The Unremembered: Book One of the Vault of Heaven – Read Now and Download Mobi

For Cheyenne,
in the hope of more daddy stay-home days

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This artifact you’re holding owes its existence to a multitude.

First, to Nat Sobel, the best kind of gentleman, who happens also to be a world-class agent. To Jim Frenkel, a great story guy, who also edited this tome and helped me through my first go at being published. And then there’s Irene Gallo, who makes art happen; and the rest of the marketing, publicity, and editorial crew at Tor, all of whom have impressed me immensely. Finally, Tom Doherty. You, sir, are the very definition of “epic.” Thank you for the opportunity. I’m humbled and grateful.

Here’s to Mannheim Steamroller, and their song “Red Wine,” in particular; I’ve had more early years writing fugues to this tune than I care to admit. Then to Terry Brooks, both in eighth grade and these last few years—another epic fellow. And oh my, to Stephen King, whose book Night Shift (my first King) I bought the year I graduated high school and realized I was indeed going to take hold of the flame (yes, that’s a Queensrÿche reference). I should also thank a great list of writers—some of whom I’ve had the good fortune to meet—but that would make these acknowledgments overlong; so this time out, I’ll mention Dan Simmons, whose work helps me strive to be a better writer. To all my writer compatriots in the Pacific Northwest: You’re tops. Thanks to Dean Smith, who was there at the beginning and at the end—and points in between. And to Eph and Virginia, I’d be nothing without your example.

Of course—and not least of all—there’s the family: Cathryn, for keeping us all sane and somehow happy; Alex, for his systematic chaos (yes, that’s a Dream Theater reference); and Cheyenne, whose picture kept me company in the dark hours of early, early morning as I dragged myself to my writing chair and continued to hope.

CONTENTS

            Title Page

            Dedication

            Acknowledgments

            Map

            Prologue: The Whiting

            Epigraphs

  1        The Right Draw

  2        Strangers in the Hollows

  3        A Late Reader

  4        Dangers of the Road

  5        Quiet in the Hollows

  6        Payment in Oaths

  7        The Birth of Flight

  8        Release of the Shrikes

  9        True Introductions

10        A Maere and Training

11        Harbingers

12        Questions and Dreams

13        Myrr

14        Subtleties

15        Crones

16        A Need for Pretense

17        Beatings

18        Sedagin

19        Teheale

20        Small Victories

21        Partings

22        Escaping the Darkness

23        The Help of Young and Old

24        The Rushing of Je’holta

25        The Tenendra

26        A Songbox

27        The Wall of Remembrance

28        Widows Village

29        Reputations

30        Emblems

31        Names of the Dead

32        Inveterae

33        The Stakes Are Raised

34        The Scar

35        The Wages of a Kiss

36        Dust on the Boards

37        Wards of the Scar

38        The Tracker

39        Heresy

40        Reunion

41        Memory of an Emotional Scar

42        Qum’rahm’se

43        More Scars

44        Stonemount

45        Ta’Opin

46        Hidden Jewels

47        The Wilds

48        A Primrose

49        The Untabernacled

50        Fever Dreams

51        Revelations in Parchment

52        Public Discipline

53        Reluctantly Used

54        Recityv Civility

55        Darksong

56        A Quiet Cradle

57        A Servant’s Tale

58        Maesteri

59        A Servant’s Tale, Part II

60        Sodality and the Blade of Seasons

61        Dreadful Majesty

62        The Lesher Roon

63        Winners and Wisdom

64        Preserved Will

65        Standing

66        Choices and Revelations

67        Tokens

68        Garlen’s Telling

69        Leaving Peace Behind

70        Children of Soliel

71        One Bed, the Same Dream

72        Leave-takings

73        Rhea-fol: The Dissent

74        Lineage

75        Waking Dreams and Forgiveness

76        Stain

77        A Blade of Grass

78        Rudierd Tillinghast

79        A Solitary Branch

80        A Refrain from Quiet

            About the Author

            Tor Books by Peter Orullian

            Copyright

PROLOGUE

The Whiting

An uncustomary quiet fell over the council as its last member entered the tabernacle. The One strode confidently toward the rest, who occupied their seats as though they’d convened some time ago. His steps echoed up colonnades of fluted granite columns that rose the height of thirty men and ended at the open sky. The depths of morning stretched above. Over ornate inlaid designs of marble his boot heels clapped, his dark mantle trailing him as if he were a bridegroom come to enter his final covenant. A mocking smile played on his lips, seen in snatches of shadow and sun as he strode between the pillars toward the council table.

Upon each pillar lay inscribed patterns of stars—bodies deep in the night firmament, many too deep to be seen from this world. They read like a book, a journal, an accounting of feats, travels … works. The One sneered, and muttered, “Arrogant, immortal biographers.” With a narrowing of his gaze, he caused portions of the pillars to erode, the stone sloughing like sand in a time-glass and marring the designs with patches of emptiness. His smile widened, darkened. Then he continued on, returning his attention to the deliberation he knew awaited him.

Into the central chamber strode the last council member, still wearing his smile. He paused, gathering the measured looks of his eight brethren already seated at the great semicircular table. Above them, the sky shone a peerless blue, the winds absent from the day, everything a testimony to the creation they had sought to bring forth yet again. When he’d greeted each one of them with scrutinizing eyes, he folded his arms across his chest, making no move to claim his seat amongst them. Nor was there invitation to do so.

The moment stretched like one eternal breath.

Dossolum, the Voice of the Council, stood, his face drawn with both regret and resolve. “Maldaea, you were chosen among us, charged to ensure in the founding of this world the balance of hope and trial, growth and despair. Given into your stewardship was the power to refine the work of the council and create harmony.” Dossolum stopped to regard the others. “You have corrupted the special sanctity of your office. And in your labors, the balance of Ars and Arsa, body and spirit, is lost.”

“Am I too effective at the task you gave me?” Maldaea asked with casual sarcasm. “Or is the rest of the council too soft in its beneficence?”

The Voice of the Council looked up from beneath a stern brow, preparing his words carefully. “You glory in torment, Maldaea. You draw upon the Will to fashion and purpose life diseased from its inception. Your creations do not refine the races of this world. The intention of all that is given life at your hand is subjugation, imposition, dominion.”

“The very qualities instilled in the breasts of your nobler … imperfect races.” Maldaea sauntered several steps closer, threatening with his insolent informality.

“Imperfection is not always immoral or iniquitous,” Dossolum countered.

Maldaea nodded appreciatively. “Then why the creation of this Bourne to banish and imprison all my work? I’ve not known a world where such a thing was necessary.” The One took a square stance and leveled knowing eyes at Dossolum. “Or permissible.”

“We are the Framers, Maldaea. We decide what is permissible.” The Voice of the Council let his words ring in the vault of the open sky, echoing their dual meaning. “So we are convened to render a decision concerning your part in the foundation of this world and your seat among us.”

A terrible, dark loathing drew Maldaea’s features taut. “And what would you do, Dossolum?!” He turned savage eyes on the rest. “What would any of you do?! I am not one of your creations to be trifled with! Just as some stars burn brighter than others, so does the power to command the Will come to some of us in greater measure. Is that not the very reason that I alone was given the responsibility of setting avarice upon the land, forming prick and briar to smite the heels of men, siring life with a lust for war so that men might learn the value of peace?”

“Your talents are certain,” Dossolum replied evenly. “It is your intention that makes you foolish … and dangerous. The wisdom and strength of the council is in its several members.”

The Voice of the Council looked around the great table at those assembled. He nodded as he began again to speak. “In the formation of other worlds, each of us here has labored in the same office you occupy in this world. But never did the work of ruin become our delight. Even you, Maldaea, have peformed this dark labor before, and not allowed it to become your joy nor to overrun the balance you’re meant to create.” Dossolum paused, then softly asked, “What has changed in you?”

Hatred surged inside Maldaea. The arrogance and condescension were intolerable! “You are all fools! You convene to breathe life into a world as you have done for eons, but your own design has not grown or deepened. You’ve become complacent in your labors. Have you forgotten why we do this? These countless races, created on countless worlds, are not lifted up by the trials and hardships of their lives. They are not evolving to inhabit the divinity that you claim is their inheritance. They live and die and nothing more. Why is this tabernacle not filled with these children become your equals, to aid in the work? Perhaps something is amiss in your efforts.”

“Enough!” Dossolum roared. The very sky shivered. “You desecrate these halls with your slander and lies! Do not twist the accusation back upon us. Your work is overgrown, it is grief for its own sake … nay, for your own glorification. That is the change in you.”

Maldaea trembled with fury. “The time of the council is over! There must be one eminent among the rest. To lead. To ensure that souls are not lost to nothingness. Or else…” He looked up into the sky, forming his malediction. “Or else it were better that they never know life at all.”

“There is no first among equals, Maldaea. The will of the council governs each of us.”

“You hold no dominion over me!” Maldaea howled. He swept an indicting finger at the entire council. “And beware that you cross a line from which there is no return. Will you dare condemn me for doing only what each of us has done countless times before? Are you so elevated in your conceit that you ignore the jeopardy of taking open opposition against me? You are too far removed from the earth you are so fond of sowing.”

“Maldaea”—Dossolum adopted a tone of finality—“once great and noble in the company of these, your friends, now condescension fills your breast and taints the renderings of your hands—”

“Silence!” Maldaea cried.

His call brought tremors to the Tabernacle of the Sky, the great pillars swaying against the blue, the floor quaking as if it might open and swallow them all. The air bristled and churned, the sound of Maldaea’s command tearing at the fabric of reality and filling the tabernacle with an accompaniment like the rending of a thousand sails.

Yet Dossolum went on. “They are crimes of ambition, intolerable indulgences that have put at odds the work of this council and defiled the unique nature of your calling.” Falling to a deep register and sure cadence, his voice calmed the surging stone, restored clarity to the visible world. “In consideration of all that has gone before, we have decided—”

“Enough!” Maldaea protested again. “You will not decide for me! The founding principle of the Charter is the right to choose! I defy you to place yourselves above the truths that guide the formation of life. Eternal truths that do not bend to the satisfaction of your own comfort or intention. You will either uphold these principles in every instance”—the words twisted his lips into a sneer—“or you will abandon them and give me place to impose order and claim what I have power to claim. Either these truths remain immutable, or, in denying them, you prove the validity of my work.”

At his words, the earth shook again, the marble underfoot groaning, shifting, until fissures broke and spread across its glazen surface. His defiance, bright and fiery, ascended the fluted columns, jouncing over stone and rushing skyward where it blurred and discolored everything it touched. Chips of granite began to rain down, clattering on the floor. The smell of dust and a hint of charred rock rose all around.

Dossolum broke his formal tone, a fierce indignation infusing his words. “Quietus!” he roared. “Now and forever you will be known by this name! No place will you have among us! You are discharged utterly! You shall have always upon your tongue the taste of the death and hopelessness you take pleasure in visiting upon others.”

As Dossolum spoke, chunks of granite spun and whipped back into the air, finding again their places upon the walls and pillars, fusing there to re-create an unblemished whole. The floor stretched and yawned, returning to its even, glistening plane. And wind rushed high against the heavens, as though claiming Quietus’s bitter words and whipping them away forever.

“You will live evermore the simple law of consequence so manifestly absent from your rhetoric.” Dossolum’s words came with more rhythm and tone. “This is part of the Charter. You will answer for the choices that you willingly made.”

Quietus trembled in his own malevolent anger. Without uttering a word, his hatred rippled outward from his quavering frame and sullied the visible world. Like a pall, the quiet stole the intonation of Dossolum’s words and left the Tabernacle dim. It crept like a baneful prayer uttered from unhallowed lips, yet not a word did the One speak.

Then finally, in but a whisper, he answered. “If you persist in this action, I will set myself against you everlastingly. Long have I toiled, waxing strong in the knowledge and use of the Will as none of you ever has.” Quietus raised his hands together in a cupping motion to signify the immensity of his gift. “With all that I am, I will also take those that sprang from my bowels and torment this world until each tabernacle is as this one is now.” He gestured to the chamber without lifting his stern gaze. “Until every marriage of spirit and matter is corrupted, consigned to share the sepulchre you prepare for me.”

Beneath such concentrated disdain, stone wept, tapestries moaned, books on the council table sighed with the resignation of the hopeless. The spirit evident in all things—the Forda that lived in all matter—protested the Quiet, cried out for respite. Even the sky withdrew, light and color fleeing, replaced by the endless stretches of space. Only indifferent starlight lit the Tabernacle, creating of the council vague forms like forgotten statues.

Somewhere in the shadows, Quietus smiled.

Dossolum stretched forth his own hands, but rather than cupping them up toward himself, he flattened them and turned them earthward. Staring through the shadowy light, he spoke his pronouncement upon Quietus: “You shall be Whited.”

The darkness rippled, shadows and edges blurring as if seen through bent glass. A feeling of surprise passed quickly to a disregard that tore at the very existence of Ars and Arsa. An instant later, a deafening wail erupted from Quietus’s throat. Waves of dark and bright coursed and careened off every surface. Like a living, maddened beast, the primal roar spared nothing, ripping indiscriminately at everything and everyone. In an instant, matter and energy were repurposed and sent racing at impossible speeds to wreak destruction and lay flat the variety of life given place in the land.

One by one, the other council members stood, each forming with their hands a personal sign to sustain Dossolum’s action, and adding to him their strength in the Will. Their actions silenced Quietus’s great cry before it could desolate the young world.

“This shall be the mark that shames you, announcing the pretense of working outwardly in the interest of others but hiding up your own wanton designs deep in your bosom.” Dossolum’s voice resounded. “From this moment, no more will Ars and Arsa be yours to spontaneously render; only with personal cost shall the power be known to you.”

Amidst the tumult, Quietus began to slowly drain of color. His clothes bleached white, robbed of their vividness. Soon after, his hair streaked alabaster from scalp to tips. And as the wind howled, Quietus writhed, struggling to maintain control of his physical form. With a last show of strength, he pushed back the whiting, restoring color to his hair, greyness to his mantle. His lips curled back off his teeth, his eyes shut tight in concentration.

The Quiet surged again, fighting their collective strength, as Maldaea sought to impose his own will, to steal all hope and possibility from this young world. Abruptly, the One’s efforts collapsed. The sound of words, many of them rising in musical phrases, rose above the din of wind and shearing stone, and pallor came again to Maldaea’s—Quietus’s—skin. Vapor shot from his pores, soon caught in the maelstrom and whipped away. He shuddered, howling imprecations at his brethren, reviling them all. Until finally there remained nothing of color in him save his eyes. He collapsed hard to his knees.

Dossolum spoke again, his voice like the rushing of water. “The vile creations wrought by your hand will be herded like beasts and driven into the deeps of the Bourne west and north: Bardyn, Fe’Rhal, Velle, all those given to you in their allegiance and lineage.”

Quietus, his voice and body wracked, shot hoarse recriminations at Dossolum. “And what of your own creations? If you abandon this world, what care you for them?”

Dossolum’s face showed a hint of sorrow as he looked skyward. “Some of these will go into the far reaches with your Quietgiven races.”

“I see,” Quietus managed, dark humor in his voice. “Handiwork whose promise you do not esteem, put away with those I brought forth. You are contemptible!” He again swept an outstretched arm in a violent arc to indicate the entire council. “What if any of these refuse to be compelled by you?”

Dossolum lowered his gaze to Quietus’s own. “Then they will be destroyed. We will raise a veil to seal the rest inside the Bourne. And give those who remain in the eastlands at least the semblance of peace and hope.”

“And what of me?” Quietus stood, his skin burning with the effort.

“You shall be bound and placed within the veil alongside the foulness you’ve created, there to spend time without end.”

As he listened to the pronouncement, his terrible countenance shone with darkening hatred toward the council, the worse for the lingering color in his eyes—like a vestige of the Noble One he had once been.

“I am eternal, just as you are eternal. You can brand me, tear from me the glory of future worlds to frame. But you cannot take the authority or dominion that is mine.” He showed an awful smile. “Be warned.”

Straining against the whiting, he managed a final word before his irises and pupils turned forever white, a word, a name, both his sentence and ultimately his triumph: “Quietus.”

For there are two eternal truths that may not be put asunder: that Forza and Forda, or matter and energy, or body and spirit, can be neither created nor destroyed, only rendered, changed, made new—yea, and all power within them lies, yea, even the First Ones were bound by these very laws in framing this world as in all the worlds that came before and all those that will come after; and next that these eternal elements may choose for themselves.

—Drawn from the apocryphal writings of author Shenflear, during the Age of Discord

A grave I traveled past, and stopped to look upon the stone.

I read the tribute words aloud.

My voice seemed an intrusion in the silence

For a brave man gone to his earth fighting the Quiet.

And I despised myself for feeling reverent.

What then was his death about?

So I recalled a jest and spoke it to the stone

And laughed out loud, yawped a bit, and honored him with noise.

The grave’s only power is this: that therein dies the laughter.

For this is life, and life is loud, or else the Quiet’s you.

—“Reflections from an Ossuary,” attributed to the poet Hargrove, during the Age of Hope

CHAPTER ONE

The Right Draw

The taste of rain upon his lips and the quiet of the forest vales and hummocks usually eased whatever worries Tahn Junell brought with him on a hunt. But today the woods and skies held none of their customary peace. Storms had driven the animals from the hills. And it had been more than three weeks since he’d even fired his bow at game. The murk that descended closed him in, sealing the skies of the Great Fathers and leaving an unnatural stillness upon the land. Even the rain, which usually brought renewal, now felt like a weight being yoked to his shoulders, as though he ought to do something about the changes in the sky but was left only soaked and muddied by the downpour.

As the rain began to fall in earnest, Tahn sought the mouth of a natural draw deep within a stand of towering hemlocks. He’d had good success here in the past. He cut several low-hanging boughs and fashioned a lean-to on a thick bed of needles with a clear view of the ravine. Tucking himself up under his makeshift shelter, he took a drop of pinesap from a nearby bough and placed it on his tongue to cover the scent of his breath from his quarry. Then began his vigil.

The wind died as the storm came on full. Heavy sheets of rain deluged the land and diffused the grey, watery light, obscuring his vision. Tahn concentrated on seeing any movement up the draw.

Moments passed, and he lost himself some to the soothing sound of rain striking the ground and trees. Wet and cold, Tahn nevertheless took some small comfort in being still.

He had hunted every day for weeks now, but had been unable to produce any fare for the Fieldstone Inn. Hambley Opawn, the proprietor, was impatient for meat to replenish his storehouse, especially with an inn full of travelers awaiting the overdue arrival of the reader for the Northsun Festival.

It was odd that Northsun had come and gone without an appearance by Ogea the reader. In years past, his father, Balatin, and mother, Voncencia, (before they’d gone to their earth) had taken Tahn with his sister, Wendra, to watch the reader come into town. It was always the same. On a small mule, the reader rode stoically through every street in the Hollows. He never spoke to anyone, letting his slow progress announce his arrival. People would begin to follow several strides behind. Tahn had always noted the strange hush that fell over the crowd: Conversation fell off, carts and horses were stilled, even footsteps sounded as though lightly taken. Ogea wound through the roads, allowing everyone time to hear of his coming, before heading for the Fieldstone, where Hambley would have put out a ladder against the face of the inn. The reader always dismounted, and, carrying a large leather book, climbed to the balcony on the east side of the Fieldstone. There he spent several moments looking over the men and women of the Hollows before beginning to tell the old stories again.

Every year Northsun brought people from distant parts to the Fieldstone, and for Tahn, providing Hambley with meat for his tables, it had always meant some extra coin.

But since the last full harvest, game had become scarce in the Hollows. Even a quarter-kill would fetch a hefty price from Hambley’s purse. Tahn would offer a second quarter to his friend Sutter Te Polis’s mother, for aid to his sister during childbirth; Wendra had expected her baby before the dark moon, which had come a day since.

And it would be Sutter’s mother to help, because Wendra’s circle of friends had diminished since the rape that caused her to become with child.

Rage burned in Tahn at the thought of it. He’d not been able to find the man responsible. Wendra’s memory of her rapist had blurred to little more than sadness. The carrying of her first child should have been a happy time for her, but now served mostly as a reminder of its awful inception. It had darkened his sister’s bright disposition by more than a shade. Tahn did his best to keep things normal in their home, but with Balatin gone, silences in the house brought morose thoughts more keenly. And not just thoughts of the rape itself. When he could admit it to himself, Wendra’s pregnancy served as a reminder to him that his own childhood had somehow become lost to him. Anything before his tenth year had simply disappeared. It gave him the vague sense of being an adopted orphan. At times, it left him feeling like dried bread that might crumble at the touch.

The mournful and troubled thoughts of his and Wendra’s home, Tahn now realized, were at least equally his own, especially with these incessant storms that darkened the skies and had apparently driven game from the Hollows.

A flash of light and savage thunder boomed all around, startling him. But it also focused him on his task.

When the last echoes of it had faded, Tahn breathed deeply and relaxed his grip upon his bow. Taking a leather strap from his belt, he tied back his long, dark hair. He then wiped his face with the lining of his cloak, pulled his hood forward, and settled in again. Moments later, from a copse of cedars at the bottom of the draw, a small herd of elk cleared the tree line. Their breath clouded the air as they snorted and chuffed. Cautiously, they regarded the ravine before starting to climb. Tahn slowly rose to his feet and nocked an arrow. Purposefully feeling every bit of tension in his bowstring, he made his pull and breathed easy as he aimed on the lead bull.

In a whisper, he said, “I draw with the strength of my arms, but release as the Will allows.” He paused, seeking, as he always did, the inward confirmation of the rightness of his draw. In the same moment, he glanced at the scar on the back of his hand. Neither the old phrase or the hammer-shaped scar he bore ever betrayed their origins to him; those remained lost in that same childhood he could not remember. Yet somehow they also assured him that this bull was not the right kill. He shifted his aim, pulling down on a smaller male farther back in the herd.

As Tahn set to release, the rain erupted in a new explosion of light and sound. It whipped and leapt, and coalesced into a whirling spout. A shrill whistling filled the ravine, attended by the deep-toned creak of hemlocks swaying in the sudden wind. The spout rose up, seeming to rear a sentient head, gathering momentum and mass before driving its fury toward the lead bull. All the sky funneled down in watery aggression upon the animal. Tahn watched helplessly, his draw relaxing. The herd scattered into the trees. Darkness spun in the air above, gathering in the rain that hammered the elk. The creature struggled briefly against the onslaught, legs kicking, horns tearing at grass and throwing chunks of mud. Mewling desperately, it managed to stand. But the funnel of water seized it and thrust it earthward again.

Then it was still.

Almost immediately, the rain returned to a normal downfall, leaving only swirling dervishes of mist and a trail of blackness in the air.

It was the wrong kill.

Angered, Tahn traced the trail of darkness up the other side of the ravine to a figure standing in a small clearing between two large hemlocks. Its hands remained extended, filled with the same darkness. A cowl was drawn forward, leaving its features in shadow. But the being seemed to stare at Tahn, unmoving, sharing something silent between them. Then the figure knelt, never turning its head away from Tahn, and thrust its fists into the ground. A flash of brilliant darkness burst from the soil, causing steam to rise from the earth. Tahn thought he could see the shape of a smile in the depths of the cowl, a smile that spoke wordlessly.

It wanted me to see it kill the wrong bull, that it would take life that should be preserved.… It knows me!

Then the stranger stood again, his mantle shimmering with the faintest touches of crimson in an otherwise perfect blackness.

And pointed a pallid finger at Tahn.

Tahn’s breath stopped in his chest. The ache of it threatened to drop him to the ground, his legs already shaking uncontrollably. What he’d just seen … the elements themselves controlled and brought down to kill … the wrong kill. He’d never seen a renderer, let alone …

Velle!

For all my Skies!

It was the only explanation he could find. Quietgiven from the Bourne, out of myth and story and secret lands so distant that they existed only in his imagination. Velle, the dark renderers of the Will, here in the Hollows! It was unheard of.

The reader!

Could this malefic creature have brought its dark craft to bear on the old man? It would explain his absence at Northsun. The thought brought fresh panic and the anticipation of deeper sadness.

Tahn remembered to breathe, and drew a cold stab of air that burned his throat and billowed out into the frigid air. He tried to breathe again, to calm himself. The figure across the draw only stared from the shadow of its cowl.

The motionless Velle and its dark intent were maddening, and Tahn felt again the pure, irrational dread a child feels when trapped in the dark.

He could think of only one thing to do.

His bow forgotten in his hand, Tahn ran.

He dashed into the cover of the trees, glancing back once to see the cloaked figure skirting the mouth of the draw, giving chase.

Tahn drove his trembling legs faster, and soon came to the forest path. He stopped, panting hard, his breath pushing short stabs of warm air into the cold. Just like the elk. He had to think quickly. The dark figure would track him easily and quickly down the path to the south road. Quelling the urge to hasten toward the Hollows, he ducked left into a dense stand of ash. Choosing mossy ground to quiet his steps, he doubled back toward the draw; the creature wouldn’t expect him to come back toward it. Tahn knew these woods as well as his own home; he hoped his pursuer did not.

A moment later he heard a thrashing in brush to his left. The other had found the path. Tahn pulled his cloak over his face to mask his labored breathing, hunkered low, and listened.

A few wet steps on the path. Then a howl that shrieked into the treetops.

And silence.

Something about the quiet unnerved Tahn. Did the other know he’d doubled back? He didn’t wait to find out. Staying low, he rushed back toward the draw where he’d seen the creature. He recalled its bony, pallid finger pointing toward him. But why destroy the elk? It was the wrong kill. And again Tahn thought that this creature had wanted him to realize that it knew the bull should not die … but that it did not care.

He flew into the draw, barely keeping his balance as he pounded down one muddy slope and up the other side. He finally shouldered his bow, using his hands to claw to the top.

Another howl. Closer.

The creature had found him out.

Tahn scrambled up, and stopped dead at the lip on the far side of the draw. He stood now where the figure had been. Underfoot lay a patch of ground as dry and untouched by rain as the Sotol Wastes. Rain beaded and ran across the spot as though it had been coated with wax. In the ground were two holes where the being’s hands had thrust into the earth. Scorch marks flared from the holes. He knelt to touch the dry, black surface. Not wax. Glass. The soil had burned into a thin crust of dark glass.

“Great Fathers,” he whispered. He’d never seen the work of a renderer. But here it was.

He knew little of such things, just what he’d learned from listening to Ogea’s stories. Only the Velle and members of the Order of Sheason possessed the power to render. And rendering came at a price. The difference was that only the Sheason bore that price themselves, drawing on their own life-energy. Velle transferred the cost to something (or someone) else.

He ran his finger around the glass-encrusted holes.

But these were matters of myth, weren’t they? No one Tahn knew had ever seen a Sheason, let alone a Velle. Velle were a Quietgiven race said to live only inside the Bourne. And the Sheason, though they lived in the nations of men, were spoken of almost as a cautionary tale, at best a secret. Somehow death seemed an equal threat from both.

A chill ran across Tahn’s arms and down his back. Velle! Here in the Hollows!

He whirled, checking his back, just as the creature glided from the trees to stand across from him on the other side of the draw. It lifted its hands. Stepping over the scorched soil, Tahn plunged into the deep wood. The air behind him crackled and spat as if lightning sizzled after him. Trees splintered and cracked at his heels. He dove behind a great rock, just as a wave of heat pushed past where he’d been running.

Another howl rose into the murk.

Tahn got moving again, racing with a sure foot over terrain he knew well. Somewhere behind him, the Velle again gave chase.

He ran for an hour, never stopping to rest. Over chasms and through rivers and streams he fled in a wide turn until he’d doubled back again, angling for the south road. The woods had grown quiet, leaving him with no sense of how close the creature might be. He didn’t wait. He lurched several hundred strides up the road to a stand of cedar where he’d tethered his horse, Jole.

His legs almost useless, it took him three attempts to mount. Finally, muscling his way into the saddle, he said simply, “Go.” Jole flew toward the Hollows.

*   *   *

Rushing up the road, Tahn checked behind him often, trusting Jole to his course. His mind raced, wondering at what he’d seen. It seemed so deliberate, as though Tahn specifically had been tracked into the woods. The figure must surely have been following him to know where he would be hunting, because even Tahn had not known where he would end up. The images of the rain driving savagely upon the elk and the scorched earth belied the calming smells of loam and wet bark around him.

A Velle in the Hollows—something that had never happened, as far as he knew, in all its history. And it had tried to kill him.

He rode hard into the middle of town. A hundred strides to his left, great billowing plumes of smoke rose to mingle with the clouds above Master Rew Geddy’s smithy. The smith kept a hot fire burning every hour of the day. The smell of his forge filled the air, even through the rain.

Looking ahead, Tahn spied the towering chimneys of the Fieldstone Inn through of the gloom. Reassured by the sight, he slowed Jole to a walk, then dismounted. He’d find his friend Hambley there. Hambley had a level head on his shoulders. After what Tahn had just seen, he needed the man’s patient logic.

He took hold of Jole’s reins and rushed up the muddy street toward the inn. It rose up like a square mountain, hemmed in by large, overhanging cedars. The stone structure looked palatial in the Hollows, where most homes were fashioned from the planks produced by the mill to the south on the Huber River. Gables protruded at even intervals along the top floor over the chamber windows. The roofing had been quarried from a red sandstone pit somewhere near the low steppes of the High Plains of Sedagin, or so Hambley said. He also claimed the Fieldstone to be the first edifice built in the Hollows after the High Season of the Great Fathers. But most folks in the Hollows felt sure he made that claim to attract customers. Still, the stones were smooth, washed and worn by countless cycles of the sun and winter’s chill.

Tahn went through the stable yard to the rear outbuildings reserved for guest mounts. He stabled Jole, but left the saddle on in the event he needed to leave in a hurry.

He had just emerged from the stable when something hit him from behind, knocking the wind out of him and driving him off his feet and into the mud. He took a mouthful of sludge as he went down. Someone straddled him, pinning his arms to the ground. A strong hand pushed his head deeper into the mud, and his nostrils filled with muck. Panic seized his chest. Had the Velle gotten here so fast?

Then, vaguely, he could hear familiar laughter. Tahn twisted his head free and looked up to face his attacker. The grinning mug of Sutter Te Polis hovered above him.

“I’ll bury you ’neath the Hollows!” Tahn cried, spitting out the mud, a smile of relief on his lips.

“I see. Well, my esteemed hunter friend, you seem to be the one half buried in the mud and,” Sutter said as he picked up a bit of horse mulch, “the rich stuff.” He smeared the dung over Tahn’s face, barking laughter. Tahn began to writhe, struggling to get up, but Sutter simply rode him like a horse master taming a willful mount.

Tahn spat the foulness from his teeth and kicked up with his hips propelling Sutter over him and into a pool of rainwater. He jumped to his feet and untied his muddied cloak. Sutter splashed to his feet and whirled around to face Tahn. Hambley came to the kitchen side doorway to check on the commotion, retiring inside again after mumbling something about “that foolish Sutter boy.”

“If I win, we leave the Hollows tonight, go find ourselves some maidens in the Outlands. I’ll be done with harvesting roots and you’ll be done with the woods,” Sutter said, circling. “Maybe we’ll settle for something a little less than maidens.” He smiled knowingly. “How’s that strike you, Woodchuck?”

Tahn spat again, the horse dung still pungent on his lips. Another time, he would have taunted Sutter that the Outlands had forbidden dullards from traveling abroad. Today, he didn’t have time for their usual games.

