A hot flush of shame and anger rose, so potent it almost choked her. How dare he? After everything she had endured. She pushed herself straighter. “I told the guards, and I will tell you. I have the Wayfinding talent. I demand to be tested.”
The man raised a skeptical eyebrow. “The Wayfinding talent? A woman of… what, thirty years? Appearing out of nowhere? Forgive me if I don’t alert the archivists to a miracle just yet. The talent, when it appears, is usually found in children, young men mostly. Women with it are rarer than dragon’s teeth.”
He pushed himself off the doorframe. “Frankly, mistress, you’re wasting my time. Our purpose is to safeguard royal communiques and guild-sealed contracts, not to collect every sob story the mountains cough up. We exist by the grace of the Treaty. We are a Sovereign Order because we stay out of the Concordium’s mess, not because we invite it in. Whatever scrape you’re in, the Iron Spur Academy is a service, not a charity.”
“It is not a sob story,” Gessa said, her voice trembling with suppressed fury and desperation. “It is the truth. And it is my right. Test me. If I am wrong, then cast me out. But you must test me.”
He studied her for a long moment, his blue eyes narrowed. Perhaps the sheer force of her desperation, the raw intensity in her gaze, gave him a moment’s pause. Or perhaps, as she suspected, there was a protocol, however reluctantly applied.
“Very well,” he said finally, his tone still laced with disbelief. “Procedure dictates. But don’t expect miracles. Or sympathy.”
He gave a curt nod and was gone, leaving Gessa shaken and seething.
After what felt like another age spent in the stark silence of the cell, the door finally opened again, this time to a different guard who simply beckoned her to follow. Her case, after that bruising encounter with the unnamed, cynical Spur, was evidently moving forward, though whether toward salvation or final dismissal, she couldn’t guess. She was led through a series of quiet, stone corridors, the air growing cooler, the pulse of the Ley Lines more pronounced, until they reached a oak door. The guard knocked, then opened it and gestured inside.
The chamber was austere, its stone walls softened only by intricate maps depicting vast, unfamiliar territories. A massive table of polished dark wood dominated the center. Seated behind it were two figures, both wearing the midnight-blue glass of the Order. Yet unlike the younger man’s, their pendants looked ancient, the silver settings tarnished by time and worn smooth by decades of service.
One was a man whose quiet presence nonetheless commanded the room. His hair was more silver than dark, his face lined with thought and responsibility, but his gaze, as it met Gessa’s, was grave and penetrating, though not entirely unkind, igniting a flicker of desperate hope.
Beside him sat the formidable-looking older woman Gessa had glimpsed in her mind’s eye when she’d first heard tales of the Iron Spurs years ago, a figure of legend. Her silver-streaked dark hair was pulled back severely from a strong, intelligent face, and her keen eyes, sharp as a hawk’s, missed nothing.
If this was who Gessa suspected, this was a retired Wayfinder of great renown. Perched in the shadowed rafters above the woman’s head, two pairs of enormous, unblinking amber eyes regarded her. A pair of great horned owls, their feathers mottled grey and white, sat as still as stone gargoyles, their heads rotating in perfect synchrony to track her entrance. They were a silent, watchful presence, an extension of the woman’s own formidable scrutiny.
The silver-haired man spoke first, his voice calm and carrying an inherent authority. “I am Aris Thorne, Master of this Academy,” he said, his eyes holding hers. He then gestured to the woman beside him. “And this is Master Lorraina Ashworth, our Chief Counsel and an Elder of the Spurs.”
Gessa’s breath caught. Lorraina Ashworth. Lolly. The whispered name from those old tales was real. Her heart gave a painful thud; if anyone might understand the Law and see beyond mere appearances, perhaps it was her.
Master Thorne then continued, “The instructor who first spoke with you, Ky, has reported your… unusual claim. He has expressed considerable doubt, as is perhaps understandable given the circumstances.” He paused, his gaze steady on Gessa. “We would hear from you directly now. His presence is not required for this.”
A tiny knot of tension eased in Gessa’s chest at the dismissal of the cynical instructor, Ky. It was one less pair of disbelieving eyes to face. Heart pounding, she knew this was her moment. Her gaze shifted between Aris Thorne and Lolly. She stood as straight as her trembling legs and battered pride would allow,clasping her hands tightly before her to still their shaking and hide their softness.
“Masters,” she began, her voice huskier than she intended but gaining steadiness as she spoke, fueled by raw desperation. “My name is Gessa, from an outlying Hold.”
She paused, the shame of her full story a burning coal in her throat, compelling her to choose her words with utmost care. “I come to you seeking sanctuary. I am… I am fleeing a powerful enemy, one who means to control me, to use me for a… a talent I possess.”
She met Aris Thorne’s grave eyes, then Lolly’s amber, assessing ones. “I have the Wayfinding talent. It is a true claim.”
With a shaking hand, she reached into her satchel and pulled out the velvet box she had guarded with her life. She opened it, placing the shimmering blue pendant on the polished table between them. It looked agonizingly bright against the dark wood.
“This was stolen from the Proctor who tested me as a child. My... enemy... kept it hidden for twenty-three years while he forced me to wear the blank glass. I reclaimed it.
“I have endured much to reach your gates. All I ask is my right, and it is… it is my only hope of survival.”
Aris Thorne listened patiently, his fingers steepled, his expression unreadable. Master Ashworth, Lolly, watched her with that unnerving focus, as if weighing not just her words, but the very breath and tremor that accompanied them, scrutinizing every flicker of Gessa’s expression. The skepticism in the room, though perhaps chilled by the desperation in Gessa’s voice, settled like a cold weight pressing down on her already burdened shoulders. How could they believe such an outlandish tale from a woman who looked as though she’d crawled from a grave? A fresh wave of despair threatened to engulf her.
It was Lolly who spoke first after Gessa finished, her voice calm but firm. “You understand, Gessa, the rarity of what you claim? For the Wayfinding talent to manifest so late, unrecorded, particularly in a woman… it is, to put it mildly, extraordinary.”
“And the Iron Spurs do not grant sanctuary lightly, especially from ‘powerful enemies’ who might have their own claims. Kingdom law is jealous, Gessa. If a Lord of Cairsul or Valenros demands the return of a fugitive, refusing them is a diplomatic incident. To hold you, we must be certain your value outweighs the cost of the quarrel.”
Gessa met her gaze directly. “I understand. But what I claim is true. My life is not the only thing at stake. My… my very soul is.” The words came out with a raw honesty that surprised even herself.
Perhaps it was that raw emotion, or something Lolly saw in Gessa’s eyes, a flicker of the hunted, traumatized woman beneath the desperate claimant, but the Elder Spur’s gaze softened just a fraction before Aris Thorne spoke, his voice a calm, final note in the charged silence.
“You will be escorted back to the waiting room. We will deliberate.”
It was a dismissal, not a verdict. The guard reappeared as if summoned by the words, his presence a silent insistence. As Gessa was led from the chamber, she risked one last look back. Master Thorne’s face was a mask of grave consideration; Lolly’s was unreadable once more, her expression shuttered. The door closed, cutting her off. Back in the stark room, the minutes dragged. Gessa wrapped her arms around herself, trying to ward off a chill that had nothing to do with the stone and everything to do with the abyss of uncertainty that had opened at her feet.
Later, after what felt like a lifetime spent listening to the frantic racing of her own blood, the door opened quietly. It wasMaster Ashworth, Lolly. Alone, without the imposing presence of Aris Thorne or the lingering cynicism of Instructor Ky, the older woman appeared less an interrogator and more a weary witness to hard truths. She carried no air of accusation, only a quiet gravity.
