“We walk a fine line between daemons and angels. There is a war occurring bigger than any that you or I can conceive, Artur. I hold my faith in the Light, and I trust even the assistance of hedge witches in these conflicts. I’ve touched the power of their elements, and if they are not an aspect of the Light, only then can you call me pagan.” - Prandag Lightblessed, final rebuttal

Chapter 18

Thunder cracked through the sky as lightning struck near enough to illuminate their path. Trynneia woke, finding herself swaying in the back of a wagon again. Ditan was nowhere in sight. With detached awareness, she considered it to be a mixed blessing, all things considered. He’d either died of the injuries she’d been unable to try and heal, or… She didn’t want to dwell on the second option.

No bonds restrained her, and someone had clothed her again. Assessing herself, she felt her limbs and touched her face. Her hair remained short, but stubbly. A few crusty scabs dotted her scalp, and her nose had righted itself. Fatigue gripped her, and her stomach growled, gnawing itself in its emptiness, yet eliciting no appetite.

Gentle knocking accompanied her in the darkness, and the brief bolts of lightning from the early morning storm revealed nothing. At least, she thought it was early morning. It made no sense that the wagon was moving at that hour, but she also had no idea how long she’d slept. That her hair had become stubble spoke volumes on its own.

Trynneia reached out with her intuition, examining the wagon. Along her sides were several crates that inexplicably had very faint auras, tens of them. She wondered what objects could have auras like that but dismissed the thought. She expected she’d learn in time. Curled up near what she supposed was the front of the wagon, she hoped to hear some conversation, anything to tell her where they were or how long they’d been traveling. Nothing but the thudding of hooves on packed sand and earth, and the tumbling shimmy of the wagon reached her.

Her captors seemed an oddly quiet bunch, all things considered. It suited her fine, now. Trynneia tried, just a little, to relax in this temporary solitude. These people were a cruel enigma. At times the torture was too much to bear, at others, she seemed to be wholly forgotten. Modius gave her no inkling of his plans, and for all his hatred for Ditan, kept him alive.

Was it abject sadism? Trynneia could conceive no logical reason why Modius and his people kept either of them alive. It seemed as if they were testing her, forcing her to learn her powers. They’d already known, or believed they’d known, what she could be capable of. She didn’t want to do it anymore, didn’t want to dance to their horrible symphony of pain.

Trynneia shivered in the dark, her body cold with night’s chill, and aching. Fear also played no small part as she replayed her most recent depraved punishment, and even the memory of the pain made her flinch. She’d been given no good option, yet still had needed to choose. It had seemed the right call, to take on a punishment they’d asked her to deliver to her dearest friend. She’d meant to spare him.

Where was the justice here? They’d crushed her, pulverizing her bones, shattered her back and face, and bludgeoned her into shock, and then while she remained conscious placed her in a position to observe even worse done to Ditan. Nothing had been gained by being selfless. Realization came that she would have to choose again.

Shutting her eyes, she couldn’t blot the vision in her mind of what had been done to him. In choosing to be selfless, she’d left him helpless. She sobbed, not knowing if he had lived or died. She couldn’t forgive herself if that had happened. Her earlier detachment warred with her heart. Trynneia could only ensure his survival if she herself remained alive and capable of healing. Depleting her energy for her own self-preservation couldn’t be the only strategy here. But it was the only one she could see.

Outside the wagon, a storm built to furious rage. The motion came to a halt as wind rocked her, and the knocking increased as several loose objects shifted back and forth in their crates. A few cries went up about circling the wagons and tying things down got swallowed up as dust and sand began pelting the canvas of the wagon, wind rocking it violently with savage gusts.

Sariam climbed inside, holding a small shuttered lantern before her. She looked surprised to see Trynneia had moved, huddled up further into the wagon than where they’d thrown her.

“Ah see the storm woke ya up, girl. Could’a swore ya’d sleep like the dead longer,” she croaked. “Pity.” Turning, she looked like she was going to step back out for something, then thought better of it. Pulling out her knife, she threatened Trynneia. “Ya stay there, if ya know what’s good for ya.”

“Wouldn’t think anything of it, Sariam.” She remained curled near the front of the wagon, and with the addition of Sariam’s lantern, Trynneia could now see both sides were stacked with crates two high, tied down to keep them from moving. A blanket lay on the floor between the two women, something she’d apparently discarded in her sleep.

The wind howled, and Sariam tied down the flapping canvas as well as she could, but even so the air filled with choking dust. Sariam covered her face with the blanket, while Trynneia made due with the rags that served as her blouse. Her eyes stung, and she kept them barely cracked, unwilling to trust the older woman. Sariam simply leaned against the crates, exhausted.

