Seeing Is Believing [ Eragos, Sleeping Tiger ]
Vera's face was slick with blood that was not her own. She wiped both the crimson and the sweat with a glove she'd ripped off her hand, before discarding the ruined thing in nearby flames. She was running now, trying to keep low in the smoke despite the way her ribs protested -- likely bruised, instead of broken. She remembered the words of the Grey Rider as he grabbed her wrist with his burnt hand. She stabbed him through the neck, careless of the spray. The bubbles of liquid that made him choke as he opened his mouth were what made his words stick farther in her mind. The knife that she'd used to take the light of his eyes was now in her belt. She never lost her knives.
"Look around you," the Grey Rider had said.
In Hatharida they were crows in the trees as Talon delivered his position to Eragos. Hooting, hollering, but watching because they were commanded to. Now they circled like black-winged vultures, only to be sated by picking at the wounded or eating the dead. Vera did look around her and found eyes where she should not have. There were enough of them to storm this place as they had, but she had to be looking at most of their party when she caught movement among the shelves and inside the flames. Were they finished with their work already? Why care for a handful of White Riders amidst a firestorm? Vera did not wait to ask even one of them. She had been faster than the man with a scale around his neck. She did not know how fast she needed to be for the rest of them.
Heat was once again her companion and she felt her mother's presence strongly as sweat dripped down her brow. High Lady Tainn had little in common with fire. Her skin was pale, her dark hair rejected the fingers of the sun and she spoke with such polished rhythm. There was little to be called wild in her mother, who shot apples off rooftops to entertain her young daughter in the winter. There was never a steadier hand when the rest of the world shivered. Her mother told her stories on those early mornings when her breath froze in the mountain air. "My mother was an archer," she would say. "We shot rabbits in the snow." Always a story about her grandmother, a mysterious lady none of her siblings had ever met. Vera never knew a time when she spoke of her grandfather. He too was never around. He'd been buried after the Eastern Wars. High Lady Tainn once said that her mother only survived that through the strength of her mind.
Her feet stumbled on books and her ankle nearly gave as she caught her balance. She could feel them behind her; maybe two or three men from the way her wrist ached. The dead Grey Rider's words pounded in her head. Vera had to get back to where Sleeping Tiger and Eragos stood in the distance...where Eithne should have also stood. Where was Eithne? Where was Tirad? She bit her lip to stop from yelling her frustration. Vera hated only one thing more than fire and it was giving bodies up to it. She ducked behind a piece of the fallen shelving as she picked up her pace. A grey cloak was moving diagonally toward her from the right and she kicked at some ash, straightened her back as she ran to keep out of reach. Her sword was in hand, the gleam too much to hide. She hated the flash of a blade. Vera much preferred her staff. There was no place for such a weapon in a burning library.
Yet another reason to hate the fire.
"My mother showed me what could be done with the mind when we sat in front of a fire. She believed Tyr lived in every ember and watched me in every lesson, weighing my progress."
Vera twisted her wrist as the Grey Rider came across, but she did not slow her run to meet him. Their blades glanced off one another. She was sure to trip him with a little trick of the mind. It bought her time.
"Look around you!" she shouted as loud as she could. Eragos' back was to her. Sleeping Tiger was in her line of sight, his face wrapped in cloth. Vera remembered that the Rider's mask was what protected her from having to inhale the smoke. Sometimes she forgot it was there entirely, as if it were part of her body. She should never have taken it for granted. Just as she should have never assumed that her party was not considered evidence, as much as whatever might burn in this place. Vera thought to protect her group from a few attackers while they dug Eragos out, not discover more than what she killed.
When an arrow came for Eragos, likely because the archer was tired of waiting, Vera was ready to shield him. It was difficult not to have a sense for archers. She was always looking at a field as an archer might. Angles, perches, the dark corners that were perfect for work. Using sheer force of her will, she tore the Grey Rider from a plume of black smoke like a rag doll. Vera cast him into the fire. There no one could mistake the darkness of his clothes.
An awkward draft and displaced air caused Vera to turn suddenly. She expected a blade again. Vera's eyes widened as a wind shear ripped through the pile of books instead. She barely raised her arm to block the impact when she was hurled from her feet. Blocking was a silly thing to do, of course, but the attack was so rapid. Instinct won over thought in the split second. Vera only had enough wit to use telekinesis soften her impact with the ground, which came after seconds of flight. She landed at a poor angle, her back twisting badly. Her sword was a good foot away from her hand. Vera's first thought, beyond that that hurt, was she could not reach her weapon.
"What would Tyr say, if he weighed you?"
Likely that she should pay better attention. How much did she care? And why was she having dialog with a memory? If Vera's mind were a muscle to show fatigue, the tremors would be palpable. She spit ash and pressed her hands against the wood she sprawled across.