Salamin ran for all he was worth up the side of the hill towards the forest, with the girl close behind. Smoke billowed out of the chapel, and he could hear more mages gathering together to work a stronger dissipation spell.
Below them, acolytes ran through the streets to the safety of their dormitories.
They caught their breath at the edge of the forest. “Are you alright?” Salamin asked and watched as his words had no effect on her.
“Can you hear me?” Salamin tried again.
“I can’t leave,” she said at last, in a familiar accent. “I can’t leave here.”
Salamin knew that accent anywhere and smiled to himself. Devold. His language. Then language of his ancestors.
“We need to go,” he said, switching to the Devold tongue. How long had it been?
The girl looked up at him, eyes wide. “You know the tongue?” She shook her head, gazing down at the city, the circular scar on her cheek illuminated by the moonlight. Unconsciously, he touched his own face. He’d had to burn the scar in order to get into the Order. A long time ago. He squinted, looking for her path.
Nothing.
She couldn’t be more than 17, and just to the point of oathmaking. Had she taken an oath?
“They have my brother,” she said, a hand reaching up to a charm hanging around her neck. “I can’t leave.”
Salamin nodded. The Order had a long history of cleansing the world of Devold, the apostates, as they called them. If her brother was down there, and captured, he was likely already dead.
“It’s too dangerous right now. We need to regroup.” His side burned and he squeezed his eyes shut until it subsided.
Lane gazed down at the city where the acolytes were gathering in the square outside the chapel, hesitating. They’d be sent out to search for them soon enough. “I know a woman, an ally in the town of Parmouth, south of here.” She eyed him. “Make an oath on your name.”
Her eyes bore into his, and Salamin realized she had the Gaze, an inherent gift his own grandmother had to sift lies from truth. He held her gaze. Could he trust her? An oath on his name was binding. Finally, he came to a decision. “I swear an oath on my name and blood.”
“Your name?” she asked, eyes slits.
Salamin hesitated. “Sal,” he said at last. It was a partial name, but the truth and would hold the oath.
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After a moment, she nodded and looked up at the dark forest stretching up into the hills. “You can call me Lane,” she said. “Do you know the way through the forest?”
Salamin knew it well, at least when he’d first joined the Order as a lowly acolyte. The Lockhorn Forest had been his refuge. But it was filled with creatures, evolved over time with magical and dangerous capabilities.
“I did at one time,” Salamin said, looking up at the stars. Navigation would be hard under the canopy of leaves.
Shouts of ‘Hail Argor’ echoed below as torches were passed out to the acolytes. They were coming.
“Follow me.” Salamin cut through the low brush, and immediately a fog hit them both, blowing up from the brush. His throat closed off, and it was difficult to catch a breath. He couldn’t see his hand in front of him.
Lane shouted, though he couldn’t see her.
They had to run. But where was it? Salamin chided himself. He should have looked for border protections. It was Blosson Gas and caused confusion and memory loss. His carelessness might have just gotten them killed.
Killed. He thought about the word and wondered about it. It was such a serious word, and he squinted his eyes trying to remember what thought had brought it on. The fog cleared, and he gazed out at the beautiful city below. People held torches, and the lights were impressive as they separated and began moving in different directions.
They must be searching for someone, he thought. The pain in his side subsided, and he took his first deep, calming breath. What a gift, he thought, gazing at the blood on his tunic.
He gazed out, and there was a girl next to him covered in dirt with tattered clothing. Salamin thought he probably should know who she was but couldn’t quite grasp it.
She stood staring out at the city, the breeze rustling her tattered pants and tunic.
Such a lovely night to be alive. High above, a sliver of a moon hung in the sky, and bright stars twinkled in familiar clusters. Did he once know the meaning of those clusters? He shook his head.
The girl turned and smiled at him. He inclined his head and smiled back. Below, there were men with beautiful, flamed torches climbing the hill towards them.
How nice, he could ask them what they were doing. The night was chilly, and he stuffed his hands into the oversized robe that he didn’t remember putting on.
Where were they? Nothing looked familiar. He then searched for his own name, and that did not come up either.
Sedwick, a small voice said in his head.
Sedwick? What kind of god forsaken name was that? He wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it.
Memories of another life crashed through his confusion. It wasn’t his life. It was Sedwick’s life. He saw his own stepbrother poisoning his father. He’d tried to stop him, and felt the stepbrother’s hands around his neck, choking out his life.
You’re in trouble, a voice sounded in his head. Get the orb.
Orb? His fingers clasped a round object in the pocket, and he drew it out.
It was breathtaking, as within the deep blue, white staves of miniature lightning crackled and sparked, moving in an intricate pattern. Mesmerizing. Then, as he watched the static, something shifted in the air. The moon seemed to sparkle and grow larger overhead.
[My Champion]
A beautiful melodic voice resonated through the sky and into the orb.
[You are my champion. My Paladin. Bring me back.]
His head jerked, and adrenaline shot through him, waking him out of a cloudy stupor.
A vision entered his mind:
[Paladin]
A new chant emanated from the acolytes and mages climbing the hillside. It was a spell of finding.
“Lane,” he said, and the girl started. “Lane, come on, we have to go.” He touched her arm and felt the energy of the orb crackle through his hand and into her.
Her eyes widened, and she nodded, and they both broke into a full run into the darkness of the Lockhorn Forest.