Sutter whooped and feinted toward Tahn’s belly. Tahn wasn’t fooled by the old Sutter move. He dropped into the mud, swept his leg out in a wide circle, and upended Sutter. His friend splashed again into the large puddle. Before Sutter could right himself, Tahn jumped on him.

“Enough! Listen to me. I’ve just seen a Velle!”

Sutter stared up, confused. “What? Is this a new game?”

“No game!” Tahn blared. “I was down the south road and out east hunting. I laid up in a draw for a herd of elk.” He stopped, still amazed at what he’d seen. “And a dark, hooded figure stepped out of the trees, raised its hands, and whipped the rain into a funnel to beat a bull elk to death.”

“A dream,” Sutter offered. “You fell asleep waiting on the herd.”

“Then it looked at me,” Tahn said, ignoring Sutter’s remark. “I think … it knew me. And it chased me through the wood. I got away, but I heard the crack of lightning at my heels more than once.” He looked at his friend, fear again seizing his gut. “It was trying to kill me.”

Tahn relaxed his grip and stood up, letting Sutter free. He went to Jole for his waterskin, took a mouthful and washed out the foulness, spilling yet more water over his face and ears. “Has the reader come yet?”

“Not yet.” Sutter took the waterskin and washed himself off before drinking deeply. He now looked a bit more like himself, his shoulder-length hair again the color of harvest just before it’s taken in nearly matching his brown eyes. This, and an angular face make him look older than Tahn, whose own hair was again black, and whose blue eyes were bright in a lean face tanned from much sun. They both stood a little more than two strides tall, and had each gotten what they called “outdoor strong” from their respective occupations over nearly eighteen cycles.

“It’s got to have something to do with the Velle.” Tahn turned to his friend. “In the Hollows, Sutter … a Velle in the Hollows.”

Tahn reached into one of the pouches on his saddle and took out a flake of salt. He dropped it onto his tongue as he tried to think of what to do. His heart still raced at the images in his head of the cowled creature smiling and a helpless animal beaten into a watery grave.

Sutter kept an uncustomary silence.

They stood together in the high doorway of the stable and looked up the road. Since the break in the rain, people had begun filling the streets. The clouds remained a complete canopy over the land, except to the east where small blue patches could be seen near the horizon over the Jedgwick Ridge.

“I thought the readers had some kind of special protection.…” Sutter cocked his head back and assumed an orator’s pose, gazing into the distance—his humor had returned. “Riding from village to village, city to city, telling the old stories, stewards of the histories of the peoples of the land, even those in the Shadow of the Hand, and those … harbored deep within the Bourne.” Sutter held his pose, glancing sideways at Tahn.

Today, the jokes wouldn’t help his mood.

“I suspect you’ll be a reader yourself someday, root-digger, you’re so horribly poetic.” Tahn tossed a salt flake at him, which Sutter caught and bit in two.

“And why not? There’s certainly not much to listen to around here these days. Even the gossip is old.” Sutter put the other half of the salt flake on his protruding tongue and coiled it back into this mouth with a flourish. Any moment he would return to his only topic of conversation: leaving the Hollows. Sutter wanted to leave digging roots behind, visit other cities, meet other races.

Tahn had just met one—today, as it happened, and Quietgiven no less. He had no appetite for more. He’d always been satisfied with the slow, easy way of life in the Hollows. Usually, just breathing Hollows air filled him with a sense of comfort. Now, his encounter in the woods had shattered his sense of safety and peace.

Panic again tightened his chest. “Let’s get in to Hambley’s fire. We need to tell him what I saw.” He strode quickly, forcing Sutter to hurry to keep up.

They paused at the main door (Hambley didn’t allow anyone but staff through the kitchen entrance) and scraped the mud from their boots on the last stone step before entering the inn. Already, Tahn could smell the fragrant scents of fresh bread and roasting duck, and the sour tang of ale hops. Muted conversation wafted from behind the door. Sutter pushed Tahn aside. “Let a man lead the way, Woodchuck.”

Sutter shoved the heavy cedar door open so hard that it slammed against the inner wall, resounding with a loud crack. Talk lulled as guests turned to regard Sutter, who stood arms akimbo, chest out as he received their stares. Spying the root farmer, people went back to their conversations. Tahn shook his head and followed his friend inside, quietly drawing the door closed behind them.

The open area on the main floor of the Fieldstone extended several strides to the left, where a hallway serviced the kitchen, and twice that distance to the right where a hearth the height of a man blazed with fires fed by logs that were two strides long. Tables dominated the area, mostly filled today with Northsun travelers biding their time until the reader arrived.

People came from the farthest reaches of the Hollow Wood to hear the reader. Tahn thought the men from Liosh overly quiet and modest, while Evin’s Creek residents seemed only able to bark. Mull Haven men wore double-breasted tunics, their women adorned in high-collar dresses; the latter always seemed to look up from a bowed head.

Hambley had set out makeshift cots in the rear hallways to accommodate the swelled crowds. Travelers, many of whom came three days’ journey or more to be at the Fieldstone when the sun rose in its northernmost passage (signaling a complete cycle), hadn’t abandoned hope that the reader might yet show. Though the sun hadn’t been seen for days, Northsun was deep in the bosom of the people of the Hollows. Regardless of the rain, people knew when Northsun arrived. And despite the lateness of the reader, it appeared the tradition of his mule ride through town and ascent to the Fieldstone rooftop outweighed the inconvenience.

No one knew where the reader came from, but his bulging satchels thrilled the town. They were filled with stories passed down from ages past, hundreds of generations old, that became new again on the lips of Ogea the reader: Stories of the shaping of the Land, of the wars to save men from the Quiet and shadows from the Bourne. Tahn hoped he would be seeing Ogea soon, that the man didn’t lie dead from a funnel of water rendered by the hand of the Velle he’d seen. Before today, he had wanted to ask the reader if he could tell them all something about the incessant inclemency and the desertion of the herds. The current age had no name and was now a season of storms. Today, Tahn wanted to ask just one question of the reader: What did it mean that a Velle had come so far south, and seemed to know him … personally? But he felt little hope that the reader would come this year.

The thought grieved him, and not simply for his own sake. He still remembered the first time he’d heard Ogea speak. The reader had never referred to his book, but held it to his chest with one arm while he gestured grandly with the other and projected a loud, resonant voice from his small, elderly frame.

The stories he painted with words had captured Tahn’s heart. For hours Ogea spoke, sometimes singing passages of tales in a broken but energetic strain. When night came on full, torches were lit, lending the reader a formidable, eternal look as firelight caught his eyes and his flailing arm cast large shadows on the Fieldstone’s upper floors. When he was done, no voices rose in appreciation, no cheers. A peaceful silence simply settled over the listeners as Ogea descended the ladder and quietly walked into the inn to sit beside the fire and sip a cup of warmed cinnamon tea.

Tahn hoped the reader lived to take his cup at the fireside again.

The lingering smells of nut-bread, berry wines, and sharp cheese drew him from his reverie. The tables were nearly full, so Sutter led them to the half circle of leather chairs closest to the fire—where Ogea always sat. Tahn hung his cloak from a peg beside the fire to dry and took a seat next to Sutter. The hearth passed through to the chamber and private dining room the Hollows townsmen used to hold their meetings; the fire heated both rooms. A door beside the hearth led into that adjacent chamber. Through the hearth, Tahn could see a pair of legs and dark boots.

His attention was shortly drawn away from the unknown person as Hambley came bustling toward them. The innkeep managed to carry a carafe of bitter and a plate of warm bread and cheese with one hand, and a meat cleaver with the other. Drawing near, Hambley put down the food and drink, keeping hold of his cleaver, and extended his long, thin hand to clasp Tahn’s—it was always so with the man.

Tahn took Hambley’s hand. The proprietor returned an iron grip. Tahn had once seen the Fieldstone owner bathing in the Huber, and had been able to count the ribs in the man’s back. Still, his wiry frame had thrown men twice his weight out upon their tails when the ale had made them foolish. His place was clean, and Hambley never let a man or woman step inside without putting something hot down in front of them.

“We’re almost out of meat,” he said, pouring two glasses of Fieldstone bitter for Tahn and Sutter. “Did you have a successful hunt?”

Tahn shook his head. “We need to talk. Can you sit with us?”

Hambley seemed to sense the urgency. “I’ll be back with some meat to join you.” Important matters for Hambley required food.

Sutter piped in, “Yes, yes, that should do just fine, my good man. Have off with you now, and make a good job of it.”

The innkeeper shook his head in bemusement and retreated down the far hallway toward the kitchen. Another great hearth burned there, one so large that Hambley boasted he could roast an entire bull in it. Tahn’s mouth watered with the thought of food from Hambley’s oven—he hadn’t eaten all day.

But it wasn’t the oven that made Tahn’s mouth water. As he often supplied Hambley with his meat stores, he’d seen the secret of the Fieldstone’s savory food. The inn owner fed his oven with only the most fragrant wood. And the cooks—Hambley’s wife and sister—dropped wet sage, thrush cloves, pepper corn, and piñon bark into the fire, causing a sweet smoke to fill the oven and spice the foods they cooked there.

Hambley returned shortly, weaving through the crowd. As he sat, he put a plate of duck on the table beside the bread. “I have guests that are here twelve days since. The reader has not shown yet, and the older folks won’t leave until he does.”

“Have the townsmen sent anyone to search for him?” Tahn asked. He half expected Hambley to tell him someone else had spotted the Velle.

“No one will go out in the rain … except you, I guess. Northsun came and went and nary an eye has seen the reader. Ogea is old, but he is always here by Northsun. Even before I grew to my Change that old fellow was coming into the Hollows with plenty of time to dine on roast duck and gossip with the women folk. His absence puts me ill at ease,” Hambley finished.

Tahn and Sutter shared a knowing look.

Then Tahn steeled himself for what he was about to say. It still felt like a nightmare from which he’d just awakened. Whispering low, he leaned close to the innkeep. “Hambley, today I saw a Velle in the Hollow Wood.”

The proprietor’s eyes darted to Sutter, where he surely expected to see a telling grin to reveal the sport they made of him, but the root-digger held an uncustomary gravity in his countenance. Hambley looked back at Tahn, who simply nodded, finding what he’d seen somehow more real as it lay reflected in the fear on the innkeeper’s face. The three of them sat staring at one another.

After several moments, Hambley managed only, “You’re mistaken.”

“It doesn’t mean the reader has been the Velle’s victim.” Sutter went right past Hambley’s thin denial. “So, perhaps I’ll go and find him myself.”

Neither Tahn or Hambley responded, ignoring Sutter’s bluster.

No one wanted to be taken seriously more than Sutter. Tahn suspected that was why his friend wanted to leave the Hollows. Turning soil to harvest the ground fruits would never be enough for him; it hadn’t the respect or romance he sought. And while any other day his proclamation would be something to laugh at, today Tahn thought his friend might just be serious.

At the end of the first full moon cycle following Northsun both Tahn and Sutter would have their Standing—a rite of passage that, in the Hollows, was usually held in the townsmen’s chamber in the Fieldstone. After that, their actions would be judged more severely. Consequences would be theirs to bear, unlike striplings who—for the most part—got away with everything. He wished his father, Balatin, could have been there to act as First Steward, but he’d died three winters past. Hambley would accept the honor in Balatin’s place. But while Tahn looked forward to his own Standing, Sutter craved the Change more keenly if only for the way folks listened more thoughtfully to a man once he stood on the other side of his eighteenth year.

“Does Ogea come by way of the south road?” Tahn asked, breaking the silence and redirecting the conversation.

“Sometimes. I don’t think he has a place to call home. Always traveling, always another village to visit.” Hambley paused a moment. “Tahn, did your father ever speak of such things coming to the Hollows?”

“Balatin?”

Tahn had not spoken his father’s name in a long time. The taste of it on his tongue was like grape-root, sweet but earthen. Men from far outside the Hollows had come to his father’s burial. Some wore brightly colored cloaks bearing insignias Tahn had never seen. Others came quietly, saying nothing and sharing secretive looks with one another. Yet even before Balatin’s funeral, Tahn had sensed that his father was more than he’d shared with either him or Wendra. But whatever it might have been, no one in the Hollows would talk about it—if they knew at all.

Sutter sat forward, his brow taut. “We’d know if this had happened before. What we need to decide is what to do now. Because if this is true … we may all be a few breaths closer to our last.”

Tahn nodded, but could not shake the restlessness and panic in his chest that thrust his reason into chaos. His mind returned to the dark figure who commanded the elements and burned wet soil.

Unwittingly, he traced the hammer-shaped scar that marked him, which no one had ever really asked him about, and which Balatin had dismissed as a birthmark. Touching the scar, though, Tahn found words.

“We must spread the news. Now. People must be warned before—”

“Careful how you share such knowledge,” a deep voice interrupted. “And keep your voice low to do it.” Before Tahn even looked up, he saw beside him the dark boots that belonged to the man who’d been sitting in the chamber on the other side of the fire.

CHAPTER TWO

Strangers in the Hollows

Tahn sat, his plate of food forgotten in his lap. Raising his gaze to the face of the stranger, he saw sunken eyes ringed by dark circles. The man wore a closely trimmed beard with faint touches of dark red running through black. His hair was not as long as Tahn’s own, but fell in long waves just past his shoulders. A black cloak hung from his shoulders, only the touch of firelight showing the deepest blue in its folds. At his neck, the man wore a short necklace drawn tight. The chain resembled a very thin, black rope woven from long thin strips of wood or leaves. From the chain hung a pendant in the hollow of the man’s throat: three rings, each one inside the next, but all joined on one side. The pendant shone as dark as its chain. But the man’s eyes communicated the most about him; a clear walnut color and edged by deep lines, they seemed to both worry and reassure in the same moment. He did not move, but stared down, appraising Tahn, as though he could see everything about him with a look.

“Were you invited into this particular conversation, stranger?” Sutter interjected. “It’s all well and good for you to take a room at Hambley’s fine inn here, but that doesn’t give you the right to meddle in the personal lives of his friends.”

The man looked directly at Sutter, showing him a flinty stare. Sutter retreated deeper into his seat. Then the stranger turned his hard gaze on Tahn. He leaned forward as he searched Tahn’s face.

Hambley chimed in, “Master, he is a good lad. And we were discussing a family matter. There is no need for us to be at odds. Please have a seat.” He gestured toward a fourth chair nearer the fire. The stranger appraised Tahn a moment more, still looming over him. Though he remained seated, he could tell the man would stand taller than him. The hilt of a dagger protruded from the opening of his cloak, but to Tahn the weapon seemed only an ornament. The newcomer’s broad shoulders and stony visage inspired caution more strictly than anything else.

The man released Tahn from his gaze and took the chair Hambley offered. He drew it around, closing a circle with Tahn, Sutter, and Hambley.

“Would you care for a plate or a glass?” Hambley asked.

“No, I’ve my own, and much to say besides.” He took a wooden case from the folds of his cloak and produced a small sprig. Thoughtfully, he placed it on his tongue. Tahn caught a whiff of something like peppermint.

“You are Tahn Junell,” the man stated. He then waited as though he expected a response. Tahn finally nodded. “I am Vendanj.” The man proffered his hand in greeting. Tahn clasped it in the customary salutation. Vendanj twisted their united hands, looking intently at the mark on the back of Tahn’s hand. His grip tightened, hurting Tahn’s fingers. Then he let go, returning his hand to his lap and his eyes to Tahn’s own.

“Are you here for Northsun?” Tahn asked.

The man did not answer the question. “My concern turns toward the reader. It is not like Ogea to come late to retell the stories. The cycle of the sun has come and gone.” Vendanj trailed off, his eyes appearing to see something Tahn could not. Something, he guessed, in a different place or time.

Sutter could no longer remain quiet. “The reader may need our help. Shouldn’t we organize a party to search for him? He typically enters by the east road, I think. We could leave this very hour.”

Hambley had finished his plate. “Lad, now that the rain has stopped, the bigger animals will be after meals of their own. It’s best we wait on Ogea a while longer.”

“But—”

“He is right,” said Vendanj. “The land is mired in the wake of these storms. Foolish actions will only cause harm to the hasty.” He spoke with a note of authority, as though not used to being contradicted. Sutter’s jaw flexed as he bit back a remark.

“Are you going to finish that, Tahn, or shall I feed it to the dogs?” Hambley asked, pointing to Tahn’s plate.

“I’ve no appetite for it now, Hambley. I’m sorry to leave it.”

“Nonsense, you may leave anything you pay for.” He grinned, and went to collect Sutter’s plate as well. Sutter pulled his own plate back.

“I will finish mine, Master Opawn. My stomach is just fine.” Sutter did not look at Vendanj when he said it, but his words were a challenge all the same.

Vendanj turned sharply, leaned close to Sutter, and captured him with his stare. “Listen, boy, I’ve no dislike for you. But you won’t want to make an enemy of me so soon. There’s mighty spirit in you, and I welcome it. Use it in the interest of something other than yourself, not in boyhood posturing. This is the season of accountability, and yours is nigh upon you. Wait and listen, reserve judgment until your actions are sure not to condemn you. I’ve no patience for foolishness.”

Hambley shuffled off to the kitchen with a concerned look tightening his features.

The stranger’s voice lingered on the air, accompanied by the smell of spent lantern oil. His chastisement had been severe, but he had spoken low, careful not to draw attention to himself.

Vendanj sat up in his deep, high-backed chair and ran a hand over his beard. “You and I have not rightly met. You know my name. What is yours?” He put his hand out again. Sutter took it with reticence.

“Sutter Te Polis,” Tahn’s friend said, his voice failing him as they clasped. Tahn guessed Sutter felt the same iron grip that he had.

This time the stranger did not turn his greeter’s hand as he had Tahn’s, but simply ran his long forefinger across the back of Sutter’s knuckles. Then he let go. “What is it that makes your nails so black?”

Sutter mouthed something, his anger and fear slipping quickly into embarrassment. He fidgeted in his seat only a moment before placing his feet squarely on the ground and sitting still to offer his reply. “I farm the dirt. My nails are ripe with the loam of the Hollows. It’s not an occupation of prestige, but still—”

“Don’t apologize for it. When lent some mind, it is the vocation of a wise man.” Vendanj looked closely at both Tahn and Sutter. “Knowing the right path is never as easy as when one physically puts his hands into soil. Causing life there, Sutter, isn’t something to be ashamed of.”

Sutter’s mouth fell open in surprise. Tahn had seen the same reeling expression in his friend’s face only once before, on the first day Wendra had responded to his advances and kissed him full on the mouth. The tension dissipated, and Vendanj raised a finger to Sutter to signal an end to the exchange.

This stranger reminded Tahn of his father: He was not petty, and his anger seemed appropriate, authorized somehow.

“Master—”

“You may want to become comfortable with my name,” the man said.

Tahn nodded. “The boots you wear are not from the Hollows. The hide is too black and too thick.” He paused, trying to assess how his question would be received. He couldn’t read the man, whose face betrayed little of his thoughts. He came out with it. “What brings you here?”

Vendanj’s lips curled into a slight but charming smile. “Spoken as only a man who watches the ground could.” But still he did not answer, instead asking his own question. “What of your sister, Tahn? How is she since the death of your father?” The man crossed one booted leg over the other and sat back.

Vendanj knew much. And Tahn got the feeling he wouldn’t do well to lie or ask what business it was of his. “She is well. She misses our father, and often writes songs about our lives together before he was taken from us. I think it’s her way of dealing with his death.” He looked up from the floor, harrumphed out a breath, and scrubbed at his face. “She has a lovely voice, but she rarely shares it.”

Vendanj sat forward again, watching Tahn intently, seeming eager to ask a question. He fingered the charm around his neck for a moment. Finally, he did not speak, but sat back, still seeming to consider what Tahn had said.

Hambley returned and sat, wringing a wet rag.

Sutter cleared his throat. “So, are you here for Northsun or to ask about Tahn’s sister?”

A sorrowful look touched Vendanj’s eyes. “The observance of Northsun has mostly passed from the memory of the people.” He smiled wanly. “In the larger cities like Myrr and Recityv, the Exigents have put an end to such things in public. Few dare to brave the League’s wrath and be discovered keeping the day even in private.”

“Exigents?” Sutter asked, looking at Tahn and Hambley for help.

“Yes. At least, that is how they started. They now call themselves the League of Civility.” He frowned as he said it. “But in the beginning, they were known as the Exigency. In the Age of Hope, after the War of the First Promise, there was peace. In the midst of that peace, some men felt a need to record the histories passed down to them, to read and retell the stories of their forebears. Other men were compelled to stamp out this perpetuation of the past, believing it hindered men from fulfilling the promise of their own lives. These naysayers called themselves the Exigency, and soon the League of Exigents. Most scola believe the Exigents are responsible for ending the Age of Hope and for ushering in the Age of Discord; societies failed, losing connection with their past, becoming complacent. And those who defied the Exigents were put to death.

“Some generations later, after they were well established, the Exigents’ mission became more measured, more often carried out in the halls of leadership. A thousand years later, Discord passed, and the Age of Civility began, so called because the League of Exigents renamed themselves after a new credo: to civilize mankind and root out arcane beliefs and practices … like the rendering of the Will.” Again the stranger frowned. “There are League garrisons everywhere now, in almost every city. They are reason enough to visit the Hollows.” Again he touched the pendant at his neck, an unconscious gesture that Tahn thought somehow comforted the man.

Sutter did not pursue the matter, and the four men lapsed into an awkward silence. The rumble of the hall continued unabated; a minstrel beginning to play his cithern, making expert melodies with his hands but bad accompaniment with his voice. After a few moments, Vendanj looked over the room behind Tahn and Sutter, studying the faces of those who had convened to eat and exchange words.

As though satisfied, he spoke, staring at Tahn. “I’m here for you.”

A chill of warning shuddered through Tahn. The bustle of the Fieldstone faded in his ears. He saw and heard nothing, retreating inside himself where he could only repeat the old phrase for comfort: I pull with the strength of my arms, but release as the Will allows.

Then he thought of Wendra, Balatin gone to his earth … the Velle this morning.

Suddenly, he could see Vendanj again looking across at him, peering, Tahn thought, past his eyes into his mind. “I need you to come with me, Tahn, and leave the Hollows. Much depends on this. Soon, we will talk more about where we will go, and what must be done. But others must join us, and I have one errand for you first.”

Tahn stared back, dumbfounded.

“I commissioned your smith. It should be nearly done. Simply use my name. Retrieve it for me on your way to the sodalist.” Vendanj stood.

“Sodalist? You mean Braethen? Who told you he was a sodalist?” Tahn craned to look up at the man.

Vendanj gave him a hard stare. “I have heard it spoken.”

“He’s as much a sodalist as I am a reader,” Sutter put in.

Vendanj seemed to consider. “Bring him anyway. Meet me back here as quickly as you can. Keep to the main roads, and don’t venture beyond the town proper.”

Vendanj drew his cowl forward and spared an even look at Sutter before crossing the floor to the double doors at the front of the hall. There, he paused for an instant as another figure appeared at his side. Tahn barely saw her. She moved with the simple grace of a plains deer, but also with the stealth of a mountain cat. Each motion seemed swift and sure. Tahn saw her light grey cloak for just a moment before she stepped through the door and disappeared, as quickly as vapor from a boiling pot. But in that moment, he thought her eyes had alighted upon him.

“Glad he’s gone,” Sutter exclaimed. “What a tangle of contradictions. I thought he was about to remove my head, and then he’s complimenting me.”

“Did you see her?” Tahn asked, staring at the door.

“The girl in the grey cloak, you mean?” Sutter laughed.

Tahn spun on his friend. “Yes. Have you ever seen her in the Hollows?”

“Barely saw her this time. She glided out as quick as a Far.”

“Far,” Tahn said, staring after her. “That’s a reader’s story.” He tried to remember what his father had said about the Far. He recalled something about a great commission. They had been given the breath of life for but a short time in the world. Legend told that the Far lived a brief existence. It seemed a cruel matter to Tahn if it was true, but the Far themselves were little more than a myth in the Hollows. Even Ogea spoke about them so rarely that they hardly seemed real.

The one tale that the reader did share about them spoke of their city being consecrated by the First Ones at the founding of the world near the far end of all creation. It was said that is how their race got their name—being at the far end of everything.

Sutter broke Tahn’s reverie. “Please, friend, don’t tell me the Change is so quick upon you. Father will use it against me if you find yourself a wife and I’m still supping at his table.” Sutter reached over and clapped Tahn on the back.

“I ask a question and you’ve got me married,” Tahn said, a wry expression tugging his face into a smile. He turned again, though, toward the door the girl had just passed through.

“I see the look in your eye,” Sutter retorted. “No. I’ve never seen her in the Hollows. But she left with Mr. Charming. What does that say about her character?” Sutter dug a knuckle into Tahn’s back. “Did you happen to notice the color of her boots, too?”

Tahn swung around, catching Sutter’s arm and slapping his friend’s forehead.

“Take it outside, lads,” Hambley said. “The travelers won’t know you’re just wrestling, and they’ll want to join the bout. I’ll end up with a lot of busted tables. Besides, don’t you have things to do?”

Tahn released Sutter, ducking to avoid the parting blow his friend usually delivered to his left ear when they abandoned their sport. He strode quickly to the door, mostly in the hope of catching another glimpse of the woman at Vendanj’s side. He stepped out into the dim light of midday. The murky weather had robbed shadows of their purchase, and left the Hollows feeling clammy and dank like the inner stones of a deep well no longer useful with water.

Sutter came up behind him. “Let’s go, then. We must see the sodalist.”

They shared dubious grins over that. Braethen was nice enough, but a bit fanatical about the idea of being a sodalist. He was an author’s son who’d read too many books.

They got moving. Tahn still needed to speak of the attack in the woods. But somehow he felt that that would be part of the conversation with Vendanj later. It would have been lost on Sutter now anyway, who had begun to chatter in earnest about the possibility of leaving the Hollows. His friend had wanted to leave the Hollows for as long as Tahn could remember. The very thought of it had made him giddy. For Tahn, the prospect was somewhat less enticing. Mostly, he wanted to know where the man meant to take him. This was Tahn’s home. The thought of the Velle in the woods still brought chill bumps to his skin. But he didn’t know if he could leave the Hollows. Where did this stranger mean to take him?

*   *   *

A few streets over, Tahn and Sutter came to Master Rew Geddy’s smithy. In girth, Geddy resembled nothing so much as a bull, but he was eighty years old if he was a day. He swung his hammer slowly, but powerfully. The crown of his head bore a dappling of age spots. A wiry fringe of hair horseshoed his ears and extended down the back of his neck into his coat. His only other hair seemed to grow from his nose. Geddy raised a hammer to the boys in mid-strike, finishing the motion with a resounding clang on a bit of orange-hot steel. Tahn and Sutter drew closer, seeking the warmth of Geddy’s two large forges. The wind picked up a spark from one of the forge’s flues and whipped it past Tahn’s face. He ducked reflexively, causing a bark of laughter from Sutter.

“It’s a wonder you ever succeed at bringing in any meat, boy,” Sutter mocked, imitating the deep, resonant voice of Vendanj.

“You’re my inspiration, Nails,” Tahn replied, taunting Sutter for the dirt that lay perpetually under his fingernails. Geddy struck his anvil again. This time the flash sparked a blue-white color. Tahn realized that Geddy fashioned not a wheel casing or farm plow, but what looked like a …

“Sword,” Geddy yelled, competing with the roar of his forge and the constant wind. He’d seen Tahn watching him work. “Have a look, lads.”

The tip of the sword smoked in the frigid air and glowed red and orange from Geddy’s fires. The smithy held it aloft. “Have you ever seen such a fine piece of steel?”

Tahn marveled at the blade, not because he recognized the quality of the metal, but because he’d never seen Geddy forge one before. To his knowledge, Geddy never had. Yet the man looked comfortable with the weapon in his hand. He dropped his hammer and hefted the sword from one hand to the other, an odd smile on his face. The steel’s reddish glow gave his gnarled visage a garish look. The lines in his face seemed longer, the large black-filled pores of his face deeper. But his eyes did not look old as he studied the blade in his hands. Abruptly, the smithy seemed to remember Tahn and Sutter and held the blade out for their inspection, never offering to let them hold it.

“Don’t know the owner. Must be here for Northsun.” Geddy turned the blade to the flat edge and looked down its length, checking the straightness of the edge. “Came by a few days back and handed me a … by all my Skies I can still hardly believe it … a folded square of steel.”

Geddy looked at them with crazed excitement, which turned to disappointment as he saw the blankness on Tahn and Sutter’s faces. “Youth,” he harrumphed. “This bit of metal, lads, has been turned over on itself several thousand times. No impurities. It is worth as much as … as the Fieldstone itself.” He laughed from deep in his chest, the sound like rocks shifting upon themselves. “I’ve been at it. But it’s a hard metal. Not, you might say, a Hollows metal.”

Tahn shared a knowing look with Sutter. “You ever make a sword before, Geddy?”

“Just once,” he answered. “Even told the gentleman that. He didn’t care. Just handed me a small satchel containing the square of steel and a princely sum besides, in silver.”

“Well it looks like a fine job to me,” Sutter said.

“Thanks, lad.”

Sutter reached to touch the sword. Geddy quickly pulled the weapon back. “Not yours to be putting your hands on. I just thought you might like to see it.”

“Actually, its owner is a man named Vendanj,” Tahn said. “He asked us to pick it up for him.”

Geddy cast a wary eye on him.

Sutter gave an exasperated sigh. “Tall guy. Great sense of humor. The kind you want to upset so that he has to come get the sword himself.”

Still Geddy didn’t seem convinced.

“With a woman companion. Grey cloak,” Tahn added. “She moves fast.”

The smithy nodded. “Very well. I know I can trust you.” Sutter faked a hurt look. Geddy put the tip of the blade into his water bucket, where it hissed and steamed. He then pulled the weapon out, tested its temperature with his thumb, and retrieved a rather ordinary sheath to stow the blade. “Tell him I had no time to polish or sharpen.”

With some reluctance, Geddy handed the weapon to Tahn, who had to tug a bit to pry it from the smithy’s fingers. “Thank you.” As he and Sutter turned, Tahn thought he heard old Geddy mutter something about the sword and a strange light in the back of his barn.

CHAPTER THREE

A Late Reader

Braethen Posian sat in the warm light of his lamps and read. His father was Author Posian—A’Posian, as the tradition held—and the problem of it had been Braethen’s access to books. He had little self-control when it came to them. Stories, histories, maps; didn’t matter. And it led to the other hazard of his twenty-six years of life: He’d found the Sodality.

He’d discovered it at the tender age of eight, and loved everything about it: the purpose, the creed, the stories of sacrifice to meet and uphold higher truths. The Sodality covenanted themselves to the Sheason. Braethen had never actually met a renderer. But the Sheason’s utter commitment to service—even at the cost of his own soul—left him holding that order in the highest regard, even though his father had spoken cautiously of the Sheason, warning that they walked between worlds, a path at the edge of what is and what may be, of what can be touched and what can be changed.

And so Braethen had spent the better part of his twenty-six years reading about and yearning to belong to the Sodality. So much so that he’d become a target for mockery—some of it good-natured enough, but a target nonetheless.

The real problem, though, was simply that the Hollows had no Sheason, and so no need of a sodalist.

Not yet, he thought. But things could change.

A knock came at the door.

He jumped up. He hoped to hear that the reader had arrived. He’d made a friend of Ogea. The old man always gave him an evening of discussion when he came to the Hollows, probably because Ogea and Braethen’s father were such good friends. But the old man made time just for Braethen. He shared things with him that he didn’t say from the rooftops. And Ogea was the only person who didn’t tease Braethen about his obsession with the Sodality; in fact, the old man taught him more than he could ever glean on his own. He loved him for that.

