Welcome back to Silvanus and Empire, the best Steemit serialized fantasy novel every written by a dude who still sucks his thumb at night (hey, don't judge).
In our last exciting chapter, Dafydd, Einion, and Malcolm became separated from Brynn after a mysterious, powerful storm sundered the Cliffway in a dazzling confrontation. Meanwhile, back at Annex, Oren lies in uneasy sleep following the events of the past two days....
Oren was awakened by a brief flash of light. He lay there in his straw pallet, heart thumping in his chest, as he listened to a low roll of distant thunder. Is it raining? He thought, pausing to listen. No, I don’t hear any. And the roof isn’t leaking. He sat up with a laborious groan, pushing his woolen blanket down into a pool at the foot of his bed. Not that the roof leaks any more, since Caddoc mended it a few days ago.
Oren sighed. The disappearance of his young apprentice weighed heavily on him. Especially after that argument, he thought. He shook his head. If only he had listened.
The old scribe slid his feet down to the bare floor. He shivered, snatched the blanket up, and wrapped itself around him as he stood. Taking the single tallow candle that he had left burning when he went to bed down from a nearby shelf, he walked over to the shuttered window, joints creaking.
Oren unfastened the shutters, pushing one of them open. Peering owlishly from the half-open window, he caught a glimpse of a massive thunderhead off in the west, seemingly hovering over the horizon, spitting lightning haphazardly. The rest of the sky was eerily clear.
Bloody Cliffspring weather, he thought, pulling the shutter closed. He made his way to the barn door, slid aside the wooden plank he had been using to bar the way, and stepped outside, still clutching his candle, on his way to the privy.
After doing his business, Oren went back the way he had come, pausing for a moment to look westward once more. The storm had already broken up; the clouds were dissipating rapidly. A soft wind ruffled his smallclothes as he stood in the doorway. He shivered and went back inside, taking care to shut the door behind him and bar it once more.
That should keep those barbaric heathens out, he thought, nodding sleepily.
“Hello, Oren.”
The old scribe yelped, spinning around. He brandished his candle like a talisman, his peering into the darkness wildly. “Who’s there? This is Imperial property, don’t you dare-” He gasped.
A tall, thin man dressed in primitive hideskin was leaning against a post, his arms crossed. The hood of his cloak was up, plunging his face into shadows. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Not cold enough for a fire this evening? Or did I spend all that time rigging the coal chute for nothing?” He stepped forward, throwing back his hood.
Oren blinked. “Caddoc?” The candle shook in his hand.
The young man smiled wearily. His face was weary and streaked with dirt, and his hair was a mess. “It’s me. I’m back.” He took another step forward. “You’re not going to believe-”
“Stop.” Oren’s voice shook. “You… you can’t be here. You’re – you were taken. There was so much blood. What…” He trailed off, confusion creasing his features.
Caddoc sighed. “Oren, please. I’ve had a hell of a couple of days. Just listen to me. And for the Emperor’s sake, please sit down before you light the whole barn on fire.”
Oren sat down heavily on the single chair the annex had in its possession. He set the candle down on the edge of his writing desk with a clatter. “What happened to you? Are you hurt? And why are you dressed that way?” His brows drew together. “What did they do to you?”
“It’s a long story. Let’s just say that I’ve had an up close and personal look at the other side of the river, and that it wasn’t exactly a voluntary experience.” Caddoc rubbed the back of his head and winced.
Oren half-rose from his chair. “Caddoc, you’re injured. Let me call for aid.”
His apprentice waved him back to his chair. “I’m all right, I’ll live. Besides, it’s not important right now, before we raise the whole town.” He sighed, looking over at the window. The shutters had slipped open; he walked over wearily and closed them again. “Oren, I need to know something.” He turned around, looking at his superior scribe directly in the eye for a long moment. “What happened here twenty winters ago, with the Silvani that lived on this side of the river?”
“What?” Oren shook his head. How does he know? His pulse began to race. “That’s… there were no Bloodhair on this side of the river. There never have been.”
“Oren, please, there’s no time for this. Was it Lyrinn’s family? Was her father named Owl? Did you have a friend the Silvani called Longwalker?”
Oren’s eyes grew wide. “How… I never told you any of that. Who-?”
“Listen, Oren, we’re all in very grave danger.” Caddoc sank to his knees in front of the older man. He winced as he did so. Grabbing Oren’s careworn hands in his, he locked eyes with the scribe. “Oren, Lyrinn has the power of her father. And her mother wants to use it to destroy us all.”
The blood drained out of Oren’s face. He snatched his hands from Caddoc’s grip. “No,” he said. “There’s no way, we saw to it that she would never… she was taken.” He looked up, his hands covering his mouth. “She was taken to Spirit?”
Caddoc nodded. The wood of the hayloft creaked overhead, and Oren looked up, suspicion evident in his features. A few pieces of hay floated down. “Just the wind,” the younger man said. “Oren, we’ve… we’ve got to talk. It’s high time.”
Oren was silent for a moment, a pained expression on his face. Finally, he sighed. “It is, my young apprentice. There is much both of us must share, it seems. What do you need to know?”