toward her was of pure tenderness.

“It is an invocation requesting strength and guidance,” he said.

Amid this deep quiet Daenara felt an unspeakable anguish arise within her heart. Until now she had borne the despair with unfaltering courage. Tears gathered in her eyes. “I cannot let my son die.” Her voice was scarcely a whisper.

“It will not be a grief you will have to bear,” he soothed. He extended a slender hand toward her. “Come to me.”

The moment her hand was laid in his, she was drawn gently into his embrace. Not the finest silks nor satins could compare to the feel of his touch. Caressing her lovely hair, words were spoken from his lips in a melodious tongue. Daenara looked into the pale eyes with their unfathomable depths and felt a hushed sense of peace. Éomus lowered his face and let his words fall on her lips, kissing her deeply as if he meant to take upon himself all of her sorrow. In the moonlight they stood serenely radiant, with their heads bent together.