With a book still in one hand and a quill clamped in his teeth, he pulled the door open to see Tahn and Sutter. “To what do I owe this pleasure? I know you two don’t read.”

They laughed and pushed past him into the room. “Can we come in?”

As Sutter passed by, he fingered the pin at Braethen’s throat. It was the tarnished copper emblem of the Sodality: a sword on its side, a quill balanced on the blade at its center, the entire crest wreathed in a circlet of copper leaves. He had had it mongered by Geddy in exchange for a sign listing the prices of his various smith services.

Braethen shut the door on the wind and turned to his guests, waiting. He bore the two friends no animosity, even though they were among those who mocked him—though usually in fun. Because he was taller, and both fuller in chest and broader in shoulders than both Tahn and Sutter, he liked to believe if he really wanted to stop their mockery, he could.

“Who’s there?” A’Posian called from a room at the back of the house.

“It’s Tahn and Sutter,” Braethen replied.

The author came into the room and removed his specs to shake the boys’ hands. “What brings you here? I know you don’t read.”

They all laughed at the repeated joke, and the author clapped them on the back before going back to his writing desk. No one ever came to A’Posian’s home without receiving his hand and some small witticism.

After he’d gone, Sutter and Tahn stood staring, a strange look in their eyes. So Braethen did the only sensible thing—he sat back down to his books. He proffered a plate of cheese and berries to the two, who waved it away.

Braethen marked his place in three of the books opened on the table before looking up at the two of them and asking again, “All right, out with it. What’s going on?”

Sutter cocked his head to look at the books strewn across the table. “Why did you not follow in your father’s path and take up the Authors’ way?”

Braethen’s smile faded, and his expression became thoughtful. “I thought I would. Father needed my help even when I was young, so I started copying books for him before you two could even walk.” He was eight Northsuns older than Tahn and Sutter. “But I don’t have Father’s gift for words. I learned that about myself a long time ago. And somewhere in all those books, I found other interests.”

“The Sodality,” Tahn supplied.

“I was drawn to the purpose,” Braethen said, and put his fingers to the brooch at his throat.

“Not a lot of call for it here,” Sutter remarked, rolling his eyes.

“True enough,” Braethen answered, unruffled. “I’ve no real acquaintance with the brotherhood, but I’m still learning, aren’t I?” He smiled broadly.

“What are you reading?” Tahn asked.

Braethen’s eyes glimmered at the question. “Histories mostly, with the occasional journal or map.” He shifted on his chair. “I bought some of them from a merchant down out of Myrr.” He began to gesture, his excitement growing with each passing word. “I suspect they were not gotten legally. I’ve read them all, several times, but there are inconsistencies and vast gaps. Entire ages summarized in a few pages.” He ran a hand through his short, light brown hair. “Each time the reader comes, I have my questions ready.” He paused. “This year I study even more because he has not come.” Braethen looked toward the window, beyond which pine boughs swayed softly in the wind.

Sutter closed one of the books. “No offense, Braethen, but … why? Listening to the reader is enough, I say. What good can come of knowing the details of dead things? And after that, isn’t the whole point of being a sodalist to protect a Sheason?”

Braethen replied, unabashed, “The Sodality defends in two ways: the arm and the word. I’m focusing on the word right now.” Again he tapped the emblem at his throat.

This whole “focusing on the word” thing was a small evasion, and he hoped they’d be inclined to let him have it—though they didn’t likely know any better. Besides, after all the joking done at his expense, Tahn had told him once that except for maybe Braethen’s father he thought Braethen was the most ethical, dependable person in all the Hollows, precisely because he lived by the sodalist oath. That had been a good day.

Tahn broke the silence. “I think Sutter’s trying to say that he’s jealous, since digging roots is so awfully important.”

“Yeah, that’s it,” Sutter agreed in a sarcastic tone.

“The past, all the ages of man, show us what will be,” Braethen said, hefting one of the tomes before him. “They help us act today so that tomorrow doesn’t come with all the mistakes that have gone before. This knowledge helps a sodalist serve a Sheason, the two working together in the common interest of others.”

“You sound like a book,” Sutter said.

Braethen ignored him, and turned with familiarity to a passage. “This is our purpose.”

“Here he goes,” Sutter muttered, “with the credo.”

“‘Change is inevitable and necessary, but the traditions of our fathers need to be preserved. Someone must watch. Someone must remember. And someone must defend…’” He trailed off, feeling again as he had the first time he’d read those words: humbled, yet eager to take the oath himself.

“You sound like the reader when you speak of such things,” Tahn said.

Sutter waved a hand in front of Braethen’s eyes. “Yeah, kind of spooky.”

Braethen shook himself physically from his reverie. “The storms have never held so long. It bears another meaning, I think … rain, water … renewal … change. Maybe war.”

A chill ran down Braethen’s own back, and Sutter closed his mouth with an audible sound. Then the would-be sodalist looked up. The little room grew suddenly quite serious. “I’ll tell you the truth. I’m more fond of Ogea than anyone, and I hope he is dead and that we simply haven’t received word of it. Because … I don’t like what I believe is the alternative.”

“What, did you read something like that in your books?” Sutter wanted to know.

But before Braethen could answer, beyond the door the sound of slow hooves fell upon the street. At the lonely echo of a rider on the muddy roads of the Hollows, another chill rushed over him. They all went to the window to look out. The window began to cloud before his face and he unwittingly held his breath. Outside, the wind moaned over the eaves of the house and sighed through the trees.

The rider passed, so slowly that there could be no mistaking his identity: the reader. Ogea sat slumped in his saddle, his forehead resting upon the neck of his mule. In a moment, he vanished again down the road, lost beyond the trees surrounding Braethen’s home.

“Let’s go,” Braethen said. He ran to the back of the house and told his father the reader had arrived. Then he donned his cloak and flew out the door, Tahn and Sutter close behind him.

It took but a short walk to catch up to the reader. Ogea’s mount plodded along steady and slow.

As was tradition, the reader wound through the Hollows, saying nothing, his procession his only announcement. Townsfolk and Northsun travelers flocked to the street, as they always did, today drawing their coats and cloaks tightly around them as they followed behind. There was always a quiet reverence at Ogea’s passage, but this time Braethen felt a sullen edge to the silence.

Dirt-stained and torn, the reader’s cloak bore black-fringed holes as though left too close to a fire. Underfoot, the mud on the road, now being trod by a hundred boots or more, made soft sucking noises in the early dusk.

The wind continued to howl, and somewhere on the Huber River a water hawk protested the wretched skies that hindered its hunting, its call a faint but ominous shrill.

Finally, the procession drew toward the Fieldstone. A crowd stood in the street before the inn, ready to welcome the reader. The mass parted as Ogea’s mule kept on straight, paying them no mind. Behind him, the crowd came together again. At the far corner of the inn, the reader stopped. He slid from his saddle, and steadied himself with his pommel. His satchels hung as they always had upon the flanks of his mule. Ogea reached inside, drawing out a scroll that bore a wax seal.

“My Skies. He’s never read from the old parchment before,” Braethen said reverently. “He usually carries a book with him to the roof.”

In a broken gait, the reader hobbled toward the ladder that leaned against the Fieldstone. He clutched the scroll tightly to his chest with both arms. A strong gust of wind rushed in upon the crowd, and hands went up to hold hoods in place. Ogea’s cowl was thrown back. A soft moan, so like the wind, escaped those closest to the reader—dried blood stained the reader’s cheeks and chin.

The old man dropped to one knee just a pace from the ladder. But he stood on his own and slowly looked up the long ascent. Pausing for a breath, he tucked the scroll into his cloak and grasped the rungs.

And climbed.

The Fieldstone never appeared so tall to Braethen. Step by step, Ogea went up, gasping at every rung. The rasp in his lungs was audible above the white rushing sound of the wind. Two thirds of the way up, his foot slipped and caused him almost to lose his grip. One bony hand held tight, and he quickly hugged the ladder, pressing his cheek to a rung.

He started again. This time he climbed past the balcony with deliberate steps and slowly reached the roof, where he turned and beheld the people standing in the street below. Atop the inn, the wind whipped at his thin white hair and beard, his russet cloak flailing against the grey of the clouds blanketing the sky. After he regained his breath, he took the scroll from inside his cloak and thoughtfully ran his hands across its length. Holding the parchment in one hand, he surveyed the crowd again and began to speak.

“Northsun is past, another cycle come, and another measure of time to reckon our lives by. Hidden behind the clouds, the sun falls again into the west, and beneath these shrouds we huddle near our fires and share encouraging words.” The reader sighed heavily. “The time for this is now past.”

Ogea then stepped closer to the edge of the Fieldstone and raised his voice with more passion. “Before our fires, before the sun, the Great Fathers held their Council of Creation at the Tabernacle of the Sky. They called forth the light, the land, and filled both with life. Every living thing was intended to grow in stature and harmony with the elements around it.

“And this all was done for the good of everyone. But in their wisdom, the First Ones knew there must be counterbalance, a way for their creation to be tested and challenged. Else no learning or change could occur, and their council would bring to naught their intention: that we should become great ourselves. So, one of the fathers was given the charge to create all that would be ill to the land and its life. To one was given the task of creating sorrow and strife.”

It was the old story, one Ogea told at every Northsun, but it enthralled the crowd to the last man, riveting them all as Braethen had never seen. Perhaps the endless storms had caused Hollows’s folk to reflect more, of late, on their own mortality.

“For a time, the council served with great joy. Sound and song filled the land with vibrance, attending the creation of every living thing. But the One grew delighted in his charge to test men by affliction. He set upon the lands pricks and briars of every sort, creatures without conscience, to harrow the creations of light. Thousands of years did the council serve, the One becoming dark in his soul, consumed with his task.

“The Great Fathers knew the One must be bound, else men were lost. So, together they sealed him to the earth that he so wanted to destroy, creating for him a sepulchre in the farthest corner of the world to live an eternity in his rancor. And thus the High Season came to an end; the time of creation, of newness at the hands of the Noble Ones, passed from memory.”

Ogea’s hair flailed in the wind, his cloak pulled powerfully by the gales. The sash at his waist likewise twisted in the gusts that rushed over the Fieldstone roof. His pallor shone down upon the people, as though the warning in his tale had stolen his own vigor. Yet his voice rose into the wind. And into the face of it his eyes remained unblinking as he surveyed those who listened to his words.

“But by the time the One had been bound, balance had been undone. The land had gone awry of the Great Fathers’ plan from the foundation, and they could not hope to salvage their vision. So they abandoned their work, sealing those given to the Quiet within the Bourne and leaving the unfinished world to mete out its own fate. And many scornful races there were who had, indeed, given their very souls to Quietus’s hateful designs. So, into the land the First Ones introduced the Sheason, an order ordained to establishing peace and equanimity, set apart to guide the other races throughout the rest of Aeshau Vaal.

“But legions of the One pressed against the Shadow of the Hand where the veil between the Bourne and our world grew weakest. Quietgiven roiled with bitterness and chaos, unsure of their place since the Abandonment by the First Ones. But none more than the Draethmorte.”

Gasps escaped the crowd at the mention of the Draethmorte. An unnatural chill rippled Braethen’s flesh. He had heard Ogea utter the word only once.

“They were the first to be given breath at the hands of the One, in a time before his banishment, when the Gods yet held hope for this world. They knew well the power of the First Ones, for they learned at the feet of the council itself, serving in that first High Season, believing themselves chosen to set the world upon its path and guide it to its own glory.

“But like their creator, their arts grew cankered. And when the One was exiled, they, too, were sent into the Bourne, where their bitterness and hatred were likewise bound. There they served as the One’s highest council, organizing his followers. These armies eventually penetrated the veil, passing the Pall Mountains. They marched south from the Hand into the lands of men after the Framers were gone.”

From the roof the reader began to cough, the rasp in his chest sounding like the wet tearing of flesh. Blood oozed onto his lips, and when he spoke again the blood spattered in red-grey droplets down his tunic.

“The land has grown old since the Craven Season, ages passing, millennia now often forgotten. They have names, all of them, but it is enough to know that we have lived, survived, tended the land. Until this season that rests upon us now. The Sheason have dwindled, some lost to the weakness of flesh, unwilling to accept the cost to their own lives to bear the call. More often, they cannot find suitable initiates to learn their path. And in this Age of Rumor, there are those who have sought the execution of the Sheason.”

Ogea looked up into the sky and shook his fist, a strangled protest tearing from his narrow chest into the neutral light of the clouds.

Braethen knew why the reader protested, and he shared Ogea’s disdain. The League of Civility had passed the Civilization Order in most nations to execute Sheason for rendering the Will even when in the service of others. The League claimed what the Sheason did was superstitious and archaic, akin to the dark talents the old stories ascribed to creatures of the Bourne.

Ogea slowly lowered his gaze to the people. He held the scroll aloft. The wind riffled its edges, threatening to tear the seal. But Ogea took the red wax in his bony hands and snapped it in two. The sound, faint and brittle, sent yet another shiver down Braethen’s back, and he muttered, softly so that others might not hear, “A seal once broken…”

Ogea unrolled the vellum but held it aside. Without referring to it, he began to speak again, a quiet humility in his voice.

“Good friends, I have read for the last time. Northsun has come again to the Land, and we are grateful for its light. We have hope, but it is naive if we sit idly and do nothing. There is a quiet darkness spreading. When its blight is complete enough, the power of the Will shall no longer be able to contain the Quiet. Forda I’Forza, body and spirit, earth and sky … will fail. The abandonment of the Great Fathers will be complete.… We will have proven that our growth did not matter; we will have shown that we hadn’t enough desire and fortitude to be great ourselves.”

Ogea fell to his knees. He held the parchment before his face and nodded to himself. Then he backed onto the ladder and began to descend. Only four rungs down, the reader slipped, his scroll falling from his hands and cast about by eddies of wind along the side of the Fieldstone. The old man dangled for a moment and then lost his grip on the rung. He plummeted, his fall seeming to last unnaturally long. Into the mud he splashed, letting out a thick mewling sound as he hit the ground. Braethen pushed his way through hundreds of townsfolk to reach Ogea’s side. There, he turned his friend over and placed a hand on his chest to see if he still breathed.

Braethen suddenly felt eyes upon him. The crowd had crept closer, but they were all Hollows folk. Turning toward the back of the Fieldstone, he spied a tall, dark man, his face cast in sorrow and determination. Braethen’s heart went cold when he saw the insignia at the man’s neck: three rings, a Sheason.

CHAPTER FOUR

Dangers of the Road

The woman knelt at the side of the river, washing her face and hands and arms.

The highwayman watched from behind a thicket of scrub oak.

Leaf-shadow dappled the slow-moving water, the bulrushes, and the woman herself, who remained unaware that she was not alone. The low hum of the current cloaked his slow steps as his companions crouched in strategic positions downriver and across from her, in case she bolted.

She surely hadn’t driven alone the team of horses and wagon that stood a hundred strides south. Somewhere close by, she had a man.

He would arrive too late.

Really, she should have known better. In the open places between the cities of men—with their garrisons and high outer walls—the world belonged to the man who would take the risk; the man who played his chances; the man who took the open road and sky above as his home and roof. For travelers in the places between, fair warning consisted of nothing more than a reflection in the water above you as you splashed a day’s grit from the creases around your eyes and mouth … in the moment before you tried to scream.

The woman stood up fast, whirling, her lips parting to raise a cry of alarm.

The highwayman put his boot into her stomach to steal her breath before it could carry her distress to another. She went down on one knee, looking up with the surprised, pleading eyes he’d grown so tired of seeing.

Give me some real bit of anger instead!

His companions closed in cautiously—a caged and frightened animal will lash out.

“Now, before you start with any other ideas, let me tell you what is best for you,” the highwayman said. “Because your options are few. For sport, my fellows here would like as not take you for a ride, then drop you in the river for the fish. These lads aren’t delicate about anything, my good woman, so bear that in mind when you get your breath back and find your anger.”

His companions smiled over his words, but the highwayman didn’t have much use for them, either, and gave them a flat look.

The woman finally gasped a breath, her face pinched in pain and dread.

“For my part, I’d spare you that indignity, since I can’t imagine the pleasure of a woman that is not freely given.” The highwayman smiled genuinely, then caught a sneer on the woman’s face. “But in exchange for my protection, you’ll come along with us and keep your protests quiet. Otherwise, you are gambling that wherever we’re going is worse than an early grave. And those are bad odds.”

Deliberately, the woman stood, a steady defiance clear on her brow. “You think because my dress is worn I care less about virtue than my life? Is that what thieves on the open road believe?”

The highwayman laughed aloud, but low.

She went on, undaunted. “Any man with such a proposition can’t be trusted to keep his word.” She spat on him. “Kill me, then. Prove yourself the gentleman, save me from the itchy hands of your friends.”

“Nah,” one of his companions said. “If we aren’t taking her with us, then let’s do with her what a man can, and take what’s on the wagon besides.” The man pointed off toward the woman’s camp.

The highwayman turned a questioning look on her. “Your play, my lady. What price for your virtue today?”

They stared at each other for several long moments. The years of toil and travel had given her salt, he had to admit that. The fact made him happier to have come upon her—the road had an indifferent beneficence if you spent enough time there.

Then he caught an imperceptible crack in her resolve. Just a glint in the eye, as her mind showed her the scene that could play out on this dappled bank in the early evening sun. He’d won. But not before her full lungs brought a scream of help that shattered the relative calm, scattering birds to the air and long echoes down the surface of the river.

A name. A name she cried out.

He knew she couldn’t have been alone.

Before his men could wrestle her down, the heavy, thundering feet of a rescuer pounded the earth in their direction.

The highwayman nodded to the woman, and to himself, and took a position between his captive and the impending approach of this other. Resting a hand on his sword, he stood as still as a statue until the worried face of a man emerged from the trees on a dead run toward him. The man drew a pair of knives. Even from this distance, he could see that they weren’t weapons. They were tools of some trade. Deadly perhaps, and likely the man was skilled in their use. But not a fighter. Not truly a threat.

He hoped he would not have to kill the man.

The woman dropped to the ground behind the highwayman, dodging his companions and screeching into the long shadows. She kicked and rolled until finally they pounced on her, smothering her thrashing arms under their bulk.

As the encroaching champion came near, the highwayman drew his sword, dropped to one knee, and placed the blade on the woman’s neck. “That’s far enough.”

The other came to a skidding stop. “Leave her be! She’s done nothing to you.”

“Ah, but you can’t really know that, can you?” the highwayman said, taking some sport of it.

“Aye, I can. She’s not a combative soul, nor a thief.” The man spoke his insult slowly.

“Hmmm. Well, let us get straight to it, then. I have invited this woman to join me. It is not a negotiable invitation. You’ll want to attempt her rescue, and that’s most noble. But mind you”—he fixed the man a stare—“resist that impulse. It will likely only get you both killed. I hope you’ll trust me on that; it’s not something you should gamble on.”

Then a knowing, grateful expression touched the rescuer’s taut features. “You’re not going to kill her or you’d have done it already. And I don’t see the signs of a man with forceful loins.” He looked at the woman in a way that betrayed an intimacy the highwayman hadn’t yet seen. “So then let’s have a trade on it,” the man resumed. “I’ll take her place. Whatever need you have, let me fill it.” Emotion crept into the rescuer’s voice. “I won’t argue or resist.”

The man dropped his hands to his sides, a sign of good faith, waiting.

The highwayman relaxed his own grip on his sword and stood, marveling at the reason and proposed sacrifice. It was going to be easy to manipulate this man, since clearly he loved the woman.

But that could be dangerous, too. He’d have to play it just right.

“A noble request, but I’m afraid I must decline. You have my word, though, that I bear her no mortal threat.” He signaled for his men to haul her to her feet.

“Don’t do this,” the man replied, both a plea and edge in his tone.

This is where it gets dangerous. Wonderful!

“Take care, man.” The highwayman stepped forward.

The other’s hands rose again, one knife swiveling about, tip back—a fighter’s grip. Maybe more than tools after all.

Then he lunged, knives slicing through the air. The highwayman rolled left and came up, his sword just blocking another attack as he got to his feet. His men pulled the woman back as she thrashed against their clutch.

“There’s still time. Let it go. If I kill you, you’ll have no chance to track us in hope of revenge, or, better still, saving your beloved.” He ducked as another knife slipped through the air near his face.

“She would rather die, here, now, than go with you one league!” The man danced from one foot to the other.

The highwayman sensed the truth in that. But he didn’t have time for this. He had pressing matters. This husband or lover needed to more clearly see his choices. “Would she rather watch you die before accompanying us up the road?” As if on cue, another of the highwayman’s men emerged with a bow at full draw on the rescuer.

At that the man paused, his knife handles creaking beneath his iron grip. His arms trembled with suspended action, even as he shared a long look with the woman they’d claimed from the river’s edge. Tears began to stream down her face, silent, fearful, dignified tears. In response, her loved one’s face pinched in a rictus of disbelief and horror.

“I will find you,” he whispered. “I will never stop.”

“There. That’s sensible,” the highwayman commented. He had his men tie the man up. Then, as the failed rescuer watched, they drew the woman through another line of trees, hoisted her into a saddle, and rode east.

CHAPTER FIVE

Quiet in the Hollows

“Inside!” Hambley shouted, directing them to the kitchen door just twenty feet away. “Stay back, the rest of you! We can see to this. Take to your meals or homes, off now.” No one moved. “Go!” The gathering slowly broke up, hushed talk shared between husbands and wives and friends.

Tahn, Sutter, and Braethen lifted Ogea and carried him into Hambley’s kitchen, past the ovens, and down a back hall to one of the sleeping rooms. With care, they eased him onto the bed, and Hambley drew back the curtain to allow in the watery light. Braethen sat on the mattress and gently placed his hands on the man’s neck and cheeks.

“What can you do for him, Braethen?” Hambley asked.

“Nothing.” The answer came from the doorway.

Braethen looked up and saw again the Sheason, who stood now in the doorway. He’d often dreamed of the moment he’d meet a member of the order, imagined what he might say, how he might try to make an impression. All of those preparations fled him as he sat near a friend who might be taking his last breaths.

Hambley redirected his question. “Vendanj, can you help?”

“Shall we let Braethen answer?” Sutter said with an acerbic tone.

Vendanj ignored Sutter and moved to the other side of the bed, taking one of Ogea’s hands in his own. “Hello, old man. I was here. I listened.”

Though he’d only just met this Vendanj, the gentleness he heard now in the Sheason’s voice did not sound like it often belonged to the man, who wore an iron visage. Ogea remained unconscious, his face still streaked with mud. Vendanj laid his free hand on the reader’s forehead and spoke briefly in a tongue Braethen had never heard spoken. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought he somehow felt the words the Sheason uttered. He regarded Vendanj with a look of disbelief. The Conceiver’s Tongue.

Ogea’s eyes opened slightly, and he looked up at the man holding his hand. “Vendanj.” He coughed, swallowing hard against a spasm that threatened to steal his voice. “You should not have come. It is dangerous for you here.”

“Quiet, friend.” Vendanj spoke in mild reproach. “Use your voice only for what matters.”

The reader nodded appreciatively. “Bar’dyn. Two days outside the Hollows on the east road. I escaped … used a trick Artixan once showed me. Tell him that for me.” Ogea smiled, the expression turning sour on his face as the need to cough overcame him and he spat blood up onto Vendanj’s cheek and lips. The Sheason made no move to wipe away the blood.

“I will tell him,” Vendanj assured the reader.

“More. A Velle … with them. Careful, Vendanj.” Ogea trailed off, his eyes conveying warning. His chest rose and fell in shallow pants, a soft wheezing sound rising from his throat with each breath. He then shifted his head on the goose-feather pillow and looked at Braethen.

“I don’t think we’ll be sharing that evenwine this year, my young friend. I’m sorry.”

Braethen took Ogea’s other hand and shook his head at the apology.

“Safeguard my scribblings,” the reader said, smiling weakly. “They are important to the right eyes.”

Another wracking cough seized Ogea, the ripping sounds coming from deeper within his body this time. A fresh stream of blood coursed down his left cheek from the corner of his mouth. He licked his lips to wet them, leaving a bloodred coating like the paint the womenfolk wore at Harvest.

“Is there more?” Vendanj asked.

“Yes. You must remind them of the New Promise, because a passage has been opened again into the Bourne.”

The room stood quite for a long moment. The revelation chilled them all.

“Are you sure?” Vendanj asked finally, his voice strained.

“The veil has not yet failed, but from the Shadow of the Hand the firstborn of the One bellow deep into the Bourne to call their lost brothers. Some are able to pass through. They are here in the Hollows for the same reason you come. But how they got into the Hollows, I know not. Something must be—” He tried to cough, but his chest only heaved, too hollow to force the sound.

“Enough, friend. You have said all you will say.” Vendanj gently clenched the old man’s hand. Braethen still clasped the other.

“No, the—”

“Hush, my friend. Be still and remember.…”

The old man did not protest. He turned his head toward the ceiling, his eyes growing distant, a vague smile playing on his reddened lips.

Vendanj bowed, placing his forehead on the back of Ogea’s hand and holding it there. Braethen regarded the two men reverently. Sutter and Hambley looked perplexed, but Braethen bowed his head. A calm settled over the room, broken only by the whispering sound of the reader drawing air. It came softly, slowing.

Sadness grew in Braethen’s breast, his heart simultaneously filling with pride for a man who had earned the respect of others for the eloquence and boldness of his words without ever lifting a weapon. He reflected on the friendship the old man had offered him; a friend who had never judged his dream of being a sodalist, but instead traded tales about the order with him. His heart also pounded with the fear of losing his one supporter, as though the dream would pass if Ogea were no longer around to help him believe.

In those moments, Braethen also reflected on what it would mean to be a sodalist for real. And he knew suddenly a simple truth: Standing fast with a friend in his final moments, sharing whatever fear or pain or relief would come, was the measure of his devotion.

And so he held his friend’s hand. And waited.

Sometime later, Ogea stopped breathing.

Vendanj looked up and brushed a gentle palm over the old man’s open eyes, drawing down the lids. He gently placed the man’s hand on the bed, then stood. His body formed a silhouette against the window behind him, nearly blackening the room.

He turned and spoke quietly. “The time has come for us to finish our talk, Tahn, but not here. Hambley, can we take dinner somewhere in private?”

Hambley still stared at Ogea. “He’s really dead, isn’t he? And he fell from my ladder.”

“He was dead before he entered the Hollows,” Vendanj assured Hambley. “There is no time to grieve for him now. We must speak in secret.”

The innkeeper drew in a bracing breath. “We can use the townsmen’s chamber.”

“Well enough,” Vendanj replied.

Hambley opened the door and disappeared to make his preparations. Vendanj went directly to Tahn and reached down to take the sword they’d retrieved from Geddy’s smithy. He gave it a brief look, then motioned them into the hall. The large man brushed past Sutter and Tahn, his cloak stirring an indoor breeze as he went. They followed, but Braethen remained kneeling at the side of the bed, staring at the pallid face of the reader. After a moment, he reached out and gently touched Ogea’s kind face. He whispered, “By Will and Sky, thank you for your belief in me.”

*   *   *

Tahn strode down the hall and through a back door into the townsmen’s chamber. The hearth, a fire blazing within, dominated the inner wall. Muted voices could be heard from the common room, where hushed talk conjectured on the condition of the reader. The windows admitted watery light from the skies without, leaving the private room in half shadow. Hambley drew a flame from the fire onto the end of a small dried reed, and returned to the wooden table in the center of the room. A brass fixture there held ten candles in a wide oval pattern. Hambley lit them all and extinguished the reed.

“I will fetch some bread and bitter.” He bustled through the door and was gone.

Each of them stood behind one of the wide, high-backed chairs, as though sitting committed them to something they were uncertain they wanted to join. Vendanj sat and Sutter looked over at Tahn, who shrugged and sat down. Sutter and Braethen followed.

Vendanj glanced at Braethen, then began. “The things we must discuss are matters of import. Let’s begin with Tahn. I think there is more to the story you started to tell here not an hour ago.”

Behind them the sounds of the hall grew steadily more raucous, some men chewing hungrily, others arguing, many laughing nervously. But on this side of the fire, in the small circle around the rough table, quiet, intense conversation went on with a man whose face looked trustworthy, but who was also filled with the knowledge of an outlander. Would he have knowledge of the creature Tahn had seen in the trees controlling the very rain itself?

Tahn related his encounter with the creature in the woods, the darkness in the rain, and the dry ground with two scorched, fist-punched holes. When he’d finished, Vendanj regarded him a moment, but asked no questions. Then he spoke again.

“There are choices ahead. Only Braethen has made the Change, but Tahn has no father to counsel him, and you”—Vendanj pointed at Sutter—“I’d rather leave behind. But you know too much. If we leave you here, you’re a danger to us, to yourself, and to your adoptive parents.”

Tahn turned to his friend. Sutter was the son of Filmoere and Kaylla Te Polis, the best root farmers in all the Hollows. Tahn had been in their home a thousand times. Vendanj must be mistaken. Adopted? But his friend’s sheepish look confirmed what Vendanj had said. Tahn raised his brows in question. Sutter only shrugged.

“Never mind the revelations,” Vendanj went on. “As soon as preparations can be made, we must depart the Hollows.” He fastened his steely gaze on Braethen. “Why do you wear the crest of the Sodality? Are you received into the order?”

Braethen had already started to shake his head. “Not officially. I’ve been studying—”

“Can you use a sword?” Vendanj interrupted.

“I’ve held a sword before—”

“Have you been in battle?” Vendanj’s voice rose, impatient.

Braethen shook his head. “But I’ve been studying the Sodality for almost twenty years. I know what is required.”

A dark question showed in Vendanj’s face. “Do you? You knelt at the side of a dying man who spoke of the opening of the Bourne, of Velle and Quietgiven. What do you think, with all your wisdom, awaits us when we leave this place? Are you ready for that with your studies?”

Braethen looked abashed. The light Tahn had always seen in his eyes at the prospect of being a sodalist dimmed to nothing.

Vendanj wasn’t finished. “Lives will depend on this. Ideal notions read in a book or shouted from a rooftop won’t come to a single breath when the malice of the Quiet meets you in the darkness. Your mind will turn in upon itself and we will be forced to mother you while other lives fall.”

Braethen shrank in his chair. Tahn had never seen him so seriously chided through all the ridicule he’d taken his long life for wanting to live the values of the Sodality. It was cruel. Tahn’s own anger flared.

But words died in his throat as he watched Braethen not simply sit tall, but stand. Candlelight flickered, and shadows danced across the deep grain of the table. The smell of spent pine lingered from the fire, which popped and hissed as sap bubbled from the wood.

“Please, Sheason—”

“Hold, boy! Watch the mouth you use!” Vendanj himself stood up, his chair clattering back.

Terror rose in Braethen’s face. “My apologies, but please consider…” He stopped, looking at the implacable gaze of the man. Slowly, he pulled a scroll from his coat. The parchment still bore the broken seal. Tahn looked at Vendanj’s face, anticipating fiery anger. Instead, Vendanj said nothing, his face now placid.

Braethen placed the parchment upon the table, clearly unwilling to unroll it. He looked across at Vendanj, then down again at the scroll. It left silence in the room so profound that Tahn thought he could hear the candles burning.

“I know the stories,” Braethen said. “My father is an author, and I know the stories. It is how I know … the path you follow. And Ogea was my friend. I want to come. If not to become a sodalist, then to honor the man who believed I could have.”

