Wind howled as Bohriam trudged across the pathless slope, legs dragging through a foot or more of snow, with only the clouded light of the Dancers and his sword to guide him through the darkness. Icy sharp snowflakes plummeted from ahead, slamming into him and pinpricking his skin like daggers too small to avoid. He grit his teeth as another furious gale roared against him, threatening to rend him into oblivion.
The Transiosphere released a brief storm of crackling energy—and then Vaxal found himself in the middle of a conference room full of very confused diplomats, all staring up at him in disgraceful assortments of surprise and alarm. He was in Thannica now, the capital of Beleria, a thousand miles away from Stormwatcher’s Peak. He had appeared right in the middle of a session of the Court of King Valion—and he was standing on top of their table.
Bohriam and I escaped from the Provincial Estate with little further danger. He led me through the maze of hallways and stairways and secret passageways like he had lived here for years—carefully avoiding detection by any of the castle’s guards, none of whom had any idea yet that their Exarch was dead. They carried on about their business like it was any other day, only casually speculating on what the ruckus downstairs had been, while Bohriam and I fled like invisible phantoms under their very noses.
Bohriam tore himself out of the indent his body had made in the wall, nearly collapsing to one knee as he fell. He held himself up with his lightning sword, bladepoint digging into the stone floor. “I’m not going to let you hurt Ashleigh,” he declared. Trembling, he lifted his sword with both hands and prepared himself for battle.