The Defiance of Vim (Catalyst Book 4), C.J. Aaron [best novel books to read .TXT] 📗

cloaked their faces in shadows had remained drawn as if they were fixed over their heads.

Ryl had explained that all the tributes carried in them the same blood that granted these mythical warriors their powers. Cray had struggled to search his mind since his eyes had been opened to the truth, yet he felt no different. He felt as normal, as plain as ever.

Was Ryl wrong about him?

Was he wrong about the tributes?

Though Cray could see not the tangent of their eyes, he could feel their presence as they passed. It was an unnatural warmth and a welcome that seemed to exude from their cores. The larger of the two, a veritable mountain of a man, nodded subtly as he exited. The phrenic moved with a silent grace and agility that belied his massive size.

His eyes followed the group as they made their way to the path that had materialized in the solid forest. He watched as Le’Dral, the phrenics, and the majority of the guards moved along with the wagons. The final trip would complete the emptying of Tabenville. The remainder of the supplies, soldiers, and Lei Guard, still unconscious and bound, would be reunited in the security of the forest. By the time the sun set on the day, any who happened upon the village would find nothing but empty buildings and the pervasive mists of the waterfall.

Cray had walked that gloomy pathway through the Erlyn more times than he could count, yet the woods had never revealed its secrets before this day. Rumors circled through the tributes like a breeze through the trees, the hushed whispers like the quiet rustle of leaves.

They said it was the mercenary who opened the path through the woods. Hushed words spoke of a power that was inconceivable, one that had never graced the body of one without alexen in their blood. Even the phrenics seemed to view the warrior with reverence at his action.

Whatever the action, it had taken a visible toll. The life and energy had appeared to drain from the mercenary. Though he could tell the warrior struggled to maintain appearances, as Cray passed, he noted the dramatic effects. It was the cloaked phrenic who held him aloft. The knees of the mercenary shook under the light strain of minimal weight.

Cray had met his eyes briefly. They were unfocused, yet seemed to flash with recognition as they locked momentarily. The look he gave was confusing. It was as if there were a dam holding back a flood of information, of emotion that pushed to escape.

He shook his head, ridding it of the worrisome thoughts that intruded. As the last of the retreating party disappeared into the gloom of the forest path, Cray turned his attention to the interior of the tree. He scanned the makeshift clinic. His eyes inadvertently moved to a pair of bodies resting quietly along the edge of the far wall. They had been placed at a distance from the closest of the injured. The area around them seemed purposefully devoid of activity. He recognized them both immediately. One was a cloaked warrior who had arrived with Ryl’s party.

The other was Ryl.

Cray stopped in the entrance to the chamber. He leaned against the right edge of the massive root that formed one border of the door. Craning his head around the edge, he squinted as he peered into the interior. He could make out the shallow, yet rhythmic rise and fall of Ryl’s chest while he breathed. The urge to rush to his side was undeniable, yet there was something more, something he’d not yet experienced. There was an unmistakable force that repelled him. Though it was overwhelmed by the attraction, its presence was clear.

“If you’ve any skill as a mender, they could surely use the assistance.”

Cray jumped as the voice from the interior startled him. The tone was weary, yet contained strength and confidence. He pivoted his head to the speaker, surprised to find the mercenary staring back at him. Andr leaned casually against the inner edge of the tree’s doorway. Though his pose was relaxed, the wooden wall no doubt aided in supporting his fatigued body. His left hand was on his hip; his right rested on the pommel of his sword.

“I’ve never had the inclination nor the time to investigate or hone any skills aside from farm labor.” Cray stumbled through the words.

Andr offered a pained smile in response.

“Aye, that’s a tragic truth, and the kingdom has suffered from the loss,” the mercenary commiserated. “The world is changing in more ways than you are yet to understand, my friend. The time will come soon when your true calling, the calling of all the tributes, will be made clear.”

Cray offered the mercenary a confused look. Their eyes met; the mercenary’s gaze was probing. Cray averted his eyes as it became uncomfortable. He let his eyes wander the injured, picking out the tributes among them, again finding their way to Ryl.

“He’s changed in ways I cannot fathom since his departure last cycle,” Cray noted.

Andr tracked his gaze, grunting in approval at the comment.

“Aye. Ryl’s weathered more storms than many, even if they had multiple lives to lead,” Andr admitted. “He’ll recover from this. I fear one of these days though, he’ll push himself beyond the limits to where there’s no coming back.”

Cray was puzzled by the fatherly tone that resounded from the mercenary. The stories he’d heard of their exploits had likely given way to a great deal of over exaggeration. Both tribute and guard alike revered the battle-worn mercenary as if he were something out of legend. There was something in the tales, however, that he failed to understand. That he couldn’t comprehend. It was an unanswered question that tugged at his consciousness. He inhaled a deep, steadying breath as he carefully phrased the question in his mind. When he found his voice, it was far more feeble than he’d intended.

“Please take no offense to the question I ask,” the tribute offered as a