In that instant, from the shadows emerged the girl Tahn had seen earlier. In the time of a thought, she stood at Vendanj’s right shoulder. Her appearance startled them all, though Tahn was glad to see her again. Her eyes caught the candlelight, reflecting it like bright hazel-grey mirrors. Her skin shone smooth and without blemish over high cheeks and a delicately formed nose. She’d braided back her dark hair. A black leather strip high around her neck bore the insignia of two white blades.

Vendanj appraised Braethen’s face. As he did so, the woman whispered into his ear. She stood taller than most women from the Hollows, almost Tahn’s own height. As she spoke, Tahn observed the line of her jaw and watched her words silently draw full lips into round shapes. The sepia glow of the room bathed her skin. A hand on Tahn’s shoulder made him jump. He twisted in his seat to receive Sutter’s wide grin.

“Very well,” Vendanj finally said. Tahn turned back, ignoring Sutter. “Only know this,” Vendanj cautioned. “Your friend is my friend, and his dead body yet lies in this very inn. I will not stand to see his memory trifled with. It is not romantic to keep the stories, it is not a dream you grow to fulfill. It is labor and sacrifice … and dangerous. To be a sodalist isn’t to know the word and use a sword. It’s to use the sword to defend the word. Knowing doesn’t qualify you by half. Not at all. Nevertheless, you may choose this for yourself. But mark me, more will be expected of you, Braethen, than to keep tales. More than you bargain for.”

At that moment, the woman rounded the table and laid a blade in front of Braethen. Nothing more on the subject needed to be said. But Tahn caught a look of fear in the would-be sodalist’s eyes.

In answer, Braethen returned the scroll to the folds of his coat and gripped the sword by its sheath. Vendanj nodded and turned toward Tahn, whose mouth hung agape.

Sheason!

Sutter, too, now stared. How did Braethen know?

This Vendanj was a renderer. Tahn felt the same awful portent he’d felt seeing the Velle in the woods. Raising the Will to his own design. It frightened Tahn to even bear him company.

Just then, Hambley entered with a large carafe of bitter and a wood platter of bread. The loaf steamed, bearing a glaze of goat butter. Behind him came his son, Mena, and kitchen help, carrying five large mugs. Hambley stopped short when he saw the girl. Adjusting quickly, he sent Mena back for another mug and proceeded to place a glass before each person seated at the table. The innkeep poured them all a full cup of dark, bitter ale, and filled the last when Mena returned. Hambley shooed his son away and took his seat, quaffing half his glass in one long pull.

“We will gather only what is necessary and go,” Vendanj began. “Say nothing to your families. You only put them in danger by sharing any of this.”

Tahn listened, his mind feeling fragmented. “Any of what?” he finally said. “If you mean the Bar’dyn, then we have to tell them. That’s the danger they face. And not just our families, but all of the Hollows.”

“He’s right,” Sutter added. “I don’t know how you knew about my parents, Vendanj, but I won’t leave my family if what Ogea said is true. I usually don’t care for the old stories. But something got to the reader, and I’ll be one who finds out what.”

“You ignorant boy.” The words were even, uninflected, and spoken by the girl beside Vendanj. “Have you no reason inside you? Have you not heard all that has been said?” Her words stayed Sutter’s reply. “From beyond your wood we have come, witnessed the breaking of a seal, witnessed the passing of a reader, and heard the invocation of names spoken together only when the One sent his Quiet into the land, when the War of the First Promise raged against the Sky.” Her voice carried cleanly as one who has not used tobaccom or bitter or been sick with the tremors. It rang with a certain wisdom that brought blood into Sutter’s cheeks.

“What makes you believe that your life is entirely your own, that you can rush out and put yourself at risk?” A touch of derision crept into her voice. “Perhaps we should leave you here to dig roots.”

Vendanj raised a hand, signaling an end to the exchange. “This is Mira Far. She will be accompanying us.”

Tahn turned again in his seat, mouthing the word Far to Nails. Sutter stared, still embarrassed.

Braethen half stood. “Good to meet you, Mira.” Mira dipped her head to acknowledge the introduction. “But accompanying us where?” he asked.

“I will not say the name of it yet,” Vendanj replied. “For now, it is enough for you to know we must go.”

Tahn looked back at the stranger. The vagueness of the man’s reply gave him a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. What destination would need to be kept secret? The hidden answer unsettled him.

Hambley tore bread into large chunks and placed them within arms’ reach of his guests. “Take bread together, friends. It is nigh time for supper, and eating together makes stronger ties besides.” He lifted his glass and finished his bitter.

Each of the men ate, but Mira faded into the shadows near the outer wall, watching the street beyond through the window. In her cloak, she appeared little more than a shadow herself. But Tahn could still see the line of her jaw, held in a straight, almost regal posture. It reminded him of the mountain cats, the way their poised stillness belied readiness to strike. Rumors of the Far told of their gifts of stealth and swift movement. Still, the Far, if they’d ever existed at all, were said to be outlanders from the edge of the Soliel. Few believed the Soliel could support life anymore. Perhaps it was only her name, and not her lineage.

“Thank you, Hambley. You cause us to remember ourselves,” Vendanj said. He then took from inside his cloak the small, flat wooden case Tahn had noted before and removed a green stem. Tahn thought he smelled again the scent of peppermint. The Sheason put the sprig in his mouth, neither chewing or swallowing.

Tahn finally had to ask the question. “Vendanj, why would it endanger our families to speak of this?” Both Braethen and Sutter grew still.

The man eyed him. “You ask a central question, Tahn. And we should come to the point in it.” He motioned toward the door and, in a breath, Mira left the room. “The Bar’dyn are close. You heard this. But they have come because they seek to bring eternal Quiet upon the land, to cause it to dry and parch and yield no more its fruits.”

Tahn listened closely, seeking the answer to his question, while images of dry earth and watered skies mingled behind his eyes.

“And it is more than this. By your own account the Bar’dyn bring with them a renderer, a Velle, out of the Bourne. We must leave, and go secretly. Or else the knowledge you share with your family of what you’ve heard and seen will itself attract the attention of those who seek to put an end to all things. Do you see?”

“No.” Tahn’s impatience grew. Balatin had not taught him to follow blindly. “I don’t see!” He lowered his voice. “If it is Bar’dyn, if it is Velle, then we must stay and protect our homes, our families. How can you not understand that?”

Sutter nodded, putting his hand on Tahn’s arm in a show of support. Braethen only watched for what Vendanj would say next. The Sheason did not raise his voice; he did not betray any emotion. Instead he looked steadfastly at Tahn and took a long breath.

“Your loyalties do you credit. But you are wrong because your first premise is wrong. Return to your question, ‘Why does it endanger our families?’ It is because those out of the Bourne have come here for you.”

Tahn reeled at the suggestion, and shook his head. It was a mistake, or perhaps even a trick of the Sheason’s to get Tahn to do as he wished. Why him? How did Vendanj know? The Quiet could have come into the Hollows for Ogea, or Vendanj for that matter.

As if reading his thoughts, Vendanj said, “You may deny it, or seek another answer to your question, but the truth remains. The sooner you embrace it, the sooner we can do what must be done.”

Still struggling against it, Tahn felt some truth in what Vendanj said. And then something more occurred to him. If the Bar’dyn had come into the Hollows for him, then he was responsible for Ogea’s death. Following that, another thought stole into his mind as cold as the winter ice in the eaves of a Hollows home.

“If we stay, we endanger all the Hollows, don’t we,” he said. It was not a question.

“It is more, Tahn,” Vendanj explained. “They can sense you, taste your breath on the wind leagues distant. Leaving may preserve you, but it will surely preserve the town. They won’t waste time warring on the Hollows if they know you are gone. But if you remain, they will set upon this place with a vengeance. Any friends you have here will die.”

Dread tightened Tahn’s throat. His stomach roiled as the things Vendanj said coalesced in his mind. His thoughts sped past his need to know why the Bar’dyn had come for him—something that would occur to him later. Desperately he looked into the strange man’s placid face. “Ogea said they were coming from the east! Will and Sky, Wendra is alone!” Tahn jumped out of his seat and raced from the room, leaving the other men behind before they could speak a word.

*   *   *

Tahn rode for all he was worth and soon came to the rise where the firs thinned on the lee side of the hill. The road wound down to his and Wendra’s home, a stand of aspen on the near side. Lantern light shone in the windows and fell from an open door in a small rectangle. She waits on me, he thought. But something deeper, something low in his belly put the lie to that.

An open door …

He began pulling his arrow, gripping Jole’s sides tight with his legs. He descended into the shallow dale, the image of Ogea railing from atop the Fieldstone fixed in his mind. Bar’dyn, he’d said.

The road grew muddy. Jole did not slow, his hooves throwing sludge. A bolt of lightning arced through the sky. The peal of thunder shattered the silence and pushed through the small vale in waves, each one louder than the last. It echoed outward through the woods in diminishing tolls.

Vaguely, the whispering sound of rain on trees floated toward Tahn. The soft smells of earth and pollen hung on the air, charged with the coming of another storm. Cold perspiration beaded on his forehead and neck.

An open door …

Wendra would not leave the house open to the chill.

Passing the stable, Jole began to slow. As Tahn prepared to jump, another bolt of white fire erupted from the sky, this time striking the ground. It hit at the near end of the vale. The thunder immediately exploded around him. Simultaneously, a scream went up from inside his home. Jole reared, tugging at his reins and throwing Tahn to the ground before racing for the safety of the stable. Tahn lost his bow and began frantically searching the mud for his dropped weapon. The sizzle of falling rain rose, a lulling counterpoint to the screams that continued from inside. Something crashed to the floor of the cabin. Then a wail rose up, a strange howl filled with glee and hatred. It sounded at once deep in the throat, like the thunder, and high in the nose, like a child’s mirth.

Tahn’s heart drummed in his ears and neck and chest. His throat throbbed with it. Wendra was in there! He found his bow and the one arrow. Shaking the mud and water from the bowstring and quickly cleaning the arrow’s fletching on his coat, he sprinted for the door. He nocked the arrow and leapt to the stoop.

The home had grown suddenly still and quiet.

Tahn burst in, holding his aim high and loose.

An undisturbed fire burned in the hearth, but everything else in his home lay strewn or broken. The table had been toppled on its side, earthen plates broken into shards across the floor. Food was splattered against one wall and puddled near a cooking pot in the far corner. Wendra’s few books sat partially burned near the fire, their thrower’s aim not quite sure.

Tahn saw it all in a glance as he swung his bow to the left where Wendra had tucked her bed up under the loft.

She lay atop her quilts, knees up and legs spread.

No, Will it not!

Then, within the shadows beneath the loft, Tahn saw it, a hulking mass standing at the foot of Wendra’s bed. It hunched over, too tall to remain upright in the nook beneath the upper room. Its hands cradled something in a blanket of horsehair. The smell of sweat and blood and new birth commingled with the aroma of Wendra’s cooking pot.

The creature slowly turned its massive head toward him. Wendra looked, too, her eyes weary but alive with fright. She weakly reached one arm toward him, mouthing something, but unable to speak.

In a low, guttural voice the creature spoke. “Quillescent all around.” It rasped the words in thick, glottal tones, the way outlanders spoke when they hadn’t yet mastered the common tongue.

“Bar’dyn,” Tahn muttered. His disbelief fell away.

CHAPTER SIX

Payment in Oaths

The man with sun-darkened skin strode in the early morning light, a thin cloak wrapped around his shoulders. In the land of his home, he’d have had no need of the garment. But here in the frost-covered hills at dawn, the chill had its bite. And while, for his part, the man might have borne that without complaint, the child he cradled close to his chest beneath the folds of that cloak would not.

The babe slept as the man walked neither slow nor hurried. Purposefully.

He knew his destination, and would arrive soon enough. So he kept a careful eye and a measured pace. When he came to the place, he wanted the infant rested.

He also kept his own counsel as he climbed hills, descended valleys, and marched down long stretches of road beneath the overarching branches of sycamore, hemlock, and oak. The child slept all the while, unaware of what awaited it when sun would first touch the sky. The man had stopped to feed the babe several times a day; it made for slow going. But an end to that drew near. The man felt the pangs of relief and loss all at once. As he ever did.

He topped a rise and spied a small farm on a gradual slope a league distant. “Almost your time, little one,” he whispered. “We will see how you are received today. I should not like to have to take you back. This is a one-way path for you.”

The child woke, as if understanding it was being addressed. Quiet and thoughtful the way a babe can often be, it stared up into the man’s sun-worn face.

“But we must have a discussion before we go our separate ways, little one,” the man continued. “And I will pray they have sufficient means to make the offer you rightly deserve.”

The child, still less than two weeks from its mother’s womb, looked up. For the briefest of moments it appeared to understand the words. But the unfocused eyes soon turned in a new direction, and the man refocused his own concentration on the path ahead. He possessed the discipline not to allow the softness of the child’s skin to recall to mind anything not useful in his errand. For his errand was his primary concern.

There was no equivocation in that.

Dew caught the radiance of dawn and shone back on the man a hundred points of bluish light. Long ago, in another life, he would have at least paused to consider the difference between his own life and that of the family he now approached.

He got moving again.

A small road blocked by a meager gate announced the farm he’d been angling toward. Up the path he went, the child tucked close to his chest, mostly covered by his plain, sun-ravaged cloak. Moments later he came to the back steps of the dwelling.

Always he rapped at a home’s rear door (if he knocked at all), because women and men who earned their way by the sweat of their brow rarely used their front door. Life turned on the axis of a home’s back entrance—closest to the kitchen and fire and stories. And while some did not recognize his subdued calling card (rear door and light knuckles), he felt it important that his errand be attended by the appropriate level of solemnity and discretion.

Life: traded at the back doors of the world.

There were bargains to be made.

And so today he rapped at this lintel, turning hard eyes on the yard as he cradled the child, who began to stir. No chickens scratched at the packed earth; no cattle lowed in the field nearby. He worried that these people would not have the resources to meet his demands. But then, there were many forms of payment, and that was one thing about which he felt good. For so many years …

The door drew back and a young wife dried her hands on a towel hanging from her belt before taking his hand in greeting and fingering the token of the hillfolk to identify herself. But as much as that, the look in her eye when she glanced down at the child in his arms led him to know that this woman would tend and love and teach and protect this child. To her credit, she kept any surprise or dread or gladness off her face. The man nodded to himself; her composure put her in good stead.

This may go well, after all.

The woman looked past him, eyeing the yard and everything else beyond, then stepped aside, indicating that he should enter.

So in they went, the man and the child.

He sat, resting his legs from his long journey, but still holding the babe close as he surveyed the modest home about him. Shortly, the woman’s husband stepped in, showing a wary eye: a large man with large hands. Good.

They bore one another’s company in silence for some time. There seemed no reason to speak, as the purpose of his visit manifested itself in the body of the infant he cradled. He measured the couple before him more by the appointment of their home than by anything they might have said.

Finally, the woman broke the silence. “Would you like some hot tea?”

The man with the sun-worn face shook his head at the hospitality. “No. But the child could use some milk. Have you any?”

In reply, the woman turned to a table behind her and took up a carafe. She crossed the room and waited for him to surrender the child. With interest he did so, and watched as the woman took the child in her arms, sat, and removed her towel. She twisted it at one corner and dipped it in the milk, then offered it to the babe in imitation of nursing. The child went right to it.

The man nodded his satisfaction.

Then her husband spoke. “We can offer you little for the child.”

The traveler turned to gather the man’s attention. “What is he worth to you?” The hill-man stared back, seeming to consider. But before he could speak, the traveler continued. “And be aware that payment is not always made in coin.” The intimations were many, and the man let them all hang in the air in this early morning gathering in the modest home of some remote hillfolk.

“It will have a hard life here,” the hill-man finally offered. “Many … most do not live to see their stripling years.”

“So your payment is uncertainty?” The traveler looked back at the sure hand of the woman feeding the infant.

“The child won’t go hungry,” the hill-man replied. “I’ll see to it. But beyond that, we’ve few promises here. And anything we give you will mean less to provision ourselves to care for it.”

The visitor looked up with eyes that might have appeared faded from so long under a heavy sun. His own wages in this affair were hard-won. “Your assurances aren’t grand, friend. There are others who have need of a child healthy as this one. A few days more on the road and I could return home with fuller pockets.”

The hill-man did not hestitate. “Choose that if you will. I’ve little use for quick hands to make a prize of a child. I can offer the little one my home, and the knowledge of the hills besides. I’ve no delusions; this is all meager. And perhaps not the best place for the child, after all. We will have our own questions to answer on how it came to us and from whom. These will not be easy to avoid, and the truth brings its own risks to the walls of our home, if you take my meaning.”

The man looked back at the hill-man. “I do at that. But I’ve my own balances to keep.” He stood. “For payment I will have your oath. And heed me that I will call that marker if it is broken. The child’s true parents, his origins, even me, we are all irrelevant now. No questions will you ask, or answer. And your covenant to the child will be as if your woman here bore him from your own seed.”

The hill-man took three great strides and put out his hand. The two clasped, and the hill-man wrapped his finger around the visitor’s thumb in the hillfolk token to seal his oath. The woman likewise nodded her assent. The traveler then went to the woman, whispering low, “He will grow to greatness, if treated hereafter better than was his start,” and put a hand on the child’s head in farewell.

He then strode from the room without another look at either of the hillfolk. Into the first light of dawn the sun-weathered man emerged, his darkened skin receiving the beams of the greater light as old friends. He set his feet back upon the road.

He had leagues to go.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The Birth of Flight

The Bar’dyn stepped from beneath the loft, its girth massive. The fire lit the creature’s fibrous skin, which moved as if independent of the muscle and bone beneath. Ridges and rills marked its hide, creating a natural armor Tahn had only ever heard of in story—armor said to surpass the mail worn by men. It uncoiled its left arm from the blanket it held to its chest, letting its hand hang nearly to its knees. From a leather sheath strapped to its leg, the Bar’dyn drew a long knife. Around the hilt the beast curled its hand—three talonlike fingers with a thumb on each side, its palm as large as Tahn’s face. Then it pointed the blade at him.

Tahn’s legs began to quiver. Revulsion and fear pounded in his chest. This was a nightmare come to life.

“We go,” it gurgled deep in its throat. Its cumbersome, halting speech belied the sharp intelligence in its eyes. When it spoke, only its lips moved. The skin on its face remained thick and still, draped loosely over protruding cheekbones that jutted like shelves beneath its eyes. Tahn glimpsed a mouthful of sharp, carious teeth.

As his eyes adjusted to the light within the house, he looked again at Wendra. Blood spots marked her white bed-dress, and her body seemed frozen in a position that prevented her from straightening her legs. That’s when Tahn’s heart stopped. He realized that what the Bar’dyn held to its barklike skin, cradled in a tightly woven blanket of mane and tail, was Wendra’s child.

Pressure mounted in Tahn’s belly: hate, helplessness, confusion, fear. All a madness like panicked wings in his mind. He’d had only one job: watch safe his sister through her birthing time. The horror of what he saw roiled inside him. It all came up in a rush. “No!”

His scream filled the small cabin, leaving it that much more silent when it echoed its last. But the babe made no sound. Nor did the Bar’dyn. On the stoop and roof, the patter of rain resumed, like the sound of a distant waterfall. Beyond it, Tahn thought he heard the gallop of hooves on the muddy road. More Bar’dyn!

He knew he must do something. In a shaky motion, he drew down his bow on the creature’s head. The Bar’dyn’s thick lips parted in the semblance of a smile, uneven teeth protruding at odd angles. It gave a rough, laughing snarl; its eyes and face twisted in hatred.

“I’ll take you while I clutch the child. Velle will be pleased.” It growled, and swiped its blade through the air in an impossibly wide, vicious arc. The sound of its awful laughter stole into Tahn’s heart, and his arms began to fail, his aim floundering from side to side.

The Bar’dyn laughed again and stepped toward him. Tahn’s mind raced, and fastened upon one thought. He focused on the mark on the back of his bow hand, visually tracing its lines and feeling it with his mind. With a moment of reassurance, his hands steadied, and he drew deeper into the pull, bringing his aim on the Bar’dyn’s throat.

“Unhand the child,” Tahn said, his voice trembling even as his mouth grew dry.

The Bar’dyn paused, looking down at the bundle in its arm. Again it showed its hideous teeth. The creature then lifted the child up, causing the blanket to slip to the floor. Its massive hand curled around the baby’s torso. The infant still glistened from its passage out of Wendra’s body, its skin red and purple in the sallow light of the fire.

“Child came dead, grub.”

Sadness and anger welled again in Tahn, and his chest began to heave at the thought of Wendra giving birth in the company of this vile thing, having her baby taken at the moment of life into those wretched hands. Was the child dead at birth, or did the Bar’dyn kill it? Tahn looked again at Wendra, pallor in her face and sadness etching her features. He watched her close her eyes against the words.

The rain now pounded the roof. But the sound of heavy footfalls on the road was clear, close, and Tahn abandoned hope of escape. One Bar’dyn, let alone several, would likely tear him apart, but he intended to send this one to the Abyss, for Wendra, for her dead child.

He prepared to fire his bow, allowing time enough to speak old, familiar words: “I draw with the strength of my arms, but release as the Will allows.”

But he could not shoot.

He struggled to disobey the feeling, but it stretched back into the part of his life he could no longer remember. He had always spoken the words, always. He did not release of his own accord. He saw in his mind the elk of his afternoon hunt. Neither should that life have been taken; yet the man in the black cloak had suffered it to die, had made certain Tahn saw him end a life that should not have ended.

Tahn relaxed his aim and the Bar’dyn howled in approval. “Bound to Will, and so will die!” Its words came like the cracking of timber in the confines of the small home. “But first to watch this one go,” the Bar’dyn said, and turned toward Wendra.

“No!” Tahn screamed again, filling the cabin even as the sound of others came up the steps. Tahn was surrounded. They would all die!

Just then the Far woman shot through the fallen door, a sword in each hand. Close behind her came Vendanj, a look of determination on his face that frightened Tahn. The man came to the center of the room, placing himself between Tahn and the Bar’dyn. The Far—Mira—moved so quickly that Tahn could scarcely follow her. At the door, Sutter and Braethen filed in, each brandishing a short knife.

“Hold, foul!” Vendanj commanded, his voice a deep horn.

The Bar’dyn whirled, and Tahn thought he saw a worried look pass across its thick features. But it did not hesitate. It tossed the child onto the bed and lunged at Vendanj with a speed Tahn did not think it possessed. Vendanj prepared to take the blow, but before the Bar’dyn reached him, Mira stepped in, crouching low and driving her swords up in a sharp thrust. One blade bounced harmlessly off the Bar’dyn’s thick skin; the other made a small cut in its chest. The beast came on, swinging its knife—as long as a man’s sword—in quick back and forth motions. Mira had no problem avoiding the knife, but the Bar’dyn forged a path toward them, causing Vendanj to retreat. The creature from the Bourne was coming for Tahn. Helpless, he dropped his bow.

A whistling sound grew. He turned toward the sound and saw that Vendanj’s hands had begun to rotate. The man raised them in a swift gesture and pounded one fist into the other. Mira dove out of the way, and a streak of light shot into the chest of the Bar’dyn, driving it back. The smell of burning flesh immediately filled the room, attended by a horrible shrieking. At the sound, far out into the wood, a chorus of shrieks could be heard above the din of the rain. Tahn and Sutter looked to the door, half expecting a band of Bar’dyn to crash in. None came.

Vendanj’s blow threw the Bar’dyn back into the nook beneath the loft. The beast got to its knees quickly, and reached onto the bed between Wendra’s legs, snatching the child’s body. Mira rolled out of her dive and came up prepared to strike. But the Bar’dyn stood and, with a great howl, rammed the wall with its arm and shoulder. The wood gave and the beast tumbled out through the sundered wall into the rain. Vendanj rushed forward, Mira a step ahead. Tahn finally found his legs, and came up between them at the hole in the cabin wall. Together, they stared into the stormy night. The Bar’dyn, cupping Wendra’s babe in one hand, moved incredibly fast, following a path to the closest tree line. Lightning flared once, illuminating the Bar’dyn’s hulking form as it barreled away. When the flash vanished, so did the Bar’dyn, and only the sounds of rain and receding thunder could be heard.

Mira began to step through the hole, as though to give chase. Vendanj put a hand on her shoulder. “Patience.”

Tahn turned from the ruined wall of his father’s home and rushed to Wendra’s side. Blood soaked the coverlet, and cuts on her wrists and hands bore testament to her failed attempt to ward off the Bar’dyn. Wendra’s cheeks sagged; she looked pale and spent. She sat up against the headboard, a pillow propped behind her head, crying silent tears.

Sutter brought a bowl of water and some cloth. As Braethen cleansed her wounds and wrapped them, Tahn sat at her bedside wordlessly reproving himself. He tried more than once to look at Wendra, but could not meet her eyes. He had stood twenty feet away with a clear shot at the Bar’dyn and had done nothing, while the lives of his own sister and her child hung in the balance. He’d silently recalled the old words and known the draw was wrong. He’d followed that dictate over the defense of his sister. Why?

It was an old frustration, and a question to which he had never been able to find an answer.

It haunted him—had haunted him all his life, or what he could remember of his life.

Vendanj spoke softly to Mira. Tahn could not hear his words, but the Far listened close, then jumped through the same hole the Bar’dyn had used. Vendanj came to Tahn’s side, looking down at his sister. “Anais Wendra,” he began, using the old form of address rarely heard in the Hollows, “was your child born still?”

Sutter gasped at the question.

“Hasn’t there been enough—” Tahn started to ask.

“Silence, Tahn, there are things I must know.” Vendanj never looked away from Wendra.

She put a hand on Tahn’s shaking fingers, and squeezed them warmly to reassure him. Tahn silently marveled at her strength. Her long, dark brown hair was still stuck to the side of her face from the exertion of labor, and her deep blue eyes were half shut in pain, yet she meant for him not to worry.

Her voice strained and hoarse, Wendra managed to say, “Yes, the child came still.”

A dark look touched Vendanj’s face, and he raised a hand, placing it over Tahn and Wendra’s own. Finally he said, “You must leave the Hollows with us.”

“She can’t ride, Vendanj,” Tahn argued. “After what she’s just been through, how will she manage a horse? And I thought we were leaving the Hollows to protect our families. If she comes, she’s in more danger.”

Vendanj held up a hand to silence Tahn, then looked directly at Wendra. “Anais Wendra? Will you come?” She nodded. “Good. Sutter, gather the horses. Make them ready.” Sutter stared, uncertain. “I’ve no time to wait, root-digger! Now go!” Sutter took halting steps backward toward the door, finally turning and darting into the rain. Outside, the horses whinnied loudly at another crack of thunder.

Vendanj went to the broken wall and stared out into the night, his face cast in shadow, though Tahn could still see the man’s furrowed brow and clenched jaw. Without turning, Vendanj said calmly, “There is no time left to us.”

The rain continued as Tahn aided his sister into a loose pair of his trousers and a heavy coat. He helped her pull on a pair of boots, but before she tried to stand, she reached beneath her bed and took a small wooden box from a hidden shelf. Wendra then tried to get up. She grimaced as she put weight on her legs and fell into Tahn. He shot a worried and angry glance at the tall man still watching the night, but Vendanj seemed not to notice. Why was he making Wendra come with them? A shrill cry erupted from somewhere in the woods.

Sutter hurried through the door. “The horses are tethered out front. But I don’t think they’ll be good to run far.” He pulled back his cowl and brushed the water from his nose. Still, Vendanj did not turn. Tahn gave Sutter a fretful look, and nodded toward Vendanj.

“Her cloak is behind the door,” Tahn said finally. Braethen took the garment from its peg and helped Tahn drape it around Wendra.

Vendanj pivoted sharply and surveyed the room. “Watch there for Mira,” he said, pointing first to Braethen and Sutter and then toward the hole in the wall. They did as they were told.

Vendanj took two long strides toward Tahn and Wendra, gripped one of Wendra’s hands, and eased her into a chair beside the overturned table. He knelt before her and looked intently into her face. He released her hand and then deliberately reclasped it, interlocking the bottom two fingers and folding her thumb into his palm. With his other hand he touched her brow. Almost inaudibly, he began to speak, never allowing Wendra to look away. A soft glow appeared in his face as he spoke, and Wendra’s own face mirrored the luminosity. A look of wonder spread across Braethen’s features, and Tahn suddenly remembered what Braethen had called the man back in the townsmen’s council room: Sheason.

Even in the Hollows it was known that the Sheason were hunted. The League of Civility had branded them spies for the Quiet. The Sheason were expected either to keep their gifts hidden, or to openly disavow their use of the Will. If caught rendering, they were executed; otherwise they were tolerated. Tahn involuntarily took a step back. What if this man was the figure he’d seen in the trees early that morning? Few could summon the Will; it was a gift that had to be conferred, and that after years of training and careful study.

Vendanj reached for Wendra’s other hand and helped her to her feet. Tahn’s sister stood on her own, a combination of amazement and gratitude in her thin smile. “I—”

“You’re welcome,” Vendanj said. “Sutter, can you see Mira?”

“No.”

Another shriek rang through the storm, this one deeper and more anguished.

“We can’t wait,” he said, moving toward the door. “Leave her horse tied to the stoop; we must be gone.”

Sutter and Braethen came away from the wall and rejoined them.

“How can we run the horses, Vendanj?” Braethen asked.

“I’ll see to the horses,” the Sheason replied. “Now listen carefully. We go to Recityv. I did not speak it in town where someone may have overheard. But fix it in your minds. Much depends on us getting there.”

Vendanj took a moment to look at each of them, then strode through the door into the night. Tahn looked at Sutter, whose jaw hung agape. Recityv! The thrill and fright of such a journey, such a large place, made his heart race. The revelation of where the Sheason meant to take them seemed to hit them all like another strike of lightning. In silence, many questioning looks were exchanged.

A moment later, they all followed Vendanj through the door. They clambered onto their horses in the pouring rain. Wendra came last.

Vendanj went from mount to mount, removing sprigs from his small wooden case and giving one to each horse as he went. Again, Tahn thought he caught a whiff of peppermint. The Sheason then jumped onto his horse. Tahn looked back at the lone mount still tied to the stoop post—Mira’s.

In the darkness, a lusting, hate-filled cry arose.

“We no longer all need to return to town. Mira provisioned your horses before we left. And we have enough extra for Anais Wendra. Only Braethen need return.” Vendanj sidled up beside him. “Ogea’s satchels. Can you manage to retrieve them alone?”

The insult sliced through the downpour.

Braethen nodded.

“Meet us on the north road. Move fast. We’ll be leaving the road soon.”

Braethen didn’t wait for further instruction, and was gone. As he raced away, Mira appeared as if from nowhere, jumped into her saddle, and kicked her horse into a dead run.

“Stay close.” The Sheason kicked at his mount and disappeared into the rain after her. Lightning flashed in the sky. As thunder pealed and rolled across the Hollows, Tahn looked at Sutter.

“This is what you wanted, Nails.” He kicked Jole to follow. The rest came after them in a dark blur of rain, wind, and fleeing hooves.

Soon the lights of the Hollows faded behind them.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Release of the Shrikes

Helaina Storalaith, regent of Recityv, ruling seat of Vohnce, threw open the doors to her High Office and stormed inside. Close behind came Roth Staned, Ascendant—the highest officer—of the League of Civility. Soon General Van Steward and Sheason Artixan followed. Four members of the High Council, which had just ended its session in acrimony, stood in the sunlit office.

The argument had followed her, unbidden, to her sanctuary.

“It is foolishness, my Lady,” Ascendant Staned said. “Don’t be baited into action by rumors. It sets us back as a people to fall victim to outdated beliefs and false traditions.”

