Fulcrum of Light (Catalyst Book 2) by C.J. Aaron (ebook reader that looks like a book .TXT) 📕

The villagers had begun referring to him as, “sir,” a title that he detested, though at the moment he hadn’t the energy to argue.

“Thank you, Pell,” Ryl said kindly. “Your help has been greatly appreciated.”

The uncomfortable villager smiled at the statement, before the timidness regained hold.

“Where will you go from here?” he asked.

“As I understand, the nearest functional crossing is many miles to the south,” Ryl said without missing a beat. “From there we will march to the capital. To Leremont.”

Andr flashed him a side-eyed look. The phrenics had chosen to leave their hoods drawn, though he couldn’t see their eyes, he could feel their questioning glances.

“And what should we do with the guards?” he asked.

“Hold them for three days, then set them free,” Ryl responded. “With all they’ve seen. All they’ve been the unwitting accomplices to, I’d be surprised if any cause you grief.”

“Yes sir,” Pell said. He nodded awkwardly before melting back away into the crowd.

“Leremont, eh?” Andr whispered, once the villager had departed.

“If reinforcements arrive sooner than anticipated, the misdirection will hopefully keep them off our trail,” Ryl admitted. “We only need seven days.”

They finished eating in silence, lost in the thoughts of what had happened over the last day. So much had changed over the last moon; enough to make their heads spin. Ryl felt for the villagers as well. They were still coming to grips with the hooded warriors who’d appeared from the mist on their bridge that morning, shaking the very foundation of that which they’d understood for generations. The phrenics remained faceless to them. They’d be known by miraculous deeds, nothing more.

It was late in the evening as they broke from the table. Ramm and Kaep were to relieve Dav and Vox on watch. With all the rooms in the inn taken, Ryl willingly accepted the offer, content to spend the night sharing the back of Aldren’s wagon. The supplies had been loaded into the rear, furthest from the entrance. Long wooden boards had been stacked neatly along the inside wall.

They were leaving no tribute behind when they departed in the morning. Between Aldren’s wagon and the black carriage they’d confiscated from the facility, they’d have ample room for the tributes, although the ride would undoubtedly be less than comfortable. A group of the guards from the facility had been conscripted into cleaning the moving cell. They’d scrubbed away cycles of stench and filth, though to Ryl, the putrid scent would forever linger in the recesses of his mind.

The addition of the unconscious tributes created a separate problem of its own. The original plan hadn’t accounted for the addition of ten immobile individuals to their party.

Was there somewhere they could be secreted away and collected at a later time? The idea was appealing, yet the Lei Guard to some extent could track the whereabouts of the tributes. They’d be safe for a time, but for how long?

Ryl tripped over a box of what sounded like pottery in the dim light of the wagon. He unintentionally shot the merchant an annoyed look. In truth, Aldren had voluntarily donated the bulk of his remaining wares that he was unable to sell to the villagers in order to make room for their new, incapacitated cargo. The merchant had still retained a few pieces, for one reason or another.

Ryl’s hand came down on a carefully arranged stack of spools of fabric. A small roll of green and large roll of black fabric toppled from the pile, coming to a stop alongside the boards resting against the wall.

The idea dawned on him.

He turned to Aldren.

“How are you with a needle, my friend?” Ryl asked. A devious smile grew across his face.

Epilogue

Captain Le'Dral was lost in thought as he made his way up the small rise in the cobblestone road. Looming in the distance ahead were the outer doors of the Pining Gate. His meal at the Hidden Garrison, one of his favorite taverns, was barely passable this evening. The added volume of patrons in the city for the annual Harvest on the morrow had clogged the usually sleepy tavern. The normally quality food had suffered as a result.

On this evening, it wasn’t the fare that had brought him to the tavern. He had a scheduled meeting, though his perpetually reliable companion failed to show. The cause of the absence was a distraction he could ill afford at the moment.

Le'Dral wanted no part in the drunken revelry that was commencing in the tavern and similar establishments throughout Cadsae Proper. The celebrations for the impending Harvest were well underway. The city had a festive, carnival feel to it. The Captain sneered as a group of intoxicated men stumbled by. The group drunkenly yammered on about how they would one day earn the Blessing of the King; the right to bid on The Stocks’ famous crops.

The tributes.

The celebration had grown more repulsive to him with every passing cycle. Brightly colored decorations had been hung between the buildings, honoring the great Houses and noble lords that had been bestowed the honor of sponsoring one of this cycle’s tributes. This cycle would be his second as the Master of The Stocks. He'd again be forced to stand before the gawking crowd with a smile. This time he’d be announcing the fate of nineteen young men and women, an unusually large group for a Harvest. The number was made more extreme by last cycle’s abnormally small pick.

A beggar, wrapped in filthy rags, likely hunched over as a result of disease and malnutrition stumbled into his path. The Captain collided with the hobbled husk of a man, expecting to send the poor soul careening into a crumpled heap in the street. To his shock, it was he who was spun around by the contact. He must have been off balance.

Le'Dral opened his mouth to offer an apology. The beggar had continued staggering down the street, yet his head was turned back toward the Captain. For an instant he had a partial