The old woman beckoned to Trynneia, urging her to come close, unshielding the lantern a bit more. “Come git warm, girl. Storm’s a biggun.” Despite her hospitality, Sariam looked quite nervous, her eyes flicking surreptitiously to the crates around her. Almost missing the glint in those eyes, Trynneia sensed fear, not malice. It didn’t make her feel any better.

“He lives, as ah’m sure ya wanted to know,” Sariam said as Trynneia approached. Unexpectedly, the older woman shared the blanket. “Barely,” she added.

“Thank you,” Trynneia replied, relieved. “Why are you telling me this?”

Sariam stared out through a gap in the flapping fabric and said no more. If anything, the woman’s fear heightened with the storm, and she sought refuge from whatever lay beyond the confines of the wagon. Additional gusts blasted the wagon, and it bucked against the storm, its wheels lifting clear of the ground on one side. Fabric stretched and seams tore, the weave itself failing against the onslaught.

This is no ordinary storm, Trynneia realized. Nothing could have frightened Sariam this badly. Silt, dust, and sand accumulated in the corners around the two women, covering everything in a swirling layer of grit. Grasping the other’s hand, Trynneia passed along a calm she could scarcely feel herself, and felt both of their heart rates slow. Sariam’s fear lingered even as she looked at Trynneia in wonder. Maybe a new fear had simply replaced a different one.

Interspersed with the dust and wind, Trynneia observed colors of varying hues and tints at the fringes of her vision. At no one location could she focus her eyes and see them, but these colors provided a mute casting within the wagon itself. Sariam showed no recognition, and Trynneia did not deign to bring it up. As these hues passed by, she could almost hear rhythmic chiming and humming that rose and fell in harmony with, but not part of, the wind.

Several hours passed this way, and the wagon grew more tattered, when abruptly the storm stopped. Wind fell off and an eerie calm surrounded the wagon and the entrenched travellers. “Ya stay here, Trynneia,” Sariam cautioned before leaving her alone. Trynneia nodded in acquiescence, and watched through a tear in the fabric as the old woman’s lantern traversed the drifts slowly, then disappeared into a nearby wagon. The darkness outside had gotten darker, not brighter, and she supposed her earlier assessment of early morning was wildly off the mark.

No one lingered outside, and the ambient sounds were muffled by the mounds of sand that had half-buried each wagon. Knowing she’d pay for it if caught, she hopped out and scanned the wagons nearby, hunting for weak auras. The skill had been growing with repeated use, and she’d learned to recognize people even unseen just by the presence of their auras. Thankfully, the nearest wagon held the one she sought.

Trynneia quickly covered the gap and peered inside. Ditan’s body lay alone on the floor, only his chest rising to provide physical proof he lived. This wagon had fared just as poorly as her own, with torn gouges throughout the canvas. Even so, the starlight did not penetrate, and visibility remained poor. Clambering inside, what could have been sticky blood felt doughy when mixed with the dirt and sand that had blown through with the wind. Ditan was too weak to even cough, and she took care to brush off dust from his face.

“Light, you’re so stubborn Ditan,” she laughed the tortured laugh of someone who wished they could do something to ease the suffering of a loved one. Ditan was all she had left in the world. Only the faintest of smiles could she make out in the darkness, his lips curling up despite the slashes across his face.

“I had to make sure you were okay, Tryn,” he wheezed faintly. “I think it worked,” he added.

Beneath his eyelids, she could tell his eyes still wandered, Skytouched. “Well, I’m still here. Let me help you,” she said, cradling his mangled body to her. Someone had been kind enough to splint his limbs to some degree, wrapping up flesh that had been punctured by jagged bones. As her runes began to glow, she saw the massive purple welts of bruised flesh covering his body, and innumerable cuts where flesh had been deliberately sliced away.

“What in the Light have they been doing to you?” she whispered, voice cracking.

Ditan’s head swivelled, looking for her, or for the elements, or something else entirely. “I’ve tried healing myself, but it’s not as easy as you make it look,” he explained. “So many voices, so many…”

She gripped his hand and stump, cradling his back to her chest, and began sensing and repairing his many injuries. The glow from her body intensified, and soon voices picked up, yelling from outside the wagon. She couldn’t leave Ditan broken like this, and she sobbed on to his stubbly head, knowing this would only get them both hurt again. But she had to try.

Colors surrounded her vision again, and the subliminal sounds twinkled just under her hearing. A sense of deep gratitude enveloped her, and Ditan smiled up at her as his wounds closed and his broken body mended.

“Trynneia!” Modius shouted, as Sariam’s cracking voice overlapped with, “I tol’ ya ta stay put!” She focused on her friend, knowing this was good, and right, and felt no remorse. Modius yanked back the flap at the rear of the wagon. “Seize her,” he directed, and Eilic leapt in, happy to comply.