“Watch how you speak to the regent,” Van Steward cautioned.

Roth cocked an eye at the general. “We are in open debate. Deference is set aside.”

“Not while I am in the room,” Van Steward said.

“The High Council has not ruled on this, Helaina,” Staned reminded. “You cannot call a Convocation of Seats without a unanimous vote of the council.”

Artixan lifted a finger. “That is not entirely correct. The regent alone holds the power to call a Convocation. She may seek the wisdom of the Council, but it is not a matter to be voted on, let alone requiring unanimity. You know this, Roth.”

The leader of the League glared at the Sheason. “It is not an authority the regent can claim in these times. Once, yes. But that was long ago, when superstition ruled the wits of men and women. Calling a convocation of every ruling seat, nation, and kingdom cannot be the capricious act of a single individual. Right actions must come by the consent of even the most conscientious objector. If they are right, they will prove out. That is the civility we’ve grown to. Let us not devolve because of a few stories out of the west.”

The regent finally turned. “You don’t believe Quietgiven have descended into the land, Roth? Did you not hear the stories related to the High Council just now? What else explains them?”

“Dear regent.” The Ascendant softened his tone, resuming a politic air. “The fears of the Quiet are deep in the race of men. We were all raised on the stories. But what we heard could be a hundred nightmares confused with Quiet. Will you displace so many kings and rulers without certainty? Suppose you call the Convocation after so many thousands of years, and you are wrong. What then?”

“I should rather think that prudence and solidarity would make an acceptable reason,” the regent fired back. “Whatever the threat, a broad agreement throughout the eastlands would serve all interests.”

“Except that of a man who would have that power unto himself,” Van Steward offered.

Roth turned on the General. “Do you wish to say something to me directly?”

Van Steward stared back with the glare of a man who could no longer be threatened. “When at last I wish to do anything concerning you, it won’t be to talk.”

Roth Staned turned back to the regent, undeterred. “It is madness, Helaina. The other members of the council are deferring to you out of respect and duty. These are fine virtues, but not for use in governance. You above all should know this. I appeal to your wisdom. The other members of the council are well meaning, but they are not rulers, or even leaders. They are caught in the fear that grips a tiller or fisher, because these are the people they represent. But reason today resides in the places of learning and progress. Don’t let all we’ve worked for pass away with a choice that smacks of superstition or shibboleth.”

The regent did not immediately speak. She noted the thoughtful look of her most trusted advisor, Artixan, whose heavy brow told her all she needed to know of his opinion. Then she cast her gaze at the general, an iron-willed man the left side of whose face bore not one but three severe scars that ran down his forehead and cheek like white runnels. Van Steward was harder to read, since his place was to receive an order without question. But when the man dropped his chin ever so slightly in a half nod, she knew his mind, too.

Leaving only the Ascendant, Roth Staned.

He was an intelligent man, one she believed always represented the people’s best interests, at least as he saw it. And for that she was grateful. But he had not been successful in turning the council to his view of the rumors. And so he had stormed after her when the council was dismissed. He challenged her now because she had countermanded his proposal to wait for incontrovertible evidence before commiting Recityv to any formal action against the clear threat of Quietgiven.

He did this, she reflected ruefully, because when all was said and done, he wanted to possess the chair of the High Office, and couple his rule of the League with the regent’s seat.

He might even admit as much, so unabashed was his ambition.

But why deny the rumors to do it?

Was civility threatened more by the possibility that these rumors were nothing but fancy and confusion, or by inaction should they prove true?

The regent, now in her elder years, could not puzzle it together.

But one thing she knew. If he’d not been her opponent before, he would become one if she did not align on his side of this debate.

The debate at an impasse, silence fell over the regent’s High Office. She stepped to one of the great open windows and stared out over her city and away to the west, where thunderclouds rolled on the horizon. Even here, she caught the scent of ozone in the air, pushed ahead of the storm in gentle waves. In that instant, the promise of rain buoyed her.

It somehow made what she contemplated that much more real.

Quiet, again in the land. Could it be true?

Her spirit felt unsettled, and had for some time. Most days she attributed it to old age creeping up on her. Perhaps the truth was that she had been teetering on the verge of reinstituting something that had lain dormant for more generations than she could count. There were prophecies about what it would mean when a Convocation of Seats was recalled. Some said it would be the end of all things. Others spoke of new beginnings, dark beginnings, that would come as a shuddering whisper that rolled like contagion from rotted lips.

Would she be the one to do it—at her age?

Political maneuverings should belong to a younger regent, she thought, one who had the stamina to stand against Roth Staned for as long as was necessary. She grew so tired of his rhetoric that she often dreamed of exercising her authority to get rid of him.

But he had powerful allies, and the League’s influence had grown and threatened to become a military power.

She had to keep him close, which made her decision in this matter so difficult. She could not afford to be wrong. Or perhaps more accurately, she could not afford to alienate the League Ascendant. Whatever she chose now could tear down all she’d lived to build, even if she proved to be right. And Sky help her if the rumors of Quietgiven were true, and the League became her enemy, too.

The regent made a slow turn, peering through the windows on all eight sides of the High Office. The horizon in every direction showed a singular view, and she’d grown to appreciate each of them. Indeed, she often went to them individually for the feeling inspired by the land distantly seen from each vantage. She was grateful that at her age, she could still appreciate each view with clear vision through hazel eyes; she was likewise grateful that her body did not yet force her to stoop. Her hair may have silvered with time, but age hadn’t claimed the rest of her yet. Though, she was thinner than she’d ever been; perhaps it was all the worry of late.

Today, every view spoke the same answer to her: war.

Not today, and maybe not soon, but one way or another, reconvening the Convocation of Seats would lead to war.

And yet the cloud in her soul touched her with dark intimations of the blight that would come if she did nothing.

She feared it could be the very rending of the veil and the loosing of all the nightmare from the beginning of all things.

They were heavy thoughts … thoughts that at last brought her gaze to Roth Staned, unyielding and implacable at the center of her High Office. He did not blink, awaiting her command.

An oppressive silence had settled over the room. It bore the weight of choices that would take a heavy toll on the lives of countless men and women and children. Today, the people had no worry that the darker side of history could come back upon them: no fear of Quietgiven returning to the land, no concern that legends might actually be true. Most of the tales were no longer even recited in the streets of Recityv; the League had had a hand in that.

She had decided.

She finally returned Van Steward’s nod. The general swept past Staned to the door and spoke a soft summons into the hall. Shortly a dozen young boys entered with caged shrikes.

“Roth—” she began.

But Ascendant Staned fixed them all with bitter, wrathful eyes and strode out, his heels tattooing the marbled floor in a quick, angry rhythm.

Helaina, the regent of Recityv, nodded once more, and the shrikes were set free from the windows of the High Office. The flutter of wings echoed from the hard marble walls as the birds escaped into the sky, angling in every direction from her eight windows.

“Send the riders and criers, as well,” she said to Van Steward. “Every nation and king will be offered their seat again. Let us hope this is the last time.”

Together, the three watched the birds fly until they could no longer be seen.

Will the rulers of men answer the call? she asked herself. The answer to that question threatened her heart with despair.

CHAPTER NINE

True Introductions

As Sutter rode after Vendanj and Mira on the north road, he tucked his chin against his chest. Gusts of wind drove rain like stinging nails into his face and hands. The Hollow Wood grew as dense as the firs just east of his home, and the night descended so black that at times he knew he was on the trail only when flashes of lightning revealed the landscape around them. Mostly he trusted that his horse wouldn’t lose Vendanj and Mira. The thick smell of loam and sodden evergreens mingled on the path, and the cold rain cut into him, drenching his clothes and numbing his hands.

Occasionally, Sutter thought he could hear the strange high-low cry of the Bar’dyn echo deep in the wood just above the storm and the sound of their horses’ labored breathing. But it never lasted, and he gripped his reins more tightly, hoping the mud would not cause his mount to slip and careen off the road into the trees hemming their way.

He was frightened, no doubt about that. But a thrill raced through him, as well: He was free of the roots, at least for a while!

What would Filmoere have thought of their leaving this way? The question bothered him. What if the Bar’dyn fell upon the Hollows, Hambley, the Fieldstone? His family. A helpless feeling of cowardice gripped him. He didn’t like leaving this way, he decided. He breathed deeply, and held the breath as long as he could. He’d found that a stomach filled with air chased fear away.

Twice they slowed to a walk, letting the horses rest. When they did, Mira stopped, allowing them to pass, and then turned her horse back down the road they’d traveled. Before they resumed their pace, she would reappear and shake her head subtly at Vendanj. Sutter understood that she was signaling: no Bar’dyn. He wished they could dismount, though. His thighs tingled on the edge of numbness, and he fought to stave off sleep.

It was well past dark hour when Vendanj called a halt. The rain had all but stopped, and far in the south, stars shone through two small breaks in the clouds. “We must rest,” the Sheason said quietly. “There is an abandoned home a thousand strides from the road to the west. We will sleep there.” Mira dropped silently from her saddle and disappeared into the trees to the left.

“We will walk our horses,” Vendanj said. A flicker of starlight caught in his eyes, giving him a distant, menacing look. In the sky, moonlight illuminated the fringe of the clouds around the break in the south. The soft light near the horizon gave Sutter a wan feeling, as though he had been gone from the Hollows a long time, yet had such a ways to travel.

Still, he thrilled at the prospect of leaving, and was surprised that he felt drawn back toward the Hollows.

The feeling didn’t last long.

Sutter helped Wendra dismount, and Tahn helped her navigate the trees. Braethen dismounted and pulled his horse along, coming astride Sutter.

“It’s your Northsun, isn’t it?” he asked. His profile in the dark still reminded Sutter of Ogea, and A’Posian—not a sodalist.

“It was,” Sutter said. “I can’t think how many days it’s been since it actually passed. The skies have been grey forever. Terror on root farming.”

“Is your Northsun, Sutter,” Braethen asserted. “The next full moon brings the Change to you, regardless.” He stepped around a large fallen hemlock. “Who will stand beside you as your steward?”

“My father. But I wonder if we will be back to the Hollows by full moon.” Suter negotiated a path around the tree.

“I doubt it. It is Tahn’s year, as well, is it not?” Braethen asked. Sutter saw him stroke his beard in a thoughtful manner.

“Both of us. We’d planned … never mind.” He shuffled along; he could hardly hold a thought in his head for the adventure he’d just found himself on. He felt disconnected from the conversation.

Braethen put a hand on Sutter’s shoulder and squeezed gently, saying nothing more. He then strode more quickly to catch up with Vendanj. Sutter concentrated on the ground and the rocks and fallen limbs from the storms that littered the forest floor. The smell of pinesap filled the air, trees having bled to heal themselves.

Sutter rushed to catch up to Tahn and Wendra.

“It’s a good ache, don’t you think?” Sutter said, and grinned despite himself.

“Oh, yeah, wonderful, Nails,” Tahn rejoined.

“Truly, Tahn,” Sutter replied. He understood things were serious. But wasn’t that what the Change they were about to undergo was all about? Growing up? Things getting more serious? Taking life in hand once they were responsible. And no harm if adventure fell upon them in the process! “Did you mean to put meat in Hambley’s storehouse forever? We are likely to be a story for the readers someday. Bar’dyn in the Hollows. It has never been spoken before, and they hunt the hunter.” He poked Tahn in the neck and stifled a laugh at his own pun. “Besides, what did you have to remain in the Hollows for? Wendra’s with us now.”

His friend stopped, switching his reins to his other hand and urging Wendra to go on carefully with Braethen, who was just ahead of them.

The canopy of clouds overhead thinned, and the moonlight strengthened, shedding a lunar glow on patches of ground around them. When Sutter drew close again, Tahn asked, “Why didn’t you tell me you were adopted?”

The question hung in the air between them, and for several moments Sutter did not respond. He had to think of how to say it. It had been a secret he had kept all his life. Sometimes it felt like a horrible burden, and he cursed those people who had left him behind. Other times he felt lucky to have found a home at all. And when he counted the people in his life, it got simple fast: his mother and father, a brother—his parents’ biological son—and Tahn. In many ways he was closer to Tahn than to the others.

He’d often wanted to tell his friend. It was the only secret between them on his side of things. But something had always held him back. Something? Huh. He knew what held him back, but he would never share it. Some secrets would have to remain.…

“What do you say about yourself when your parents leave you because they have something else they’d rather do? It’s not something I wanted people to know.” He paused before continuing, “What difference does it make, anyway?”

“None to me, Nails,” Tahn chided. “But all this time I could have been calling you ‘orphan Nails,’ or ‘vagabond Nails,’ or ‘Nails the homely abandoned waif.’” In the light of the moon, Sutter saw his friend’s smile.

He knew that that would be the end of it. Tahn would never bring it up again—except maybe to taunt him—unless Sutter wanted to talk. It just didn’t matter. He slugged Tahn’s arm in thanks.

Ahead, inside the tree line on the other side of the ravine lay a partially obscured cabin. Though the moon showed only a thin crescent, the light grew stronger as the clouds continued to recede. Tall ferns grew up around the place, helping to conceal it. More ferns and lichens covered the roof, and ivy vines crept along the walls and eaves. It appeared the forest had devoured the small cabin. The clearing sky brought a winter chill to the air and Sutter shivered as Mira emerged from the door. The Far simply looked at Vendanj and disappeared inside again. The rest of them tethered their horses to nearby trees and entered the house.

Condensation coated the walls of the small, empty rooms. Through tiny cracks in the floor and outer walls, the vegetation had found purchase, growing in straight lines. A rocking chair stood in one corner, coated in thick dust like fur. Near the south wall, a dinner table had been toppled. Mira busied herself at the cabin’s hearth. The thought of a fire made Sutter more aware of the cold.

When Mira had finished her preparations for a fire, Vendanj knelt at the fireplace on one knee. He began rubbing his palms together. Braethen stood close, observing with obvious interest. A moment later, the Sheason opened his hands and touched them to the wood. Sutter’s jaw dropped. He’d never seen the Will rendered in all his life!

The wood started to burn, but the fire burned dark. Black flames licked at the fuel, throwing heat Sutter could feel immediately on his cheeks. But the fire gave no light or smoke that Sutter could see. The cabin remained in deep shadow, though the chill in the air fled. Vendanj withdrew and stepped back out into the night; Mira was already gone.

“Darkfire,” Braethen said, speaking into the black flames. “To hide us from the Bar’dyn.”

Wendra sat on the floor close to the fireplace, and reached toward the flames.

“Not just Bar’dyn,” Sutter added. In his enthusiasm, he retold Tahn’s story of the Velle he had seen that morning so everyone would know.

“Hard to track, too.” It was Mira. She stepped out of the corner near a lone window. Dim moonlight gleamed on the hilts of the two swords strapped to her back. She had removed the leather tie holding back her hair, allowing it to fall in wet strands around her face. She squatted next to Wendra and peered into the dark flames. “We can not stay here long. Velle can sense the Will. They will discover us even if the rain has washed our trail away.” She stood. “You should all sleep now. When the horses can move, so do we.”

Sutter watched Tahn exchange a strange look with the Far in the shadows of the cabin. He wasn’t sure, but he’d swear his friend blushed. Then Mira left them again, joining Vendanj outside.

“She’s quite the charmer, Woodchuck,” Sutter joked. “I can see your attraction to her.”

“She is right, though,” Braethen said. “We’ll probably leave before sunrise, and that gives us but a few hours to sleep.” He lay near the fire, which seemed to burn hotter than Sutter ever remembered feeling a hearth fire burn. The walls of the small cabin began to dry, and the air grew warm and comfortable.

The Sheason appeared in the doorway. “Up, Braethen. Let us see how prepared you are in your defenses.”

Braethen stood and followed the Sheason into the back room. Vendanj did not bother to close the door. For a long time, they listened while Vendanj slapped at Braethen, who didn’t have the reflexes or training to stop him. Sutter couldn’t tell for sure, but it sounded like some kind of defensive drill—Braethen trying to ward off blow after blow. All sat quiet as the session dragged on. Finally the slapping sounds stopped and they heard the Sheason say in a low, contemptuous tone, “You are pitiful.”

A moment later Braethen slunk back into the room, his face obviously bruised even in the dimness. The sodalist-in-training did not meet their eyes. He merely crouched down, turned toward the wall, and sobbed himself to sleep.

Sutter shook his head. He took off his coat and crept close to Braethen, softly draping it over his shoulders for warmth and comfort. “I know I’ve always been the one to tease you about this sodalist thing, but if you want it, don’t let that bastard knock it out of you.”

Braethen might have nodded in the dimness. Sutter couldn’t be sure. He left him to his silent sobs. Sutter knew the need of those at times.

Then he hunkered down next to the wall, the sword at his hip tangling in his feet. Tahn smiled. “And where did you get that?”

“Our fine friends outside. Braethen got one, too. What, you think mine should be longer?” Sutter grinned back.

“You ever even used one?” Tahn squatted down opposite him.

“Just the stuff your father taught us the summer before he went to his earth. I’m not going to win any fancy prize, but I know how to swing it. And I’ve got the callouses for it.” Sutter held up his root-digger’s palms. “Care to test me?”

Tahn shook his head, and gradually their smiles faded as they looked over at Braethen.

All were quiet for some time, when the silence of the cabin and the recent flight up the north road, and perhaps Braethen’s unexpected beating and tears, got inside Sutter and his feeling of liberation. He got to thinking about his parents. Things had happened so suddenly.

Hardly knowing he was speaking, he shared a sad, reflective thought, just audible even in the silence. “I wish I could have said good-bye to my family.” He looked up and found Tahn staring back. His friend’s expression told him that he’d rarely heard Sutter spare a familial thought. And maybe he hadn’t. He’d be first to mount to continue on their way—when it came to that—but just then he wondered if his own infant past (orphan, as he liked to call it) had mixed him up inside about family.

Mostly, he wondered if his father would be able to get the crop harvested without him. If he didn’t, it could go badly for them this winter. They hadn’t laid in as much as they had even last year. His departure might cost the man his farm. And suddenly Sutter’s adventure, forced or not, meant something a little different, something more.

*   *   *

As Sutter sat against the wall, staring into his own thoughts about his parents, Tahn crawled near his sister.

Wendra had put aside a long dagger—probably a gift like the others had received—and curled up near the hearth, staring blankly at the dark flames. He could smell the coppery scent of blood on her blouse, and wondered if she could smell it, too, or if it was so close that she’d become inured to it. In his mind’s eye he could still see the Bar’dyn fleeing across their field toward the trees, cupping the lifeless infant body in one hand. He was glad Wendra had not seen that.

“I’m so—” he began, but found that he hadn’t any more words.

She lifted her hand and he took it. “Sleep, Tahn. There will be time to talk of it later.” It wasn’t forgiveness. Not yet. But neither did she shun him. He lay next to her, still gripping her hand, and found the smell of blood soon gone, his nose growing accustomed to it. In moments, sleep took him.

*   *   *

He awoke as he always did, while darkness still lay heavy on the land. The fire continued to burn hot in the hearth, and around him Sutter, Wendra, and Braethen slept soundly. Mira sat in the rocker near the window. One sword lay across her knees, her fingers curled loosely around its hilt. As he stirred, she turned her eyes and focused on him in the dark. Without moving her head from the chair’s backrest, she closed her eyes again. Vendanj could not be seen in the back bedroom. Perhaps he’d gone to sleep.

Quietly, Tahn crept to the door, pulling the latch free.

“Where are you going?” Mira’s lips were literally at his ear. Her voice came so soft, none would hear but him.

“Some things are private,” he replied, intimating a natural need.

“Be quick,” she replied.

Tahn stepped into the chill night air. The horses shifted uneasily as he passed them. He quietly stole several strides to the clearing above the ravine. There he stood, looking deep into the night sky. Stars winked like the sparkling bits of glass on Master Hambley’s best tablecloths. His breath clouded the night, and droplets hung like frozen tears from low scrub and forest sage. He looked east and let his thoughts come naturally, as he had always done. Deep into the far reaches of the sky he let them wander, feeling as though his emotions and hopes struggled for form with the random groupings of stars. He traced the shapes of constellations, some from Ogea’s stories, some from memories whose sources were now lost to him. The moon had risen high, its surface bright and clear. The pale outline of the darkened portion looked like a ghostly halo.

Tahn closed his eyes and let his thoughts run out even further, imagining the sun that caused the light of the moon; imagining its warmth and radiance, its calm, sure track across the sky. He imagined the change in color in the east from black to violet to sea blue and finally to the color of clear, shallow water. He saw in his mind sun flares that caught in his eyes when he looked directly into its great light. He pictured the eruption of color as sunlight came to the forest and touched its leaves and cones and limbs. And as he always did at such a moment, Tahn suddenly felt like part of the land, another leaf to be touched by the sun. His thoughts coalesced into the singular moment of sunrise and another hope risen up from the night, born again with quiet strength.

Tahn opened his eyes to the dark skies and the foliate pattern of stars. In the east, the first intimation of day arose as the black hinted of violet hues. A quiet relief filled him, and Tahn took a lungful of cold air. He turned to rejoin his companions and saw Vendanj standing in the trees twenty strides away, watching him. The Sheason said nothing. Tahn left him there, and started back when he ran into Mira.

The Far eyed him suspiciously. “You were not doing anything private.”

“How would you know? Were you watching me?”

Unabashed, she said, “Yes.”

Tahn studied her in a glance. He saw a latent energy in her hands and arms, as though they already had the thought to strike. When he met her gaze, he found himself wondering if she was really from Naltus Far. She had a strange hypnotic effect over him, which made him worry about what she might be, but her smooth skin and poise were hard to ignore or resist. In the shadows, she smiled just barely with the left corner of her mouth, revealing a dimple in her cheek.

Tahn found his own smile. “Are you going to watch everything I do?”

She canted her head subtly, the movement either inquisitiveness or suggestion.

Warmth rushed into his cheeks. He averted his eyes and went in to his friends.

*   *   *

The darkfire burned hot but had spent most of its fuel. Wendra had not slept. The images of the day refused to let her be. Made her cold. She curled ever closer to the fire to try and warm herself. There was no help for it.

Her child was gone.

The horror of facing the Bar’dyn alone when it had invaded her home, ravaged their belongings, and then seized her in the nook beneath the stair and loft, it could not be given words.

In a breath she felt as if she had been raped, all over again, at the end of her pregnancy—one to get her with child, the other to take that child away. Wendra couldn’t help but feel as though she’d been used as a vessel and nothing more. The violation burned deep inside her.

But not so far as the precious life taken into the beast’s hands and carried into the rainy night. However true that, if she could, she would undo the day of her first violation, she had grown to accept the child inside her; she had even felt the hope of it. She’d found herself thinking and humming most of the time about what it would be like to be a mother, and had looked forward to the day.

Most people scorned her, though some simply didn’t know what to say to her and so kept their distance. But Wendra had begun to feel more like herself again, and settled back into her life with smiles and brightness in the small tasks she set herself about. That’s what her father and mother would have done. If she’d learned anything from them, it was that life will come upon you with awful change; how you choose to live with that change is the measure of your worth and happiness.

Wendra had succeeded at that … until the Quiet fell upon her, and coaxed her child from her womb.

The horror of the recent violation caught in her throat as she lay staring into the darkfire. She could still feel the rough hands of the beast on her ankles, hear its guttural voice growling commands as if it knew something about childbirthing. Wendra could feel the passing of the baby into the world, knowing who received it, and that moment ached in her like no other.

She should have done something, but hadn’t been able to.

And then there’d been Tahn.

Wendra had been delirious with fear and pain, but still she thought she saw her brother draw his bow on the Quietgiven but then relax his aim, never shooting. Confusion and anger roiled in her at the memory of it. Had Tahn been too frightened by the sight of the Bar’dyn? Had his friends come in so fast that he feared hitting them? It was a blur in her mind, but more than anything, she remembered the look in her brother’s face. He looked as if he bore some shame, some unnamed, private shame.

Now it hung between them, and she didn’t think she could simply let it go, even though she loved Tahn. Balatin had made it clear before he went to his final earth that when he was gone they must hold to each other above all else. But it would take time for this wound to heal. She knew, eventually, she would find it in herself to let this go. But not today. Her own body still thrummed with its physical loss.

The only other thought that entered her mind was why the Sheason had brought her along. Was it as simple as keeping her and Tahn together? Would she have been in danger if she remained in the Hollows? Though these questions offered some relief from more bitter thoughts, they likewise plagued her.

So she put her songbox on the floor before her eyes and hummed its melody. It reminded her of Balatin, and that was a comfort.

Soon she departed the familiar tune and wove melodies of her own as she often did, allowing them to escape her lips so softly that none might hear. These new airs came darker, mournful, and with a tinge of real anger. Something in them soothed Wendra’s beleaguered mind enough that she fell into dreams, though they were haunted by the events of the day.

A shrill cry woke her from her doze. Blackness still cloaked the room. She sat up, her eyes staring wide into the emptiness around her. Braethen immediately stood and drew his sword. A loud thud struck the floor behind them. Wendra whirled to see Sutter had fallen from his sitting slumber. He smiled sheepishly. Mira was gone, her chair empty. Again the cry tore the silence of the predawn, this time louder and closer: “Bar’dyn!”

CHAPTER TEN

A Maere and Training

The door to the cabin slammed inward, falling from its hinges to the floor in a resounding crash. A figure filled the doorway, his cloak swaying behind him. “Come! Now!” Vendanj ordered, his voice low but intense. Tahn pulled Wendra out the door into the twilight. Mira had unlashed the horses and held them at the ready. Sleep still fogged Tahn’s eyes, but he climbed atop Jole as the others clambered onto their mounts. Mira helped Wendra up.

“No talking, just ride. Follow me,” Mira said as she returned their reins to each of them. In an instant she leapt onto her own horse and led them down the ravine that paralleled the road. Tahn tried to wait and come last, behind Sutter and Braethen. Vendanj came alongside him and grabbed Jole’s tack.

“Stay close to Mira.” There was no room for argument in the Sheason’s voice. Tahn looked at Wendra. “I will watch her,” Vendanj said, and pulled Jole forward.

The renderer and Wendra came after, leaving Sutter and Braethen at the rear. In the sky to their right, the sun strengthened beyond the horizon. They tore through scrub oak and trees overgrown as a result of generous rains. Tahn kept one arm before his eyes, protecting them from errant limbs, as they galloped into a shallow tributary to the Huber River. Mira veered right, following the stream toward the north road. The water splashed up around them as the horses picked up speed. The stream widened, strips of rock and sand emerging for them to travel on. They raced toward the sunrise as battle cries rose into the morning stillness around them. The din shook the very leaves of the trees, seeming to vibrate up from beneath them. A bridge appeared around a wide bend in the tributary, the horizon behind it now bright with the imminent arrival of the sun. From beneath the other side of the bridge, deep in the shadows of a stand of tall yews, a darker shadow appeared.

Maere!

Tahn knew it instinctively from the stories told at Northsun: a Quietgiven creature from deep within the Bourne, formed of shadow and broken promises.

The dim morning light pulsed and shifted through it, giving it the appearance of a shadow on the surface of a lake rippled by the wind. Mira pulled up short, and Tahn nearly piled into her.

Vendanj came around to the front to confer with Mira, but they had only just begun to speak when the Maere reared and bolted toward them with startling speed. It came smoothly, coursing over the river bottom without a bob or jounce. As it bore down upon them, Tahn felt a cold wind begin to blow, as though the Maere pushed intent and malice before it. Jole reared, and the other horses began to tug at their reins and dance at the sight of the Maere—all but Vendanj and Mira’s mounts, which stood placidly. Mira jumped to the riverbed and drew her swords. Vendanj cupped one hand under his right forearm and held a fist out toward the Maere.

“Will and Sky,” Braethen muttered. “Maere.” A dark awe edged his words.

The thing traversed the distance with savage speed, and Tahn nocked an arrow, preparing to pull, when the sun lit the morning from the top of the towering yews, sending shards of coruscating light down upon the riverbed, erupting there in a thousand sparkling shimmers. As the streams of light fell upon the Maere, it vanished, gone like an exhalation of breath. Tahn looked through the space it had occupied, his arrow falling from his bow as he gaped in amazement. Precisely then, another howl lit the morning and four Bar’dyn crashed through the bulrushes behind them.

Their strange skin shifted loosely over the muscle and sinew beneath, but their deep-set eyes shone with brilliant hatred over the protruding shelves of their cheekbones. One pointed, and they all surged forward. Powerful legs propelled them in huge strides. Two Bar’dyn drew swords no less than five feet long. Over their shoulders, the other two hefted spears with dual prongs in preparation to throw them.

Mira leapt to her horse from her stance, both swords still in hand. “Go!” she screamed. The horses uniformly obeyed, and Tahn grabbed a fistful of Jole’s mane to prevent himself from falling off as his horse bolted. The Bar’dyn stayed close as they fast approached a soft bank near the bridge. Tahn knew the horses would never make it up before the Bar’dyn pulled down Sutter and Braethen from behind.

They reached the bank and started to climb, the Bar’dyn mere strides behind. Tahn looked back to see Sutter and Braethen reach the steep bank and start up. Sutter’s horse reared, and he almost fell. But his friend’s hands were strong from working the earth. He held the reins tight, even as his feet slid from the stirrups. At that moment, a bright light exploded from Vendanj’s hand and shot into the bank like green and blue shards of lightning. “Ride!” he yelled. Sutter got his feet back in his stirrups just as Braethen reached the top.

The Bar’dyn loosed a collective howl and began clawing their way up the riverbank.

A strange rustling began in the trees and brush around the creatures, like a fall wind through stalks and husks, whistling and groaning with an eerily human voice. Suddenly, roots leapt from the bank and limbs twisted toward the climbing Bar’dyn. Still knotted and gnarled, the branches, vines, and grasses laid hold of the beasts. Many tied around their feet, but others sought their wrists and legs. Still others shot into their mouths, stifling screams. One Bar’dyn hacked helplessly at the sinewy twists of vegetation, but for every one he severed, three more came on. The profusion of growth came alive and folded around the struggling Bar’dyn, muffling their cries. Animated with a hundred arms, the riverbank brought down the large creatures.

Mira slapped Jole’s rump and Tahn held on as the stallion bolted for the road and headed north. The others came up behind, and Mira again found her place at the head, riding with one sword still drawn.

They rode north. A myriad of war drums pounded across the countryside, finally beginning to beat in unison. The strange high-low wail of the Bar’dyn rose on each third strike and the world seemed alive with a rhythmic, soaring chant. Tahn drove Jole on, and as the sun lifted free of the forests and rose strong into the eastern sky, he and his sister and friends followed the Sheason and Far girl up into the high plain meadows away from their home.

*   *   *

All morning they galloped, slowing to a walk at times and resting the horses before again pushing the pace. Shortly after reaching the road, Vendanj began swaying on his mount. In the stark light of day, his face looked more deeply lined, his skin drawn tight. His eyes were red and darkly ringed. Mira saw him, and looked as though she meant to jump to his horse and ride with him to keep him in his saddle. But the Sheason raised a hand and, by force of will, sat upright. He looked the way Wendra had when the tremors and fever had come upon her, but he kept on, his hands white upon the reins.

In the sunlight, along the road, a profusion of hyacinth showed in bright colors near pools of water. Scrub oak and low cedars dominated the rest of the terrain. The road had begun to dry, birds gathering at the muddy pools to drink and bathe until the horses’ approach sent them fluttering into the air. They rode until midday, when Mira took them a good distance into the trees to take some rest.

But not right away.

After they dismounted, Mira had them all stand in a line with their new weapons in their hands, and taught them the fundamentals of steel. The Far loaned Tahn one of her blades to practice with. Some of it came back to Tahn and Sutter and even Wendra fairly quickly from some few sessions with Balatin years ago. Braethen struggled a bit more; he seemed to know better where to hold the weapon and how to position his arms—as though recalling pictures in one of his many history books—but the movements and feel came slower to him. After an hour of lunging, blocking, swiping, and stabbing the open air, the Far let them collapse and mop the sweat from their faces.

All except Tahn.

She pointed him to a field close by and supervised several dozen shots with his bow. That, at least, came easier. Balatin had been rigorous with Tahn in his practice of the weapon. Always it had seemed a means to an end—providing meat for coin or other food. But suddenly the care for judging the wind, elevation, and depth of pull all took on new meaning. Tahn didn’t miss often. He wondered if his father had been preparing him for something more than shooting elk.

Again he recalled the dreams of the faceless man who likewise seemed often to be teaching Tahn to draw with the strength of your arms.…

It was that rote phrase he always needed to recite, and the image of himself drawing his bow in his dreams—questions and dreams about himself—that wouldn’t let him alone even as he fled his home in the Hollows, chased by the Quiet.

That faceless man, leaving Tahn with a sense of more than mere hunting.…

But thinking about it never helped. It only upset him.

Mira dismissed Tahn after he’d shot and collected three rounds of his quiver. The Far seemed pleased, and Tahn didn’t mind showing some prowess in front of her. He thought he saw a smile of appreciation at one point, but wasn’t sure. His pulse quickened, regardless. Tahn walked back into the shade of some trees to check his fletching and tips, but mostly to rest.

Sutter found him. “Almost went to the earth back there, Tahn. Just another root-digger rejoining his worms.” He clapped Tahn on the back, merriment writ large upon his face.

“Good thing you didn’t, Nails, because I’m getting hungry. Go dig me something to eat.”

“Just can’t escape my past, can I?”

Sutter laughed aloud. It was nervous laughter, but it felt good to pause in the midst of all this and kid as they always had.

“I’ve only seen the High Meadows once in my life, Tahn. And I ate standing up for a week when I got home.” Sutter pointed to the seat of his pants to indicate the lashing he’d received for straying so far from home.

Tahn felt little of the wonder Sutter showed at the sight of the North Plains. There were too many unanswered questions. The only thing certain was that the Bar’dyn sought them. Tahn wasn’t sure anymore if the Quiet weren’t really after Vendanj … except that for some reason he believed the Sheason. Traders in the Hollows often stopped by to barter for fur or dried meats. The talk usually turned to the League, and one would say that another Sheason had been put to death. Even small towns like Bollogh had seen the public execution of a renderer. And usually the traders spoke of the lynchings as good things. But Vendanj had healed Wendra, and it brought him no gain to do it. And more than that, when Vendanj chose an action, Tahn always somehow internally agreed, even when his reason cried against it.

“Why do you think we’re going to Recityv?” Tahn asked Sutter. His friend had the uncanny ability to guess at such things.

“Recityv,” Sutter repeated, clearly awestruck by the very thought. “Great Will and Sky, that’s—”

“A long journey,” Mira finished.

Tahn jumped in surprise. The Far was right behind them, kneeling at a small spring filling her waterskin, and they’d had no idea she was there. “Several weeks’ journey, so pace yourselves.” She lifted her waterskin and drank. Tahn heard mild reproach in her words, as if she were twice as old and much wiser, though she appeared slightly younger than they were.

“Don’t wander too far when we stop to rest. And don’t leave anything behind, do you understand? I wish you knew how to walk lightly.” She surveyed the ground they’d passed over, and shook her head. “A child could track you. Watch your strides. Choose rocks to step upon when you can.” She plugged her waterskin and turned back toward the horses. Tahn watched her go, each footstep placed quick and light, her cloak filled as a sail in a high wind.

“Forget it,” Sutter said. “You and a Far? Never. She’s too busy bustling about and swinging her swords. Besides, have you seen her smile? Even once?”

Yes, Tahn thought, once.

“Recityv,” Sutter continued. “I don’t think anyone in the Hollows has ever been there. We’ll be legends.”

“Legends,” Tahn repeated, distracted. “They say Recityv is one of the largest cities east of the Divide. It’s the home of the regent. And you heard Mira, it’s weeks from here. Why is Vendanj taking us there?” He paused, considering. “Sutter, what of our Standing? Who will steward us if we are gone so long? You talk of legends, but until we Stand, we are still melura.” Tahn stopped and looked toward the vast plain before them. Balatin had told him stories of places beyond the Hollows, but the tales had long since blended so that he could no longer tell truth from fable. Staring into the distance and thinking of the threat of Quietgiven and unanswered questions and the risk that he might never Stand, he finished, “It is of no consequence if we die. Our choices have no bearing.…”

“That’s a cheery thought. Anyway, speak for yourself. I shall be missed.” Sutter doubled his fists and placed them on his hips.

The familiar posture made Tahn laugh out loud. They turned back to the horses, jumping from rock to rock and chuckling as they went.

When they reached the horses, they found Vendanj sitting upon a large boulder and Braethen seated on folded legs before him. Wendra leaned against her horse, resting her head against its neck as she listened.

“Drawing on the Will is not given to all, Braethen. Haven’t your readings taught you as much?” Vendanj took the waterskin from Mira and drank slowly.

“They have, Vendanj,” Braethen said, his eyes bright with the opportunity to discuss such things with an actual Sheason. “But it is not written how the ability to direct its power is conferred on someone.”

“Wisely so.” Vendanj returned the water to the Far and closed his eyes a moment, resting. “It was never meant for a renderer to bestow the power of calling on the Will except by the prompting of his own surest feelings. The art and ceremony of conferring this gift is passed down by tradition. It was thought that if it should need to be written down, that man would have failed to fulfill the reason he was created at all, and so ought to perish.” Vendanj spared looks for all those in his company. “I do not believe we have arrived at such a time, but there are those who believe we have.”

“Who are these?” Wendra asked, still leaning against Ildico, her horse.

“They are many, Anais Wendra. Some of whom caused our flight from slumber this very morning.” Vendanj stood, throwing a short shadow in the meridian of the day. His dark cloak fell to the ground in long folds.

Braethen stood likewise.

Vendanj appraised A’Posian’s son, staring at him in the same manner he had stared at Tahn in the Fieldstone, as though reading the man like a book. An eerie silence settled among them, the wind gone with the clouds, replaced by a high sun that brought the first touches of warmth. The Sheason took a step toward Braethen and spoke. “You are a danger to me unless you understand Forda I’Forza as though they belonged to you as parents. And why, Braethen, did you not become an author? Why play at Sodality in the home of your father?”

Upbraided publicly, Braethen shrank, unable to answer.

“You fail again. What value are you to me if you don’t speak and do so honestly? You must be a bitter disappointment to your father.” Vendanj strode away.

Braethen’s lips parted, but the words came late and sputtered in a whisper.

“He’s a charmer,” Sutter muttered.

Braethen slunk onto the practice field and began to weep. Tahn started after him, when Mira caught him.

“Leave him be. Self-healing is better this time.” The Far gave Tahn a thoughtful look.

Tahn brushed past Mira and followed Vendanj toward the horses.

As he came up behind him, he watched the Sheason deliberately stride from horse to horse, softly feeding each a small sprig from the thin wooden case Tahn had seen before. “Strength to you, Solus,” he said, feeding Mira’s horse. “And to you, Suensin,” he finished, proffering a sprig to his own mount. He stroked the horse’s muscled neck and, without turning, said, “What is your question, Tahn?”

Tahn sputtered syllables, looking for his words. “Why do you assume I seek you with a question?”

“You’ve come only to talk then?”

Tahn approached cautiously, deliberately, coming to stand near Suensin’s saddle. There was only one question, a single thing he wanted to know from the strange man who had come into the Hollows with so much knowledge and led them out just ahead of the Bar’dyn. But he needed to frame his question right.

“You agree to let Braethen come, then you tear him down. You compliment Sutter on his vocation, but question his character. And you tell me I must leave my home to save it. Why the contradictions? Why should we follow you another stride?” Then Tahn came to his real question. “Tell me, why are we going to Recityv? Does it have something to do with why the Quiet invaded the Hollows … invaded my home?”

Vendanj continued to stroke his horse for a moment. He finally stopped. Behind them, Mira had the rest of the group taking to their mounts. “Tahn,” Vendanj said evenly, “you must trust me for now. You must all trust me. There will be time to speak of these things. But your ignorance is still a protection to you. Only watch. Take care in your choices. Your Standing is soon, and we’ve a long road to Recityv. Stay close to Mira.” He looked at Tahn with his focused stare. “And don’t ever let your feelings—even for those you love—get in the way of the correct path, yours or another’s. Such distractions are a weakness that will undo us.” Vendanj paused, his eyes momentarily distant. “Such is like an interrupted song, whose melody, once lost, leaves you in an awful, deafening silence … forever.”

Done speaking, the Sheason looked away. He walked Suensin forward and prepared to ride. Tahn turned in anger and took Jole’s reins. He tried to hide his frustration—Sutter saw right through him.

“What’s gotten under your saddle?”

Tahn shot Sutter a cold look, and kicked Jole into a canter toward the road. The others came after, Mira soon flanking him. He turned the same cold look on the Far, but her stoic countenance robbed him of his ire. He thought he saw the trace of another thin smile on her face before she rode ahead to check the road.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Harbingers

The North Plains rose and fell in long waves, as the road turned gradually northeast. They rode for the better part of two days. Vendanj allowed them a few hours sleep deep in the night, and each time they stopped Mira lined them up to drill with their weapons.

At dusk the second day, they saw the lights of Bollogh far in the distance.

“By all my Skies, Tahn, look at that.” Sutter’s face shone with wonder.

Vendanj rode forward and spoke briefly with Mira. She nodded and again took them off the road, leading them several hundred strides into the trees. “We will rest here,” the Sheason said, coming to the front of the party. “I will return before the dark hour. We will move when I see you again. Braethen, follow me.”

Vendanj and Braethen rode in the direction of Bollogh, which drew comment from Sutter. “I think maybe I want to be a sodalist,” he said.

Mira dismounted. “The Bar’dyn are close, so wear your boots to sleep and keep your weapons at hand.”

“Yeah, this little sword of mine is going to help me if the Bar’dyn stroll into camp looking for a meal,” Sutter said, his sarcasm given with a tired voice.

“Leave your horses saddled, but loosen the cinches,” Mira said, performing that exact task, removing her cloak, and setting out to scout the outlying area.

“Will we have a fire?” Wendra asked.

“Not tonight,” Mira answered. “Get your weapons. We will go through the movements again.”

At twilight they practiced for close to an hour, many swords oft dropped as muscles tired. When the light grew too dim to be useful, Mira released them and headed off into the trees. Tahn followed the Far a short way beyond the horses and watched as she laid out dried leaves and small twigs in the flat areas that led toward their camp. All around the camp at fifty strides she did the same.

“You could help me, woodsman, it’s not a difficult task,” Mira said.

Tahn rushed forward, quickly picking up sticks and laying them down as he had watched her do. Together they worked, Tahn stealing glances at the Far from time to time. She reminded him not at all of a Hollows girl. Besides being nearly as tall as him, she had not grown broad in the hips as did most women in the Hollows. And while her looks were striking, she did not use her eyes and hands in coy suggestion the way melura girls typically did. When Mira had removed her cloak, she had let down her hair; a deep black, when the last rays of sun caught there, a vague tint of red, like fire, lay suddenly revealed. Tahn felt a stirring in his loins.

“You wear your desires too openly,” Mira said, as she finished her precautions. “The art of esteem is subtlety.”

Tahn likewise finished and stood up. They stared together into the west. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“I am not easy to offend … or interest.” She let her mouth tug into that barest of smiles. Her face brightened even then; and while she didn’t smile often, when she did, it was as if her smile had never left.

Tahn remembered himself then, the things in his heart besides the growing feelings for the Far. “Tell me why they want me.”

“When Vendanj wants you to know, he will tell you. I understand your desire to know, but I would not betray the Sheason’s confidence. Don’t ask that of me.”

In the distance, a dark bird flew into the light of the setting sun, bearing in their direction.

“He asks me to trust him, but he gives me no reason to do so. If my father were alive, he’d have had answers before agreeing to any of this.” Tahn threw a stick he’d been holding.

Mira canted her head, looking more skyward. “Trust is only meaningful when you must proceed without certain knowledge.”

Tahn thought about that, tried to refute it. Ultimately, he gave up, and turned to the other real questions in his heart. “Is it true that you live a shortened life?” He stopped, wishing he’d framed his question better, and started again. “I mean, the stories tell that Far are blessed with quickness in the body, and that the price is an early death.”

This time, both sides of her mouth found that slight smile. “That sounds like an author’s pen. But yes, it’s essentially true. My people share a very old covenant. Don’t ask me what it is, because I must not say. But in trade for our service to that oath, we never pass the age of accountability. I believe you call it the Change. Our lives end naturally when we have seen the end of our eighteenth cycle of the seasons.”

The bird they watched grew larger against the russet hues of dusk.

“Then you are going to…”

“I still have a few years left. But yes, that is the blessing of our covenant.” Mira touched the insignia strapped high on her throat.

Tahn marveled. All his life he’d wanted to do little more than reach the Change so that he could be taken seriously, could have his choices matter, could find a girl … “Maybe it’s the Hollows in me, but it doesn’t sound like much of a bargain. I would think long life a better trade for your service.”

“Such is a common view in mankind. And it is not that I don’t value my life. But my spirit won’t ever have to suffer a reckoning for the stain of misdeeds as one who experiences the Change will. The undying life after this world will be sweeter for that.” In the soft shadows of the failing light, her face looked peaceful.

Tahn gathered the image of her in that moment to hold in his mind.

“Perhaps think of this, Tahn, when the Sheason tells you to watch after your choices. You will encounter the Change, and live past it. And I will tell you this: Our coming to you has much to do with you remaining as free of stain as you are able.” She looked away from the approaching bird for a moment to get Tahn’s attention.

He’d never spoken to a girl or woman like this, except for maybe Wendra. “How do I know what stain is, then?”

She showed him a third smile, a smile he thought (and hoped) held intimate suggestions. “Stain has much to do with what one holds as true.”

Impetuously, Tahn kissed Mira. No stain there, he thought. And his heart pounded harder over that moment of time than any other he could recall, and was worth every bit of the embarassment and awkwardness that ensued, as he had no words to follow it with.

Mira, for her part, did not withdraw, but looked back at him with a mix of understanding and approval and amusement—but was not, he thought, dismissive.

The bird began to drop toward them. Tahn hefted a stone to chase it away, but Mira put a gentle hand over his to lower his arm. He thrilled at her touch, though he was a bit confused. She then raised her other arm, and the raven lit upon it, cawing into the twilight.

“Do you also have some husbandry gift I don’t know about?” Tahn laughed a bit as the bird shifted around to look at him.

Mira shook her head. “It is a message from home.”

“But there’s nothing tied to its feet.” Tahn looked more closely to be sure he hadn’t missed it.

“The bird itself and the dark color of its feathers are the harbingers of this news.” The look in Mira’s eyes changed a third time that night, not the quick, appraising cast, nor the softer faraway look Tahn had just seen. This was the look of grief, and the difficult choices that often follow it.

“What does it mean?”

“My sister, the Far queen, has passed this life. It means I have a choice of my own to make. And you may have to finish this journey without me.” She said it with new weight in her voice, as one mourning more than mere death. Mira cast the bird back into the sky and left Tahn alone to watch it wheel away north and east.

*   *   *

The city of Bollogh at night reminded Braethen of stories he’d read of the first years after war had ended. The Sheason led him past fires burning at street corners and down alleys crowded with carts where mothers huddled close to their children to keep them warm. The reek of waste was cloying. Braethen thought Vendanj meant either to conceal their movements by navigating these byways or else to put experience to the tales in Braethen’s mind.

The Sheason spoke not a word until they came upon an ordinary door set in a far quarter of the city, situated in another remote byway. “Tether your horse and follow close.”

Braethen did so, and stepped into the building. He could see nothing save a sliver of dim light beneath the door they’d just entered.

A moment later, the Sheason lit a lamp and went to the room’s single window. He opened the shutter and placed the lamp on the sill. He then seated himself and indicated a chair for Braethen to do the same.

In silence they remained sitting long enough for Braethen to recite the cycle of Promise poems—which he did silently—before a third man entered the room, closed the shutter, and took up the lamp. He went directly to Vendanj, and the two clasped hands, interlocking their last fingers in a cryptic token Braethen couldn’t make out.

“This way,” the stranger said.

They passed through a locked door, where the man used three different keys to open three different locks. Once in the farthest interior, where no windows stood, he turned, drew back his cloak, and Braethen finally saw the sodalist emblem at the man’s throat.

“Braethen, this is Edias Faledriel, sodalist of Bollogh.” Vendanj nodded to the man in acknowledgment.

“It’s good to know you,” Braethen said.

Edias tried to share the token with Braethen, but the would-be sodalist’s hand and fingers made a bad job of it, fumbling unfamiliarly. Edias looked at Vendanj for explanation.

“In a moment,” the Sheason said. “First, where is Palonas? I expected him to be with you.”

Edias showed weary, lamenting eyes. “He was executed three days ago by order of the League of Civility. They’ve established a strong contingent here.”

“For what—”

“It’s worse,” Edias cut in. “Palonas was the last.”

Vendanj’s eyes darkened. “Tell me!”

“Four there were at last harvest. But in the half cycle since, there has been much disease here. Karoon, Celenti, and Sahlieda were all found to have offered aid by the Will to the sick or dying. Their punishments came without trial.” Edias walked to the wall of the inner room and lifted the lamp to it.

Braethen came close and read. A list of names too long to count had been carefully graven in a slab of marble mounted on the wall.

“Once a staging post for service and armies to march or defend the south,” Edias said with sadness, “Bollogh has now lost every servant to the last. And here”—he moved the lamp to the right—“are the names of the sodalists who defended them.”

Braethen followed the light and saw a few names recently carved. “And these?” he asked.

Edias’s own anger and fear caught in his voice. “These are those sodalists bound to the Sheason whose names I’ve just given you. When they sought to memorialize them in public for their service and sacrifice, the League petitioned the ruling seat to try them as accomplices. Our lord is a weak man, and capitulated. These sodalists were executed for association with the Sheason to whom they were bound.”

Braethen felt his legs go weak. He’d read of sodalists killed defending the lives of Sheason in the bitter tides of war. He’d read of long service and toil without recognition. But in the histories he’d somehow missed the writing of names on a wall of the dead whose only crime was memorializing another. Just now, he wasn’t sure it hadn’t been there, but if it had, his eyes were too enamored of the dream to have remembered it.

Vendanj stepped forward and retrieved the lamp from Edias. “Which is why we have come. Braethen wishes to be bound to me as a sodalist.”

Braethen’s knees buckled, nearly dropping him to the floor.

Vendanj looked at him sharply, and Braethen could only think of the disappointment he’d seen in his father’s face when he’d told A’Posian that he would not follow the author’s way, that instead he meant to meet destiny head on, meant to become a sodalist. But at this moment, he wasn’t sure what he wanted to do.

His choice proved immaterial. Edias did not hestitate. He stepped close to Braethen and reached out to him, forcing Brathen’s fingers into the handshake token of the Sodality. “Repeat after me: Change is inevitable and necessary, but the traditions of our fathers need to be preserved. Someone must watch. Someone must remember. Someone must defend. And some must die.”

His study had been incomplete. Or was it another part of his dream that he’d selectively removed: And some must die.

Braethen stood on a threshold. He might be able to go back from here; he could retrace his steps to the Hollows. He certainly knew enough to be an author. His father would be so proud if he changed his mind. And this … this oath. The names on the wall. Killed only for memorializing …

Was following Ogea’s encouragements of Braethen’s dream worth this?

Braethen looked up at Edias, words caught in his throat. Vendanj stared at him, and for the first time Braethen could see neither contempt nor satisfaction in the Sheason’s gaze. In the stillness, Braethen listened to the hiss of the lamp, his heart pounding. If he crossed this threshold, there was no turning back. Even so, he might fail, and then the long years of his hope would have been utterly wasted.

A loud crash erupted behind him. Braethen jerked his hand from its union with Edias and saw three men in deep russet cloaks storm into the room, swords raised: the League!

Braethen tried to move, but his legs were still little use to him, and he fell against the marble list of the dead and slid to the floor. Edias jumped past him, a short sword suddenly in his hands. The last sodalist of Bollogh stepped into the breach and stopped two hammer strokes meant for Vendanj that the Sheason had not expected and—for Braethen’s coin—would not have survived. One blow Edias turned away, the other he took full in the chest.

Vendanj recoiled, his hands rising with darkfire, when Edias slayed both the leagueman closest to the Sheason before falling to the floor, blood gushing from his chest. The last leagueman raised a whistle to bring reinforcements, but never got it to his lips. His face melted first, followed by his head and shoulders, before he fell backward out of the inner room.

The smell of charred flesh and the bitter tang of blood rose quickly. The single lamp still burned near Braethen, who watched the smacking lips of the sodalist who’d tried to swear him in.

Then, looking up at the Sheason, he saw a look of disappointment that hit him powerfully, reminding him of an ache from the past that he mentally fought to push away.

He couldn’t do this. His dream was a fancy that boys read to create games in the forest when the summer days were full upon the Hollows.

Then …

He remembered a crystal goblet.

A small, painful moment.

A moment when the disappointment he saw in his father’s face had touched him, scarred him, in a way he had never forgotten. He loved A’Posian, and he loved the ideal of the Sodality. Those things had been in conflict in him for a long time. Would he now show disregard for the choice that caused him to turn his back on his father’s path—the author’s way?

Later, he would record this moment of his life, for the strength of will it seeded in him when brought to a moment of last things: Here, where Braethen knew the Sheason had believed the names of the dead and the severity of the call would scare him back to his books; here, where awful circumstance had raised on the Sheason’s face a look of disappointment that Braethen would die to disprove.

With the image of that crystal goblet in his mind, Braethen crawled to Edias, took his bloody hand in the token, and repeated the words to the last: “… some must die.”

A bloody smile came to Edias’s lips before he gasped his final breath. Braethen stood, looked at Vendanj, and said, “We should go before others arrive.” The look on the Sheason’s face remained inscrutable, but that beat disdain or disappointment.

*   *   *

Wendra rubbed her stomach with her free hand in what had become a habit during the days she carried her child. Sutter wondered if she was even aware she was doing it. He thought perhaps the motion comforted her, and he decided he would never bring it to her attention.

But there remained a topic he’d tried to talk to her about many times. And he hoped maybe now she would finally speak openly with him about it.

“How are you?” he began.

Wendra’s gaze remained distant. “Thank you for your concern, Sutter. I will be all right.”

Sutter nodded. “I know you’ve not wanted to talk about it. But I can’t seem to get away from it. You know how I feel about you—”

“You’re not even through your Change yet,” she said, smiling.

“Yes, yes. I’m melura, sure. But … I want to set things right, Wendra. The man who … the man who … He needs to be held responsible for what he did. And I want to be the one to put his name before the townsmen.”

Abruptly, Sutter could see from the look on her face that he had unwittingly evoked in her a painful memory, and he wished he hadn’t brought it up. She looked at him, seeming to understand his desire to help, but shook her head.

“You don’t have to do anything. Just tell me his name. Tell me where I can find him.” Sutter paused. Still she said nothing. But something in her eyes told him that however awful that rape was, something about Wendra’s violation went beyond a moment of sexual violence. He asked one last time. “Wendra, I believe your father would have agreed with me. Would you tell him if he were alive?”

At that, she stopped shaking her head, a different look on her face. Then her eyes softened. “If you want to do something for me, make me laugh, Sutter. That’s the strength I like best about you. Here, sing me this. Your voice is awful.”

She got out the songbox she’d retrieved before they’d fled the Hollows and opened it to its tune. All the while, she continued to stroke her belly. As the night around them deepened and grew colder, they lay upon the ground, huddling close together for warmth, and Sutter made his usual bad effort at song. And she did laugh, the sound of it musical in the midst of so many other unmusical things.

Wendra’s tragedy and her quiet resolve to stand by her brother were the only things Sutter didn’t think he could find a joke for. And somehow that felt just fine.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Questions and Dreams

The Sheason returned with Braethen at dark hour. They rode north and east the rest of that night and all the next day. The vegetation on the plains grew variegated, with low cedar and sage that rose up to only the height of a small man; tall bushy pines bearing large cones; stands of aspen and great oak reaching heavenward—the Hollows were long behind them. In all directions, the vastness of the sky stretched down to the horizon where it met the earth, like two halves of one whole.

As untouchable as were the reaches of the sky, so was the earth underfoot tangible. The sky spoke of the possibility and the earth of reality. It reminded Tahn of the stories of Palamon, the first Sheason, wrestling Jo’ha’nel, first of Quietus’s Draethmorte. Great ones and gods locked in conflict.

Palamon told of the strength in the arm of man, Jo’ha’nel the energy of what may be. Tahn’s thoughts turned upon the necessity of both, how one could not exist without the other.

But he also wondered, beneath the lasting sky and above the abiding, patient feel of earth beneath him, if men could live if they had only one or the other.

As Vendanj led them off the road and they disappeared into the trees, the shriek of a night raptor pierced the quiet of the plain.

They came to an escarpment, a fifty-foot vertical wall that extended in both directions. Vendanj had already dismounted, and chose a shallow cave at the base of the cliff to rest in for the night. Braethen came last. Just after he had tethered his horse, Mira returned from a brief scout of the area and immediately began gathering wood for a fire. Tahn and Sutter hastily began to help. Soon, a bright, warm fire pushed back the cold and cast a softer light on the harried face of the Sheason.

Tahn expected Vendanj to speak. Surely something must be important if he allowed real fire to brighten their camp. But the Sheason said nothing, and Tahn liked it even less when the tall renderer kept his silence.

But he still wanted answers to his questions. Why did they go to Recityv? Why had he allowed Wendra to come along, when his leaving the Hollows was supposed to make their town and families safe? One question, in particular, though, he meant to ask again tonight—he needed to know. Drawing close to speak privately, Tahn asked, “Can you tell me now why the Quiet are coming for me?”

The Sheason did not reply, his eyes wide in the dark, searching Tahn’s face yet again. Briefly, his gaze reminded Tahn of the way Balatin would look at him late in the evening when they all sat sipping juniper tea and eating roasted hazelnuts—a kind of knowing and not knowing. It was the only time that Tahn’s persistent questions found favor with his father, though some questions he’d never asked: about the words he spoke when he fired his bow, or the dreams of a man he could not see.

Sitting so close, Tahn saw the thin, stern lines that framed Vendanj’s mouth. Lines like Balatin’s, though Balatin had earned them through a life of good humor. Tahn wondered what expression had produced them in Vendanj. He thought the weight of great worry all by itself could be the cause, such was the burden the man seemed to carry.

Finally, looking into the flames with a somewhat kinder expression, Vendanj said only, “Rest,” and closed his eyes. The others soon spread their bedrolls near the fire and drifted toward sleep. All save Mira, who stood near a tree fifty strides away. Tahn only knew where she was because he had watched her take position. Now, the shadows claimed her.

Sleep came fast upon them all. The deep, slow cadence of breath taken in and let out marked their descent into slumber. Just when Tahn was giving over to it, low, hushed voices whispered in the background like a rumor. He kept his eyes closed, but listened as the voices spoke.

“You test the patience of the melura. They fear you more than you’ve won their confidence.”

The Sheason said nothing to that.

“Do they convene?” Mira asked, slipping her blade back into its sheath.

“Yes.”

“Who is invited?”

“All those given seat at the First Promise.”

“Then why must it go before the High Council?”

“Because the land fails. Because reports of creatures out of the Bourne grow every day. History must first mark our efforts to reconcile ourselves.”

“The Exigents sit at High Council. They will never endorse anything the Sheason put before the regent.”

“It won’t matter.”

“And what of us? Why are children from the Hallows driven before the Quiet?”

The Sheason’s voice shifted direction then, and spoke directly to Tahn. “Sleep, Tahn,” the deep voice said. And with that, Tahn began to lose himself to his dreams. Falling downward toward sleep, he heard yet a little more, but would not remember. “We go ultimately to the Heights of Restoration, to know if these children from the Hallows have hope against the Quiet.”

*   *   *

The sun burned hot in an azure sky. Tahn walked a dusty path over barren stretches covered only with sagebrush. Dust plumed beneath his feet where the sun had not baked the ground into a cracked hardpan surface. On the horizon, heat shimmered and rose off the plain. In some places, even the sage would not grow.

Tahn paused in mid-stride and raised his head to the intermittent breezes that drew the clean, enduring smell of the hardy foliage across the waste. Something new called for caution. He unshouldered his bow and silently nocked an arrow, pivoting on his toes to survey all around. He saw nothing, but a growing feeling of conflict rose in him.

The wind died, leaving him alone. The plain stretched out before him. It rolled to a mild descent several hundred strides up the path, and somehow he knew that was where he must go. Slowly he moved forward, crouching and holding his arrow at half pull.

A distant shrieking grew suddenly loud. Tahn dove to the ground as something whistled higher and passed through the air above him—an arrow. Staying low, he crawled forward into a denser growth of sage. Dust filled his nose and throat, and the sweat on his dirty brow ran into his eyes, stinging with salt and grit.

Turning in the direction of the attack, Tahn removed two arrows from his quiver and placed them in his mouth. He crouched and pulled his shot, holding the bow perfectly level. Then swiftly he stood, scanning the field for his attacker. Behind him a bowstring hummed and he jumped to the side, whirling. A second arrow shot through the air beside him. A low cloud of dust rose from his shifting feet. He saw a figure in the distance trying to nock another arrow.

“I pull with the strength of my arms, but release as the Will allows,” he said in the heat. Instantly he let the arrow fly, nocking a second arrow behind it while his string still vibrated. Another figure bolted to the right toward a small hill. Tahn led the man, and spoke the words again, letting fly as his target raced for cover. Before he knew if his aim was true, footfalls were pounding the hardened ground behind him. Tahn brought his bow around in a sweeping arc and knocked a long spear from the hands of a tall, dark man. The assailant ran into him, lowering a shoulder into Tahn’s gut. Tahn rolled backward, lifting his legs into the other’s waist and using his own momentum to catapult the man into a large, sprawling cactus.

Tahn ran his hand down his bowstring to check for gouges, and quickly inventoried his quiver. Then he sprinted up the trail. The taste of dust in his mouth was familiar—the taste of soil that had forgotten the harvest. As he ran, dark clouds rushed into the parched sky, filling it with the threat of a storm. A cooler breeze touched his hot skin, but did nothing to ease the troubling thoughts twisting in his head. He thought he should know where this path led, but he could not remember it. Was it a place he wanted to return to? Far behind him, the chase had begun, and Tahn imagined his feet bare, touching the soil, no heavy boot leather weighing him down.

His pace quickened.

Without warning, rain fell from the roiling clouds, tinged red and orange from an occluded sun. Rolling thunder echoed deep in the sky. Tahn watched the trail to guide his feet in the mud that the rain would surely cause. But the ground repulsed the rain, soaking in not a whit. Each drop simply added to the one before it, rapidly creating a vast shallow pool. His boots caused a succession of splashes, and black flashes began to erupt from the ground, forming dark glass rings upon which the rain pattered in high-pitched pings.

As Tahn began to descend the path, he saw the frame of a small house, alone but for a solitary tree, stunted and clinging to life, at the bottom of a long gradual hill. Tahn pushed himself harder, the rain fell in heavier drops. As he ran, arrows flew by, harrowed by the wind. He lowered his shoulder against the strengthening wind and pushed on. Rain pelted his face and hands like small stones. The path became a small river, but the land still refused to drink.

On Tahn strode, drawing closer to the structure, which showed dark windows and looked altogether abandoned. Another arrow sped past, striking the house and protruding from the wall beside the door. Reflexively ducking, Tahn looked back, but could not see his attackers through the rain.

He reached the door and threw it wide, holding his bow before him like a sword and stepping inside. Beside a low bed sat a man, his face cradled in his hands, which appeared callused at every joint. From between his fingers he spoke. “Why have you come back, Tahn?”

Tahn knew the voice. As the man started to look up …

*   *   *

Tahn awoke.

Briefly, he looked deep into the night. High above, the stars shone like bits of ice. By the position of the constellations, dawn would be coming soon.

He thought of morning, of the sun’s warm rays, and remembered Balatin mixing oats and honey over their fire. He wished he had someone to talk to who had the wisdom of many years.

Tahn got up and stepped away from the rest to think, drawn as he always was to consider night and day, near and far, the land and sky. The urgency always built in him, growing often in dreams until his mind overflowed and he awoke. Other times he lay awake, anticipating the feelings that came unbidden. But always he had to stand outside and allow his thoughts to turn outward. Closing his eyes, he imagined the eastern horizon, the farthest reaches of the land, and considered the dawn, considered the growing warmth and subtle change in color as light filled the day. As he did, the urgency left him, the anxious need to pause and simply listen to his own heartbeat, and reflect on the largest, steadiest rhythms, melted away.

Tahn opened his eyes, seeing the faint shades of violet and blue touching the night and signaling another day. Suddenly he heard behind him the sound of breathing.

He turned to find Mira also watching the dawn. She couldn’t know what he was doing, but seemed to possess the wisdom not to clutter the moment with words. Somehow, always in this instant, Tahn felt like a witness, a lone observer to the coming of morning each new day.

As he watched on this day, the bluish hues of morning lit Mira’s face, giving her clear, grey eyes the color of winter ice. And he was glad this morning that he was not alone.

Moments later, she went to her preparations. And just then, a phrase overheard last night swirled into Tahn’s mind: the Hallows. Something about the words felt comfortable to Tahn, felt right. He would ask Braethen about it later.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Myrr

For two more days they rode north and east.

The storms they’d ridden through did not reappear in their same severity. The black clouds seemed to linger over the woods of the Hollows, leaving to the rest of the world bright cold skies and a high, grey haze. Or so it appeared as, just after dusk on the second day since leaving Bollogh, they emerged from the vast forest that had been Tahn’s home.

They cleared a rise, where Vendanj stopped and stared into the shallow vale below. “Myrr,” he said as Tahn and the rest came abreast of the Sheason.

It was like nothing Tahn had ever seen. Men in the Hollows told tales when the fire ebbed low and the night had gone to several cups of bitter, tales of grand cities, places where you never saw the same face twice. For Tahn, the stories were always little more than waking dreams, places he believed might exist, but which could never equal the teller’s rendition.

“Bless my roots, who could travel its length in a day?” Sutter stared slack-jawed, realizing the fulfillment of a wish.

Vendanj turned back to them. “Everything from this point forward, every choice, will affect the end. See that none of you blackens the path with foolishness.” He then leveled his eyes on Sutter. “There are paths whose courses are more important than those who travel them.”

The Sheason let his words linger.

“Meet no one’s gaze,” the Far cautioned.

“You aren’t to engage in conversation with anyone,” Vendanj added. “And when you speak, never speak about yourselves or our destination. The people of Myrr have two sets of ears.”

“How long will we stay here?” Braethen asked. “I’d like to meet with the—”

Vendanj cut him off. “You and I have business, sodalist.”

Tahn and Sutter looked at each other, their mouths agape. The Sheason had never knowingly called Braethen “sodalist” before. Something had changed. After the slapping, the humiliation, the endless drills Braethen had struggled so hard with … Vendanj now acknowledged their friend by the title he’d sought all his life. For Tahn’s part, hearing the sound of it in the Sheason’s clear, resonant voice stirred something inside him. Looking at the author’s son—a lifelong scholar—Tahn saw a new kind of resolve and confidence in the set of Braethen’s jaw. Not arrogance or conceit. More like the true strength of his convictions.

To the others, he said, “We will take rooms, but our stay will be brief. Make rest your aim here, all of you. Tahn, you will remain with Mira at all times.”

The Sheason then turned a kinder eye on Wendra. “Anais, I must ask you not to make your music in the company of others. They will misunderstand.”

Wendra looked perplexed, but she did not contend with Vendanj.

Tahn opened his mouth to speak.

“Later for your questions, Tahn,” the Sheason said. “Let us get food in our stomachs and rest for our eyes. Tomorrow is soon enough.” Tahn shut his mouth.

A moment later, Vendanj nodded, pulled his reins about, and led them down the road to Myrr.

“That’s telling him, Woodchuck,” Sutter teased. He clapped Tahn on the back, and rode to catch Wendra.

For several hundred strides along the road into Myrr, small, ramshackle huts and market carts cluttered the highway. A few more permanent-looking structures were erected a stone’s throw from the road. The roadside itself swarmed with merchants calling for customers to attend their wares. Children played wherever water pooled; young dogs barked and ran alongside their owners.

The smell of human waste was overpowering. It emanated from a large hole dug too close to the food vendors, who ladled stew into bowls, a copper a serving.

The closer to the city gates they came, the denser the crowd grew. Soon they were forced to ride a circuitous route through the milling masses. Rough torches set atop poles near the road gave light to the street, but left the faces all in shadow. Great gouts of laughter erupted from some of the larger buildings erected nearest the city walls. Tahn guessed these were taverns.

Thirty strides from the gates, the chaos ended. A low stone wall topped with rusted spikes mortared into the stone jutted straight out on either side of the entrance. A shallow ramp the height of a man’s ankles rose from the earthen road, becoming a cobbled pavement. There were no outer guards. Braziers fixed to the low wall burned brightly, casting shadows upon the entrance. Iron barred gates, appearing to swing outward when opened, fronted heavy wooden gates.

“This is our welcome?” Sutter jested. “They must not have known we were coming.”

“Quiet,” Vendanj said brusquely. The Sheason dismounted and quickly crossed to the left side of the entrance. He rapped on the wood there in the same manner a man would knock at the home of a friend. A moment later, a small door cut into the larger inner gate drew back and a man appeared wearing a tight leather jerkin and a green cape.

The man started to protest until Vendanj gently placed one hand through the blackened iron and touched the sentry’s wrist.

“What’s he doing?” Sutter asked.

“Vagrants aren’t allowed inside the gates at night,” Mira explained, some ire in her voice. “The call for occupancy is always at last hour, before the heart of night. With such constant change in the citizenry, no census exists, only property holders or inn-residing travelers may stay. Property holders vote, merchants and travelers drink.”

“Surely there are poor and homeless in such a vast city?” Braethen asked, incredulous.

Mira spared a look at the makeshift outer town they’d just passed. “Those poor who do survive within its walls are treacherous. Be wary of anyone you meet who has no place to call home. It surely means he sees you as a meal and a bath.” She trailed off, watching as Vendanj concluded his instructions to the man at the gate. In a hushed voice, Mira added, “But these too must live.”

The inner left gate pulled back just a few feet.

As Vendanj mounted, Tahn saw him cast his gaze one last time over the vagrant town that lived outside the great walls of Myrr. Looking out at the homeless masses, the Sheason spoke low to Mira, but Tahn overheard his words. “It’s begun. The rumors of the Quiet are driving them from their homes.”

Then the Sheason whispered something that Tahn alone heard: “These poor people.” The utter empathy he heard in the man’s voice startled him. But it also gave him a kind of hope he hadn’t felt in a long time, perhaps because he sensed the single-mindness and vigor with which the Sheason would defend and advance his cause.

The party followed Vendanj through the narrow opening in the gate and immediately into a byway to the left, where they were enveloped in shadow.

One central corridor toward the city’s center remained paved, but elsewhere the roads and alleys were earthen and strewn with straw to make the footing less treacherous on muddy streets. Pedestrians milled in the main thoroughfares, so Vendanj wove through narrow alleys close to the outer city wall. Clutter of barrels, broken handcarts, piled waste, and discarded articles of clothing lay near the base of exterior walls and alley doorways. Occasionally, they passed what looked like a beggar or what Mira described as “alley traders.” But these human animals did not petition or accost passersby. Their eyes followed Tahn and the others as they crossed the narrow terrain these individuals called home, a hint of contempt playing upon their lips. Human waste fouled the air, and rats and carrion birds searched the straw for food, the latter as though they had forgotten their lofty capability of flight.

Distantly, the major causeways thrummed with activity. But here, on the city periphery, the streets were quiet, skulked by figures with forgotten scruples, plying secretive trades. Sutter clutched his knife as they passed appraising eyes.

Wendra looked long upon those who sat against the walls, and more than once Tahn heard Braethen mutter, “Is nothing to be done for them?” Tahn considered the question, but found himself wondering if these people, too, served a purpose. The thought surprised him and held him in its grip. But he had no answer.

Vendanj came to a larger cross street where squares of yellow were cast on the ground from windows all along the street. Far off, illuminated against the night stood a grand structure with several ascending planes and a half-dozen parapets. Other buildings rose magnificently, topped by flaming torches that winked like distant light-flies, but none shone so grand or tall.

Jole abruptly halted, and Tahn lurched. “Watch where you’re going,” Mira scolded. The others had stopped before a livery, and Mira had grasped Jole’s harness to pull him about.

“Sorry, I’ve just never seen—”

“Watch what you say, Tahn,” Mira said in a low voice. “Your observations reveal much about you to others.”

A wide door drew back and a man with a thick, full beard ushered them in. No sooner had Braethen entered than the man slammed the door shut and threw the crossbar.

“Ah, Bean, good to see you,” the man said.

His words issued from thick lips buried in a profusion of hair. Tahn had no idea to whom he could be talking.

“And you, Milear,” Vendanj said, dismounting.

Sutter’s head whipped about as if he’d been slapped, and he and Tahn mouthed the word simultaneously: Bean?

“Darling girl, what of you? Are you well?”

Mira slid from her saddle. “Much better seeing a familiar face, Milear.”

The man wiped his hands on his leather apron and extended his arms to her. Mira embraced him, and he patted her on the back as he might a daughter.

Then he released her and pointed at Vendanj. “You, too, Bean, I’ve no mind to forsake you a squeeze.” A sliver of a smile touched Vendanj’s lips, and he took the shorter man’s invitation. Milear patted Vendanj’s back in the same manner.

Sutter’s mouth fell agape. He and Tahn shared a look and with wide eyes again mouthed simultaneously to each other, Bean.

The rest of them dismounted as Milear released the renderer and stood back, appraising them all. “So this is what lives in the Hollows. Fine young people, Bean, I can see it in their jaws. Sturdy. Resolute.”

“But say it softly, old friend. We are not yet known in the city,” Vendanj said.

“Bean, you cannot come to Myrr but that you are known. Strangers, they will say, but they will say it. You cannot stay here long.”

“A day is all,” the Sheason answered.

The man looked up into the rafters of the livery, his eyes distant in what Tahn recognized as recollection. Then his eyes focused and he looked back to Vendanj. “Ayeah, I’m done now. No more will I speak on it.” He brushed his hands again on his leather apron and set about stabling their horses. While he did, Mira checked her weapons and spoke in low tones with Vendanj.

Nearer the door, Braethen had retrieved a book from his saddlebag and sat on a bale reading from its pages. Wendra, too, sat, and rubbed her ankles.

Sutter approached Tahn. “How about you, old Bean, let’s have a hug.”

Tahn smiled. “I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it. But I don’t think I’d mention it to him.”

Sutter snickered. “Really, I was thinking of asking Vendanj for a hug. Anyway, we’ve got places to go, right? Did you see that palace? I’ve never seen anything like it. I thought the Fieldstone was big. Will and Sky, Tahn, this is a root-digger’s dream.”

“Maybe,” Tahn said, “but you won’t be going anywhere. You heard Vendanj, and even if you’ve got dirt in your ears, you saw the fellows in the alleys we came through. They’d roast you like a spring pig.”

“Listen, Woodchuck, I didn’t come all this way to sit in a room and talk.” Sutter flicked Tahn’s chest with his finger. “And neither did you.”

“A man with his hands in the dirt is a grounded man,” Tahn said, trotting out the old taunt. “All right.”

A winning grin spread on Sutter’s face. “You’ve got clay in your blood, Woodchuck. What stories we will have to tell.”

A soft intake of breath, just audible from where they were, interrupted them; no one else heard the sound. Tahn looked toward the noise and saw the sodalist look up from his book, his brow deeply furrowed. Slowly, he shifted to look at Wendra, who was rubbing her calves. Tahn followed Braethen’s eyes to his sister, then looked back at the sodalist, who shook his head so slightly that it might not have been a voluntary movement. Braethen closed his book and rubbed the binding thoughtfully with his palm.

Milear finished his task and came back to the center of the stable. “You folks gather round.” He waved them toward him. Vendanj and Mira concluded their quiet conversation and came close to Milear. “You’ll want to stay at the Granite Stone tonight. It’s just two streets north of here. A friend of mine is the proprietor and he won’t get overly curious about you. I’ll send you with a horseshoe nail. He’ll understand. People are wary these days, ever since the League established a permanent contingent here. Cursed fools, haven’t the sense of a quarry mule. Ah, have done with that. Listen, the man’s name is Ulee, his family is down out of Ir-Caul. A tighter lip there never was.”

“Is there a rear entrance?” Mira asked.

“Every inn in Myrr has a rear entrance, but using it would be more suspicious than walking in the front door. The straw drift you would no doubt pass in the byways would try to sell the information, likely as not to the League, who are going to know you’re here sooner or later anyway. Later is always better with the League.”

“Are they making charges?” Braethen interrupted.

“Two just today. A man was seen neglecting to bow to the hat of Highborn Crolsus and was charged with sedition. The other had something to do with a tracker who came through Mal’Tara and was requesting an audience with Crolsus, talking about Bar’dyn legions as far south as Mal’Sent.” Milear appraised Mira and Vendanj as he spoke. Tahn saw no visible change in either the Sheason or the Far, but Milear nodded. “Will and Sky,” he said softly.

The stableman turned to Braethen. “And hide that blazon you wear, sodalist. It is not an emblem to the League’s liking. Here.” Milear took an iron nail from a pouch in his leather apron and handed it to Vendanj. “Now take your rest. We can talk tomorrow if you’d like.”

“Thank you, Milear,” Vendanj said. The Sheason handed the livery owner something wrapped in a green cloth and strode directly to the door.

“Solace be yours, my friends,” Milear said, looking at Tahn and his companions. Mira put a hand on Milear’s shoulder as she passed. The others quickly followed the renderer out of the livery into the street.

Vendanj strode without looking to either side as he led them north. The smell of wet straw commingled with a tinge of rot from the mud.

The Granite Stone stood five stories of magnificent granite. The face of the building was fluted at wide intervals, giving it an oddly striped look. A circular cascade of steps rose from the muddy, straw-covered street to a set of double doors. Passing wagon wheels and hooves had splashed mud three feet high upon the walls.

“Remove your hoods,” Vendanj said. “Nothing will inspire someone to look more than concealing what you don’t wish seen. Wear the expression of weary travelers.”

That would be no problem for any of them.

The renderer pushed open the left-hand door and passed inside. Tahn took a deep breath and followed close behind Mira.

Stone partitions the height of a man’s waist divided the room into at least twenty smaller sections. Two of the areas housed long tables suited for feasts. To the right, the conversation became quieter where men and women sat nearer the outer wall. Two hallways at the back of the great room were crowded with serving matrons and youths carrying plates of food. And on the far left, an area designated for contests was cleared, chalk lines drawn upon the floor and walls.

Vendanj did not pause, but found a table to the right that would seat them all. When everyone had taken a seat, a portly woman promptly appeared.

“Rooms or food?” she barked. She held one fleshy fist on her waist and a dirty rag in her other hand.

“Both,” Vendanj said without looking at the woman. Tahn realized Vendanj had addressed the woman without the use of the honorific “Anais.” “And we need to speak to Ulee.”

“Ulee’s busy and we’re out of lamb.” She began wiping the table in front of Vendanj, her ample bosom barely contained in the deep, square-cut bodice.

“He will see us,” Vendanj said. His voice filled with violence at the hint of contradiction.

“Fine, I’ll tell him,” she whined. “Now what will you have?”

“Steer and root for all, and one bottle of evenwine.”

The woman raised her chin in contempt and ambled away to the kitchen.

Tahn surveyed the room. Great carpets hung upon the walls, some with symmetrical designs rendered in cobalt blue and crimson. A small dais in the far right corner held stools; instruments leaned against the wall. Near them, two men and two women dressed in bright yellow and scarlet overdresses chattered and laughed, obviously the hall’s entertainment.

At the table, little was said. Mira spoke occasionally to Vendanj, and Braethen had again taken to his book. Sutter’s neck craned at nearly impossible angles to see all that the hall had to offer. Wendra’s eyes had shut; she looked close to sleep.

A moment later, a man with deep auburn hair and wide shoulders wound his way from the kitchen toward them. He wore a loose white shirt with two thin blue stripes across the chest. His rolled-up sleeves revealed arms thick with hair. He had a day’s growth of beard and deep-set eyes. He walked casually, nodding hellos as he came. Coming at last to them, he hunkered down beside Vendanj.

“Evening, friends. What can be done for you?”

“Hello. You are Ulee?” Vendanj asked.

“Since the narrow way into the land,” he said, smiling.

As Vendanj started to speak, four men in deep russet cloaks bearing the sigil of the League of Civility appeared around the table. They carried spears and wore swords, as well.

“Gentlemen,” Vendanj said, “what can I do for you?”

“You will come with us,” the tallest replied. He wore a yellow cord draped over his left shoulder. “We have some questions for you.”

As they spoke, the four scops in the corner donned large masks and began to play out a light, folliet skit.

“I’ve not yet eaten; can this wait until tomorrow? I’m not going anywhere.”

The four leaguemen laughed. “You’ll forgive us. We’ve heard your excuse far too many times.” Then their captain’s voice drew taut. “Now.”

The entertainment rose into a grand song, all four scops linking arms and wailing into the high rafters of the common hall.

Tahn could see Mira and Braethen rising. Around them, the crowd had begun to sing with the scops, making it hard to hear. But it all felt like the precipice of madness and violence.

“Under what authority?” Vendanj challenged.

The man wearing the yellow cord brought a hard fist, wearing iron knuckles, against the Sheason’s jaw. “Have you any more questions?”

Before Mira or Braethen could do anything, Vendanj held up his hand to stay them. He shook his head and gathered his composure. Tahn recognized the restraint the Sheason had just exercised. This was not the place for confrontation.

Vendanj then took Ulee’s hand in farewell. “Thank you for your hospitality,” he said, passing the horseshoe nail to the innkeeper.

He then turned to Mira, speaking under the sound of the crowd’s adulation for its circus. “Do not leave them.” He looked squarely at Tahn. “I will not be more than a day. If I am not back, leave at nightfall tomorrow, regardless.” He gave Mira a strong, reassuring look. “You know I will be well. Do not leave them,” he reiterated.

As a chorus of cheers and cups pounding on the tables applauded the performance, serving matrons rushed into the hall with bottles, where patrons were quick to want another drink. And Vendanj was ushered out under guard of the League.

*   *   *

Later in the night, when the others had fallen asleep in their rooms after hushed talk of Vendanj, Wendra crept back to the common room.

The drinkers and revelers were mostly gone. A few late suppers were being taken in corners by people whose occupations made late their time to eat. They remained attended by one serving woman, a hot but lower fire, and the scops who she’d come to see.

Wendra took a seat against one wall and listened. The songs these musicians played were unlike any she’d heard in the Hollows. When they were bright they were boisterous; when proud, courageous; and when sad, they were piteous and plaintive. Here, it seemed, the music became more than a performance by the singer, it grew into an accusation or challenge. There was boldness in it that she hadn’t heard before. Even through the troubles and madness of this night and everything since fleeing the Hollows—and before, back as far as her rape—Wendra was entranced by this new sound and knew she must seize upon it in some way.

It made her think of where the simple, dark melodies she’d found when curled onto a cabin floor a few days ago might lead.

When the night at last found its end for the common room, the scops began to pack their instruments to leave. Wendra slid from her chair with questions she hoped they could answer.

“Thank you,” she said. “You’re very gifted. I enjoyed listening to you very much.”

The woman, still packing, looked over her shoulder at Wendra as her male counterpart turned to receive his accolades.

“You’re most welcome, my young woman. Was there a particular song you liked?” He smiled and bowed in thanks for her praise.

His companion shook her head without turning again.

Wendra decided her answers would come from this gentleman. “The songs of loss. There was something strong and comforting about them. I don’t know. It seemed—”

“They didn’t simply accept the pain, but demanded answers and retribution,” he finished for her.

“Yes,” Wendra said. “The music seemed to provide relief of a kind by not simply wallowing in grief and resentment.”

“You are an astute listener. Are you by chance a musician yourself?” The man looked Wendra over from top to bottom.

She understood then his designs, her stomach roiling at the thought. Thankfully, the woman chimed in, finally turning to join the conversation. “If you are, don’t waste any more breath on him,” she said. “You’ll want to talk to the composer, which would be me.”

The woman hefted an instrument case over her shoulder and came to stand beside her companion. “He’s quick to accept the credit, however he can get it.” She gave him a look of amused disgust. “But he’s never around to help create the music we earn that credit by. What’s your name, my young lady?”

“Wendra. And yours?”

“I am Solaena. This is Chrastof. He’s got packing to do. Why don’t you and I sit so I can rest my feet, wet my lips, and I can give you the advice my father never gave me.” She waved a hand at the serving woman, who showed attentive but weary eyes and went to get something from the kitchen.

Solaena and Wendra sat together, and shortly a tall glass of steaming tea was set before Solaena. She sipped, the warmth seeming to ease her features, and relaxed into her chair.

“You find some fascination with playing songs to a crowd like this,” Solaena said. “Well, let me tell you. If you can find another way to earn a coin, do it. Most times we aren’t paid, and patrons of a common room like this often think we’re paid to do more than entertain them, if you understand me. Keep your music, my girl, but don’t make it your life’s path.”

Wendra nodded appreciatively. But her questions were not professional. “How do you make them? The songs. How do you make them feel like anguish, not for its own sake but to justify revenge.”

The scop smiled. “I see. Well, that’s just writing from my own heart’s desire. I guess so late in the night it’s tolerable to admit that I don’t believe in the same things I did when I was your age. And maybe because I don’t, I write about them in my songs to remind me of a time when I did. What I mean is, the songs are a place where I can give voice to my inmost wishes, even if the world around me doesn’t hearken to my words. Do you understand?”

“I believe so. But the world does hear you. The people in the room. Me.”

A grateful smile touched Solaena’s lips. “You’re a dear heart, my girl. Thank you. And because of your gracious praise, I’ll tell you the trick of it—as I think that’s what you’d like to know.” She leaned over her tea, and spoke in a sincere tone. “When you make your sad song, you mustn’t be afraid to go to the bottom of your own pain. Any power in those tunes comes from the well of your own torment, and it’s from there that the demand for relief will come. Anything else is simply a lament, and personally, I don’t see a lot of point to that.”

Wendra had an epiphany at the scop’s words, there in the dark hours of night in an empty common room that reeked of bitter.

“And one more thing besides,” Solaena added. “Those songs don’t always need to be brayed out. We do it because these are noisy places.” She looked around the room. “But what I’m sharing with you here can come with the same power and meaning in a lullaby. If you doubt it, listen to a mother singing the hope of her heart for a child born into a dangerous world.”

Wendra stared back at the woman, loss and revelations warring in her soul. The late-night instruction on songs to be sung with sadness and authority would steal her sleep that night and for many nights to come, because the woman’s words struck Wendra’s deepest fear and regret. Her own recent melodies she now realized were, at least in part, lullabies for a child who would never hear them.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Subtleties

Tahn awoke to the smell of fried pig steak and root. A narrow shaft of light streamed through the window. Beside it, Braethen sat reading, looking like he’d been awake all night. Sutter already had his trousers on and a wild look in his eye.

“Any word on Vendanj?” Tahn asked.

Braethen looked up. “Not yet.” Then he returned to his reading.

Tahn regarded the sodalist, still getting used to thinking of him that way for real. “What are you reading?”

“History,” he mumbled without looking up this time.

“Are you coming to endfast or not?” Sutter asked, dressing.

The sodalist put down his book and pressed his eyes with thumb and forefinger. “I could use a break.” He looked gaunt and pale from lack of sleep. “Mira said not to leave the inn.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Sutter said.

They left the room and found a serving matron in the hall near the kitchen. The common room stood vacant by comparison to the prior evening, though a few dozen men and women sat eating endfast. The serving matron led them to the kitchen where the sweet smell of honey frakes—a delicious potato cake—joined the bouquet of appetizing aromas. Tahn guessed Mira had arranged the location of this meal, where there were fewer eyes to notice them.

Pushing through the door, they found Wendra lending a hand in the kitchen.

“Come and eat.” She dished out four plates and set them at a table to one side of the oven.

Sutter had seated himself and taken half a honey frake before Tahn even found a seat.

“Thank you, Wendra,” Braethen said, and took a seat beside Sutter.

“You’re welcome,” she replied. “You are to eat and then wait in your room.”

“We got the command,” Sutter mumbled around his food. He nudged Tahn under the table, signaling him to hurry. If they finished their morning meal before Braethen, they might escape into the city without any further admonitions.

Tahn poured fresh grape mash from a carafe and drank deeply. He wasn’t sure he wanted to venture any further into Myrr, even during the day. He remembered Balatin talking about the larger cities, and how he had moved to the Hollows to escape the constant intrigues and politics. Still, something stirred his heart at the prospect of seeing the sights, perhaps even the palace. Tahn began shoveling his food into his mouth. He wasn’t a Sheason, or even a sodalist. He was a hunter of no repute—safely anonymous.

Shortly, Sutter stood. “I’m done. I guess I’ll head back to the room,” he said.

Tahn rose as well. “I’ll join you. I need to fletch a few arrows.”

Braethen looked at his plate, still half full, and appeared conflicted.

“We’ll be fine, Braethen,” Sutter assured. “You keep Wendra company while she finishes morning endfast, and we’ll see you in the room.”

Without waiting for a reply, Sutter turned toward the hall, where the stairs ascended into the Stone’s upper levels.

“Delicious, Wendra. Thank you,” Tahn said.

“A meal fit for the First Ones,” Sutter called from down the hall.

Tahn hastened to catch his friend, who was already exiting the front door of the Granite Stone toward the streets of Myrr.

They’d just broken into the sunlight when a soft voice called, “I think you two are lost.”

Tahn and Sutter turned simultaneously to see Mira standing beside a large cart to the right of the door.

“You’re kidding. Really? Are you on guard here?” Sutter sounded more disappointed than incredulous.

“We were just—”

“Don’t do yourself the disservice of a lie,” the Far said. “This is not travel for its own sake. Remember our purpose. Remember what we’ve passed through to get this far. And don’t try the kitchen entrance, either. I’ve got someone watching it for me.”

Tahn pulled Sutter by the shirt. They walked back into the cooler environs of the Granite Stone, a bit dejected and more than a little embarrassed. For Tahn’s part, he’d have been as happy to stand with Mira on her watch. Her hair shone lustrous, seeming more a deep auburn than black in the full light of day.

As they reached the staircase, Braethen burst out of the kitchen, the crumbs of a honey frake still on his lips. His face made it clear. It had taken him another minute, but he’d realized why Tahn and Sutter had finished their endfast so quickly. Sutter shook his head. Tahn shrugged. Braethen smiled.

“Just as well,” he said. “By the way, the inn has a natural hot-water spring in its basement. Ulee told me that generations ago this place served as a temple, built to honor the land for the blessing of its curative waters. They schedule it every fifteen minutes. I used it last night when I couldn’t sleep. I put you two on the list, and your turn just began.”

“I don’t think—” Sutter began.

“You need to bathe,” Braethen insisted. “You have fifteen minutes all to yourselves.”

This time they both shrugged and followed the sodalist back to a hall just off the kitchen where a large granite door hung from great iron hinges. Pushed lightly, the heavy door easily swung inward. They followed him down a stair carved from the same stone. The sound of water grew and the feel of steam brushed Tahn’s cheeks as they descended lower and lower. Lamps affixed to the walls dripped with condensation. At the bottom of the stair a natural cavern almost three times the size of their quarters opened up. Small benches had been set at the edge of a square fount rimmed with the same granite.

Sutter dropped to his knees and thrust his hands into the water. “Will and Sky, Tahn, it’s like water boiled over the pit.” He began tearing off his clothes. Before Tahn had removed his shirt, Sutter had jumped into the pool, splashing water all over himself.

Soon Tahn and Sutter were relaxing in the spring, their heads lolling back on the granite rim. They listened to the water drip from the ceiling and let the strain of their journey slip from their bodies.

As they rested there, the door at the top of the stair opened again.

Out of the shadow of the stairwell, a slender figure emerged: Mira … naked.

She held her clothes and weapons in one hand, having stripped them off as she descended the stair.

Tahn could do nothing but stare.

If he’d thought she was beautiful before, this defied every melura dream he’d ever had. Not even as alchera, after the change, did he think to see a woman like this. He became suddenly aware of his own nakedness, his physical reactions to the Far, and to his friend’s wide-eyed, slack-jawed gape. Tahn wanted to cover Sutter’s eyes, but realized how stupid it would appear.

Despite their gawking, Mira didn’t appear the least bit inhibited or embarrassed. Nor was she clumsy or rushed, which made it that much more difficult for them to stop watching her. She placed her things out of the way of the water splashed onto the floor around the spring, and slipped into the warmth with them. She even traded looks with them, her expression one of confusion or wonder over Tahn and Sutter’s sudden silence and attention.

Finally, she spoke. “I see neither of you are used to seeing a female bare.”

Sutter said something unintelligible.

Tahn caught that slightest of smiles on the Far’s lips. He looked through the steam rising off the water between them, and could think of just one thing to say. “Subtle.”

It was the first time he’d ever heard her laugh. The sound of it could break a man’s heart, or make him the best self he had to offer.

When her laugh had receded in the spring cavern, she said, somewhat matter-of-factly, “I value cleanliness, and at the Sheason’s instruction, where you go, I go.”

“I see,” Tahn replied.

“In truth, the unclothed body is not as noteworthy in my country as it is in the kingdoms of men. Our customs aren’t the same.”

“Well, as long as that’s the case, I do have a question, if you don’t mind,” Tahn said.

“I’ll answer if I can,” Mira said, slightly guarded.

“Was the Hollows ever called by another name?”

The Far gave him a wary look and brushed water from her face. “You overheard Vendanj and me talking near the fire.”

“Guilty,” Sutter sputtered. He sat forward, causing ripples in the water. “Tell us. It’s our home.”

Tahn nodded in agreement. “Vendanj hasn’t exactly been free with his tongue, though he has felt free to thrust us from the Hollows into the path of Bar’dyn and Maere and a city full of secrets.” He looked straight at Mira. “Can there be anything about the Hollows that we are not entitled to know?”

Mira eyed them both. Tahn thought he saw conflict in her face. “This is a reader’s story—an old one not often told anymore—but still not a secret that must be kept.”

“Tell us already, I’m getting to look like Merid Lavia’s sunned fruits in here.” Sutter held up his fingers, showing them his wrinkled skin.

“Very well,” the Far said, resting her head back upon the granite. “You remember that toward the end of the High Season, the Great Fathers who sat at the Tabernacle of the Sky began to see the work of the One and grew concerned for the preservation of the land and its peoples.”

Tahn and Sutter nodded.

“The Quiet were driven into the Bourne, and the veil was raised. But against the possibility that the veil should be breached, the First Ones consecrated an area in the land where the Quietgiven could not tread; where Velle could not render; where Quiet feet would find no rest; and where the lives of its people reflected their harmony with the Will. The very soil was sanctified, and its customs would in turn reflect understanding of the cycles—like your Northsun Festival.

“In such a place, it was believed that the future of the land could be safeguarded against the day that all believed would come, when the One would find a way through the veil and send his Quiet into the world.”

Mira paused, cupping a handful of water and dripping it on her lips and tongue to moisten them.

The Hollows had been Tahn’s home since he could remember, but the thought that it had been set apart by the First Ones amazed him.

Sutter seemed to have forgotten his concern for his shriveled fingers, examining them instead like newly found jewels. “In the soil…” he muttered.

“Before the Craven Season passed, the Hallows had lost its name. It is well that it was so, or it would have become a miserable refugee colony. Half the people of every nation perished in war and butchery. Most of those who survived quarreled and fought, until nations joined in the First Promise. Those who put their mark to that Promise did so in the safety of the Hallows. History records it differently, but that’s where the First Promise was sealed after ratification at Recityv. With time the Hallows became a myth, leaving the ground there unremembered and uncontested in the ages that followed.”

“And now?” Tahn asked.

“Now the creatures out of the Bourne walk freely into the Hallows to strip your sister’s child from her.” The Far’s words reverberated in the warm stone room, echoing like an imprecation.

“Then the Will is no more,” Tahn shot back.

“Nonsense. The Will is eternal.” She stated it as fact, without passion.

“Then tell us how the Bar’dyn came trundling down a riverbed and nearly pinched our heads from our necks,” Sutter said heatedly.

“Things are changing; no doubt this is why Vendanj came to you. And the Hollows is still she’holta, still blessed. No war has ever been fought upon Hollows earth, not even the Second War of Promise. The Hollows is known to those who serve the Artificer, yet they have never passed into its borders, until now. It has served its purpose since the establishment of the Bourne. And, my friends,” the Far said, looking at Tahn and Sutter with narrowed eyes, “you ought to think on that when you find yourselves impatient with the Sheason. Regardless, these aren’t times to be speaking of such things to strangers. You hold close the secret of the Hallows.”

Without another word, Mira got out of the spring. Tahn regarded her with deeper desire and appreciation. “I’ll get dressed and wait for you in the kitchen. Take your time, my Hollows friends.” She dressed unhurriedly in front of them, lashed her weapons on, then climbed the stair.

“We’ll catch up.” Sutter dipped his head beneath the steaming surface of the water.

They waited until Mira had shut the door at the top of the slick stair, then turned to each other with shocked expressions. They were simply too amazed to say anything. Neither was eager to stand, until the door at the top of the stair opened again.

The two listened closely and looked up. Had Mira forgotten something? A moment later, two elderly couples came slowly into view. As they descended, they pulled robes from their shoulders, revealing their considerably puckered and sagging flesh.

“Nudity was not meant for the aged,” Sutter whispered.

“This spring must serve as one of those health bath houses for the elderly, among other things.” Tahn stifled a laugh until he realized anew that he and Sutter were naked, too.

Tahn and Sutter jumped out of the water, grabbed their clothes, and looked for a place to hide. Nothing.

Except …

In the shadows on the far side of the spring, several stalactites formed something of a wall. The two melura from the Hollows dashed for the safety of the darkness and cover.

“What are we going to do? They can still see our feet.” Sutter pranced a bit, dripping wet.

As their eyes began to adjust, they noticed something they hadn’t seen before. Beyond the rock formation lay a second staircase. They smiled in the shadows and began to climb blindly until a crack of light showed them the way. Moments later they found a latch, pulled it free, and burst, still naked, into the alley beside the Granite Stone.

The door slammed behind them—no latch on the outside. The stunned look they shared gradually shifted to mischief. And that turned to embarrassment as two young girls began to giggle, seeing Tahn and Sutter’s manhood hanging out in broad daylight.

But their embarrassment didn’t last long. They’d gotten outside the Inn!

*   *   *

After Braethen let Mira know Tahn and Sutter were in the hot spring, he made an excuse for having to go back to the room. He was relieved when she descended the stair; he couldn’t wait any longer to find out what had happened to the Sheason.

He removed his emblem. Clearly that would invite more speculation than would be helpful. Then he got himself out to the street and started to think. Ordinarily, he would have paused to recall tales that had described and depicted this place—there were many. But he needed to decide how best to help Vendanj.

And it occurred to him.

A book shop.

Ever had the place where authors congregated and sold their wares been the hub of information and advice. It was true on a smaller scale in the Hollows, but A’Posian had related to Braethen in both written and spoken ways the magic and majesty of the book shops in the cities of Aeshau Vaal. His father, in his younger days, had visited many, so he ought to know.

After asking just two passersby, he got directions, and made haste three streets over to Authors’ Tell, situated on the corner of a fairly busy intersection. Braethen went straight in and immediately felt at home.

“Another young reader come to find a book, yes?” The stooped gentleman looked up at Braethen from his cane through thickish spectacles.

“Maybe. I’m Braethen, son of A’Posian out of the Hollows.”

“Son of an author, how are you, my boy! Usually such lads will have nothing to do with the work of their fathers. I’m A’Thalia. Though I mostly scribble these days. Stories are work, and I figure I’ve earned time to dawdle.” The old man began to pick up books and transfer them to a cart.

Out of habit, Braethen helped him. “I guess I’m looking for information.”

“We have that, too.” A’Thalia patted Braethen’s hands. “Not that one, I’m going to take that one home. It’s about a graellen and a lord who’s lost his will to fight. Wonderful!”

Braethen thought carefully on how to ask about a possibly jailed Sheason. “I have a friend,” he began. “He was accused of something and was taken, I think, by the League for questioning. I’m trying to find out if he’s okay.”

A’Thalia stopped in his tracks and gave Braethen a serious look. “Ah, boy, you’re already lying. Or holding back some of the truth. Wait a minute. Jartamara, Molanerus, Rhye, scuttle on out here.”

Braethen held his breath, expecting cloaked leaguemen to appear from the depths of the bookshop. He waited. And waited. Finally three more stooped gentlemen, all somehow retaining their hair in its silver antiquity, puttered slowly with their walking canes over to them.

After they’d introduced themselves, A’Thalia said, “All right, lad. Start again. And so you don’t think the elder men are gullible, you’re only getting this audience and second chance because I can tell you really do have an author for a pa, can tell by the way you handle the bindings on those books you loaded. Now, go on with it.”

Braethen silently thanked his father. “I am a novice sodalist, recently bound to a Sheason. We came last night to Myrr, and almost immediately he was taken into custody by the League. He’s done nothing wrong. I only want to find out if he’s all right.”

“I suspect it’s all true up until that last bit,” Rhye said.

“Yup,” Jartamara agreed.

“You’re right. If he’s in danger, I need to help him. But how is that wrong?”

“I don’t think any of us commented on morality here, boy,” A’Thalia said. “And by the way, these fellows here happen to be authors, too. Though, mostly that garbage they use in teaching regiments. Except for Molanerus. He can spin a damn fine tale.”

“How do I help him?” Braethen pressed.

“Well, it just so happens we’ve heard about your Sheason, Braethen son of A’Posian. News of accusations travel fast in the story trade. He’s alive. Leastways, that’s what our reading fans tell us. And we have a few in the dungeons who need our wares to pass their lonely hours. So, we believe it.”

“What’s to be done with him?”

“That’ll depend on him.” A’Rhye loaded some tobaccom into a pipe. “Two stripes to the Sheason anymore. One will argue with his jailer, and like as not wind up swinging. Another will show his submissive side and be kept in jail for a piece of time. What’s your Sheason like?”

Braethen panicked. “Is there appeal to the local ruling class?”

“Crolsus?” A’Thaila asked. “You’re talking about a man who asks folks to curtsy to his hat when they pass it sitting on that pole in the square. That help you with your assessment?”

Braethen looked down at the four elderly men. They would help, but how? Then he hit upon an idea. “Can you tell me which cell he’s in?”

“Aye,” said A’Jartamara, “that too is something our readers in the pit would know. But I don’t see how that’s going to—”

“Architecture.”

That was all he had to say. They understood immediately, and scuttled into the stacks to dig through the books.

And as they were looking, A’Thalia said, “Had a gentleman here a moon ago asking for books on the same subject. But not for Myrr. Recityv.”

When Braethen heard those words, it was as if a warbird had flown warning overhead.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Crones

The highwayman led the woman and his men at an easy pace on the dark road. The stars shone bright enough to navigate by, and they were close enough to their initial destination that he didn’t wish to set camp and waste another day. Besides, the night revealed yet another guise of the road, one he savored and held close.

After two days of travel, he finally turned off the road and followed a path so obscure that he’d never have recognized it at night had he not known of it before.

Many times had he come this way to visit the crone in her cottage set back deep in the whispering aspens.

The night air rattled the leaves, lending to their arrival the music of nature’s applause. A dim glow could be seen behind heavy curtains at the window. A streamer of smoke rose in a silver wisp from the chimney above. She could not have been expecting them, but as they dismounted, the door to a shadowy room opened quietly.

The highwayman ordered his men to tend the horses and pitch camp as he took his captive by the arm and led her into the cottage. He closed the door and turned, his keen eyes already adjusted to the dimness. The woman sat in a rocker near the fire with knitting needles held in her knobby fingers, working bland yarn into what might become a shawl. The room seemed to press inward, confining them, the smell of old age, of one who rarely gets beyond her door, hanging on the musty air.

“Greetings,” he said.

“And yourself, highwayman. What prize do you bring with you tonight?” The crone didn’t turn, her eyes fixed on her knitting.

“I don’t need much of you, and I apologize for the hour—”

“No you don’t,” she interrupted. “You’re eager to have your answers. That’s why you steer yourself through the shadows with this woman. But no matter. What will I have for your intrusion to make it worth my time? And don’t play at lying with me. You’re a good one at it, but I can see your deceptions, lest you forget why you come to me to begin with.”

In the shadows of the crone’s knitting room, the highwayman smiled to himself. He appreciated her directness and lack of moralizing. He suspected that she’d removed herself from the company of others precisely because she lacked the grace others tried to enforce in polite society. That, and her special talents, which he was sure others had not understood.

Special talents. The very reason for his visit.

“I have three bolts of fine cloth that are yours. And I’ve got a horse that you may have if you’ve a use for it.” He waited to see if his offer would prove agreeable.

“You’ve some ale, too, no doubt,” she said. “I’ll have everything you carry.”

“Done.”

Her fingers stopped, and her milky eyes turned toward them. The woman recoiled into the highwayman from the crone’s awful stare, and he put a bracing arm around her shoulders.

“Bring her closer.” The crone’s voice came softly, but cracked and thin, as if it had been abused somehow in her youth.

The highwayman had to use some earnest force to get the woman moving toward the crone’s rocking chair. Finally, he whispered in her ear, “Consider the old woman a healer. She will do you no harm. Think carefully, what would it profit me to come all this way only to allow something to happen to you now?”

The woman let her feet be led, and they eased toward the crone’s chair, their footfalls loud in the room. So close, in the glow of the firelight, he could see the hair on the crone’s upper lip—vanity was clearly not her vice. The hag stared up at them both, her clouded eyes never seeming to quite look directly at either of them. Still, he knew a kind of seeing was taking place. Then she motioned for the woman to stand directly in front of her.

He let the woman go, and stood back as the crone put her knobby fingers on the woman’s stomach and began to grope around her breasts and hips and loins and thighs, slowly returning to the woman’s naval with an awkward caress.

“What are you doing?” the woman finally asked, and tried to step away.

The crone’s bony hand shot out and grasped the woman’s wrist, holding her tight and near.

“This highwayman took me from my husband by force!” the woman yelled. “Are you one of his conspirators? Are you so quick to profit from the lawless actions of this bandit? Where’s your womanhood?”

The crone raised a dry cackle in the confines of her small room. Her milky eyes seemed almost youthful again with the light of the humor there. “Womanhood? Child, you are naive. You’ve seen too many skies to claim gender as a common bond with a stranger and expect it to be any kind of defense.”

“And you’ve seen too many if you deal with a man who would seize a woman against her will.” The captive stared at the crone with bright defiance and anger.

“Where was this husband of yours? Why did he not defend your will?” A slight smile drew at one corner of the hag’s mouth.

The woman looked at the highwayman, who stared back evenly. “He chose to live in hope of my rescue.”

“I see. Well, if you come to ill use, then you both will revisit the prudence of that choice, won’t you?” Then the frown of the aged and bitter stole over the crone’s face. “I don’t have time for this. Come stand here or your captor will force you to do it. Either way, child.”

Several moments passed, the highwayman relishing the battling emotions he could see in the woman’s face. The contest of indignation and acquiescence. He remembered it well from his own life, and his mood darkened at the thought. Then finally the woman approached the crone, who again put her hands on the woman’s stomach.

As the night waned, the old woman began to mutter to herself as she slowly moved her wizened hands in circles over his captive’s navel. The scene struck him as ceremonial after a fashion, the two women locked in a strange union. But it also smacked of rape in a way he couldn’t articulate. As the highwayman watched, despite his need of both women, revulsion touched his mind in long remembrances of other women in dark, small rooms. Other women who used and were used in unholy transactions that damned them equally. He recalled the tight, painful feeling of those rooms, and could almost feel in his throat the unanswered, sobbing prayers that he’d offered in them so long ago.

But those memories were interrupted when the crone stopped muttering and dropped her hands. His captive collapsed to her knees, spent. The hag took up the half-knitted shawl and wiped at her brow and hairy lip before turning her clouded eyes back to the highwayman. She stared a good long time, again not seeing but seeing him in a way that long ago might have disquieted him.

Tonight, he simply needed an answer.

“Get the bolts of cloth and the ale,” the crone said.

“And the woman?” he asked.

The crone shook her head. “Her womb is ruined. She’ll not bear children. Never has. Never will.”

“Are you sure? She does not look too old. And she has fire in her.” He didn’t like to think that for all his effort he had come up empty-handed.

“Did you happen to notice any children when you snatched this one from her husband?” The crone’s loose, wrinkled skin shrugged into an awful smile that showed gums bereft of teeth. “Something makes you hasty this time, highwayman. It’s dirty work to seize the living. And it’s worse when you get it wrong. Sometimes that can’t be helped. But what makes you careless? There are signs that may be read to increase your odds of success, eh, besides just seeing children about. You know them, I think. Make your gambles, but do so wisely.” Her smile faded, and she asked again, “What urgency causes you to forget such simple things?”

The highwayman looked deep into the milky eyes of the crone, his anger mounting. “Damnation!” he howled. He took a threatening step toward the hag and stopped. The desire to pull his knife across her throat was held just barely in check by the fact that she was not to blame. He then whirled on his captive, raising a fist. Someone must pay! His creditors would not be lenient with him.

He nearly struck the woman down before realizing that damaged goods fetch lesser prices.

The highwayman shot a gaze back at the crone. She was right. He’d been working too fast of late. He’d gotten sloppy. But there were still bargains to be struck. Oaths to be fulfilled. Though not things to be spoken of here.

“Get the bolts of cloth and the ale,” the crone repeated and went back to her knitting.

The highwayman stepped into the darkness beyond the door, where the aspen leaves whispered in the soughing wind. The slow, chill breeze touched his skin, cooling his anger. Already he yearned once more to take his chances. Tomorrow he’d go back to the road, where he would try again.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

A Need for Pretense

The sun shone bright upon the teeming roads of the city. A thick smell rose from the mixture of mud and wet straw. Small shops lined the byway, men and women hawking all manner of roots and elixirs. Others called to passersby to survey their fine coats or breeches, most fashioned of wool. A few carts displayed garish hats and scarves and belts. Most infrequent were the stores selling any kind of weapon. Rather, men selling dangerous wares stood in the recessed doorways of buildings that appeared otherwise abandoned. Knives or knuckle spikes lay on brown cloth near their feet, the proprietor standing back in a recess smoking from a pipe or a rolled bit of sweetleaf and watching the street cautiously.

“Which way?” Sutter asked.

“All gumption and no sense, Nails,” Tahn said, and slapped his back. “Where else? The palace.”

Sutter grinned. “You’ll make a fine advisor when I become king.”

Tahn laughed. “If you’re ever king, root-digger, I’ll wear the hat of bells and dance a heel-toe jig for your amusement.” They started east toward the city center.

At each cross street they stopped and marveled at the throngs of people milling on the road. Tahn looked on in amazement as the palace slowly rose before them. Soon the straw gave way to cobblestones. Men and women walked more slowly here, their shoes low cut, and the women without stockings. Wagons were replaced by carriages drawn by a single horse.

“Look at that,” Sutter said in a hushed, awed voice.

To their right walked two men in long amethyst cloaks, carrying spears. Each spear bore a short violet pennon emblazoned with a yellow hawk holding a set of scales in its talons.

“City guard,” Sutter said with glee. “They’ve got to be.” Sun glinted off their helmets and the studs in their armor. Not ten strides behind them came another pair of guards similarly dressed but bearing maces hung at their waist.

“Come on.” Tahn pulled at Sutter’s cloak. “Let’s not look so conspicuous.”

The two approached a crowd gathered tightly together. Their attention seemed focused toward a fountain.

“What’s that?” Sutter asked.

Tahn led them through a maze of onlookers and soon saw the object of their attention. At the center of the large plaza, several men and women stood upon a broad, flat wagon declaiming to one another in strident, clipped speech. It struck Tahn as familiar, and he quickly knew why. These people were performing, just like the scops in the Stone the night before. Only these players wore no masks, and they did not seem to intend to provoke laughter. Several hundred passersby had gathered to watch; and the wagon platform sat high enough that the performers could be heard and seen by all.

“Come on, let’s go.” Sutter’s face showed a twist of displeasure. “We can find something better in such a big city.”

Tahn resisted. “Just a moment.” He wanted to see more.

Sutter groaned. Tahn thought he saw more than simple impatience in his friend’s face; Nails seemed to bear a real distate for these pageant troupers. Sutter fixed accusatory eyes on the wagon and watched. Tahn thought he heard Sutter mumble something bitter about “awful parents,” before the players’ voices drowned him out.

“They must be driven from the land,” one player said.

A woman sang a phrase in a tongue Tahn did not know, her voice carrying easily above the crowd.

“Take hands, all, and this stand make,” a second woman declared.

Sutter appeared disinterested, and began searching in the direction of the guards they had seen. But the crowd around them did not move. Many nodded knowingly, others shook their heads as if wanting to disbelieve, but unable to do so.

“The sky grows black,” a young boy said. “Hurry, the sun flees this unhappy choice.” The lad looked into the distance, his eyes seeing something Tahn’s did not. Then the boy took hold of the hands of the players to each side of him; ten men and women and children formed a line upon the broad wagon and together looked over the heads of their audience at a distant event none could see. The boy was the shortest among them—at least two heads shorter than Tahn—with a shock of flaxen hair. But he looked wiry strong, at least in part to a face that didn’t seem to know compromise.

Just then a commotion began at the edge of the crowd. Angry voices cried, “Disband, you! Enough of this!”

This brought Sutter’s attention back to the stage. “Guards?” His friend shifted position, trying to see what was happening.

Tahn looked back the way they had come. The crowd had closed in tight behind them, and the warmth of close bodies suddenly caused panic to rise in his throat.

“This is sedition!” one of the voices cried bitterly. “Don’t you know the law?”

Tahn stood on his toes and saw a small band of men and women parting the crowd and heading directly for the platform. Muttered talk erupted among those gathered to watch. The players released their hands and backed away from the edge of their wagon stage. The crowd grew larger, the sounds of strained voices rising from the edges of the gathering. People pressed forward, pinning Tahn and Sutter together.

The assembly parted to make way for the newcomers, who found the stage and turned to look back at those still watching.

“Have done with you, lest you find yourselves party to these here.” The man speaking pointed an accusing finger in a broad arc over the assemblage. A few of those gathered grumbled low, emboldened by the anonymity of being so deep in the crowd. Despite the warning, the throng made no move to break up. The official pulled himself onto the stage and cast vicious glances at them all. He wore a long, rich, russet-colored cloak trimmed in white, with a round seal embroidered in white thread upon his breast. The insignia depicted four arms, each gripping the next at the wrist in a squared circle. Tahn hadn’t seen the crest before, nor the rich, colorful cloaks, but he knew they belonged to the League. Near the leader, his comrades took defensive postures around the base of the wagon. Tahn thought it unnecessary; no one looked prepared to challenge them. The man’s broad face radiated disdain. He whirled on the players.

“This rhea-fol is treason!” he yelled. “It is seditious to recount lies and fables that give false hope.” His hand fell upon the hilt of his sword. “Who is responsible for this troop?”

The crowd hushed, those inclined to leave now riveted by this new scene being played out on the wagon. Sutter’s hot, panting breath hit Tahn’s neck.

Without a moment’s hesitation, the boy who’d last spoken stepped forward, away from his companions. “I am. Whatever you have to do, do it to me.” The lad’s chest puffed out and his chin assumed a defiant attitude. He clenched his fists and stared openly at the man in league uniform.

A collective gasp issued from the crowd, like the awe expressed at Gollerntime in the Hollows when all gathered to watch the stars race across the sky in long, bright streaks. The league captain looked out of the corner of his eye at the throng, then focused his rage on the impudent boy.

“In your diapers you can scarcely know the harm you do, boy,” he began. “I admire your loyalty to the troupe leader, but don’t let it make you foolish. Loyalty is admirable only when well placed.”

Tahn watched the man’s lips curl as he spoke, leaving him with the impression that in a less public place, he might respond differently to the boy’s defiance.

“How mighty you are,” the boy replied, “to stop the performance of a simple rhea-fol, and our only means of bread and cups.”

“Stay your tongue, boy,” the man said, throwing his cloak over his shoulder to expose his blade. “The law holds no exceptions for age where sedition is charged. Find your mother’s teat, and stop bringing shame upon whoever owns this company!”

The boy swallowed and began again in a soft, measured voice. “It is a story, sir. A story. True or not, it is no threat to you. It is played for them.” The lad motioned with an upturned palm toward the growing crowd.

The man sniffed. “I’m done speaking with you, boy. What can you know of liberty, who have never put your life at risk in its defense?” He waved a dismissive hand. “Now, you will all be taken for the cowardice of he who lets a child stand in his place.”

“No!” the boy yelled and rushed the man. In an instant, the leagueman’s cloak whipped as though caught in a breeze, and the glint of steel rose in the air.

Tahn saw the moment unfold and began shaking his head, a sound erupting from his mouth unbidden: “Stop!”

The report of the command echoed off the stone of the courtyard beyond, filling the day with bright, hot contention. The boy skidded to a stop just a pace from the league captain, whose sword slowly dropped to his side as he searched the crowd. Men and women around Tahn and Sutter backed away.

“Will and Sky, Tahn, do you know how to travel,” Sutter whispered, stepping from behind Tahn to stand beside him.

“Who calls?” the captain demanded.

Tahn studied the other’s face as a wide path cleared between the wagon stage and him and Sutter. The league members standing around the wagon all drew their weapons. Tahn struggled with what to say; even the tales of the League in the Hollows were enough to teach him that you did not contradict one who wore its vestments. But as unsure as he was about what would happen next, he knew the lad should not be harmed.

“Leave the boy alone,” Tahn said, his voice more defiant than he had thought possible.

“By what authority do you make such a demand?” the leagueman asked, squaring around toward Tahn.

Beside him Sutter’s teeth ground. “By moral authority,” Sutter said. Tahn looked at his friend, whose voice projected conviction that Tahn had never heard. “He is a child. Who do you represent that would strike down one not yet old enough to Stand?”

The captain smiled, his teeth menacing in a wide, clean-shaven jaw. “Your accent, more to the south I think, or perhaps the west.” He put a hand on the lad’s chest and pushed him back. Then he jumped to the ground and the crowd receded further still. “How far west, boys? Beyond the Aela River I think. Perhaps you make your home as far as Mal’Tara. It is no secret what manner of men come out of that place.” He took deliberate steps toward them.

The leagueman’s expression confused Tahn. It carried a mixture of confidence and belief in his calling, and a dark, seething hatred that belied that call. Tahn unconsciously shifted his stance, placing his right foot forward and slightly bending his knees.

“We are from—”

Tahn lifted his hand to stay Sutter’s words.

When the captain came within three strides of him, Tahn looked closely at the crest on his breast, then to the ranks of leagueman that had fallen in behind him. He would say it once more. “He is a child, your honor, a melura. Impudent, perhaps, but not seditious.”

“I’ve no immediate concern for the troupe now,” the captain said, grinning. Again he threw his cloak over his shoulder, freeing his arm for movement. He spun his sword in his hand. “Do you know what accusation you have made, friend?” His words hissed like a sputtering candle.

“I know—”

“It is I, you Exigent hog!” The insult came from the stage. Over the leagueman’s shoulder Tahn saw Mira atop the wagon. She held the boy by the hand. “He is my seed, and you and your league are a privy rag for his melura ass!”

The captain whirled to see Mira’s fiery eyes inciting him. The league footmen rushed to the wagon. Mira took the boy and jumped from the far side, sprinting toward the alleys across the plaza. Though difficult to see, Tahn caught glimpses of the Far as she hoisted the boy up and slipped into the shadows with the speed of a prairie cat.

“Diversion,” Sutter whispered.

Sutter pulled Tahn’s cloak to get him moving, and together they turned back toward the Granite Stone. As they tried to find safety, Tahn’s mind raced. What did I just do?

Preoccupied with Mira, the League gave delayed chase. Sutter broke into a run first, but Tahn soon overtook his friend, leading them into tight byways. Straw kicked up beneath their heels, and a few pedestrians shouted insults at them as they raced past. Tahn wove a circuitous route to the inn, bringing them to its doors an hour later.

They’d arrived safe. Mira had gotten back to the Granite Stone ahead of them with the boy. But Vendanj and Braethen were nowhere to be found. Tahn and Sutter took the boy and locked themselves in their room.

*   *   *

Vendanj lay in the guttering light of a single lamp, in the company of only his own dark ruminations. The blackened stone prison cell held a chill that seeped through even his heavy cloak. But the cold served as a good bedfellow. He needed to remember that it all came to this: choice. It was at the center of what he hoped to preserve. He smiled in his darkened room to think that the first thing civilized men create are prisons, because not all choose wisely.

And then he thought about the children out of the Hollows: the victim of rape newly delivered of a dead child, a farmer with Hollows dirt still beneath his nails, a boy pretending to be a sodalist, and Tahn … a hunter with no memory of his origins and a great task before him that Vendanj had begun to believe he could not complete.

Aeshau Vaal hung by a thread. The world stood at the brink and so few could see it, or would believe it. Governments, societies, families, even the Order of Sheason quarreled while the enemy sat behind the thinnest of walls that even now had started to fail.

A rough hopelessness got inside Vendanj for the first time in a long, long while. He could leave this jailor’s pit when he chose. He had that power. But the repercussions of that could be dangerous, and he needed to measure them further before acting. Because right now, on balance, the result was bleak. He had not allowed himself to think on it until this very moment. Not in such depth.

He had required much of himself; that was fair and right. In the years since he’d been taken into the inner Order of Sheason—a rare second gift of knowledge and Will—he’d begun to require much of those around him, and he’d seen his own tolerance wane. His bitterness was that he saw this in himself, and approved.

His own conviction and faith were flinty things, and he could no longer bend them to appease the faithless. He only hoped that his inflexibility was the right tactic, was enough, because if not, then he was no longer the Sheason to carry this burden.

More than that, he didn’t believe anything less would succeed.

There was so much to do; so far to go. Not only in distance and time, but in the inner lives of those called to surround him. Those inner frailties worried him most of all. Because if he shared what he knew, the others would break. Right now, they would break, these children from the Hollows. Even Mira would have hardships before long. And the exile out of the Scar that they must soon convince to join them … he was a rough stone that did not smooth by being rolled. That one could do the hard thing—if he followed Vendanj, if he chose it. But Vendanj had felt something more about the exile of late, that maybe he had a separate destiny. And his Sheason sight could not tell if it harmonized with the plans Vendanj had set in motion.

But he could not spare the whip. No matter how the hearts of those he tested cried. He must continue to push. His was a stony heart, a cold place that caged the hardest, most impassive soul. And that made him accustomed, familiar—not in body, but in spirit—with the dark, sweating stone of this prison cell.

And so he lay there, for a time, thinking, and hoping just a little for himself; for his companions; for the family of a man whose ignorance might usher in the Quiet after all.

When a scratching came, Vendanj sat up.

The sound came again, from the waste hole in the corner.

Vendanj went there, expecting to see a rat scrabbling for a crumb. Instead, the entire stone where prisoners put their asses to relieve themselves jumped. Then again. And finally moved up and over. Beneath it, out of the sewer, rose a filth-covered, stinking sodalist with a small lamp in one hand and a book to navigate by in the other.

The hope in his breast shone a little brighter.

*   *   *

A few hours after the commotion in the plaza, Tahn and Sutter sat in their room looking up into the iron gaze of the Sheason, who had just returned with Braethen.

“Mira told me,” Vendanj said. “You were foolish to deceive her and the sodalist and take to the streets on your own.” His voice hit them icily but low. “Why did you not listen to me?”

Tahn did not intend to answer. He could say nothing that would not sound preposterous to the Sheason, and he knew it.

But Sutter’s teeth began to grind just before he opened his mouth to speak. “We have the right to decide where we will put our feet.”

Vendanj fastened his steely gaze on Sutter and seemed to weigh his response. Finally he strode slowly toward Tahn’s friend, taking a stance only a boot’s length from him, their faces so close that Sutter surely felt Vendanj’s breath. “And I may choose where my feet take me, root-digger,” he said in a hushed tone that Tahn scarcely heard, even standing so close. “Be wary that our feet do not tangle. My charge is to you both, and I will not stumble in it.”

Sutter stood still. Tahn had never seen his friend so scared. Always, a nervous smile crossed Sutter’s face when danger or worry threatened him. This time, Sutter did not smile, and Tahn did not like the look of emptiness on his friend’s face.

“A general call has been issued on you three and the boy,” he said. “Discovery fees are promised.” The Sheason locked the door, and moved to the window. “Milear will be here any moment with the horses. Can you all use a rope?”

They each nodded.

“Out the windows, and then north along the city’s edge to the next gate. Those who’ve seen us would recognize their good fortune in turning us over at once. Keep your hoods up, and avoid looking directly at anyone. There will be many searching eyes.”

“What is that smell?” Sutter asked.

Vendanj ignored the remark and looked out the window again. “Focus. He’s here. Go.”

Mira went first, followed by Braethen and the boy. Sutter went next and then Tahn and Wendra. Finally Vendanj came. On the ground, Milear camly held their horses. The liveryman did not speak, but took Vendanj by the hand and gave Mira a quick embrace. They mounted fast, and Milear waved them off.

Clouds hung low in the sky, casting deeper shadows in the narrow alleys they traveled. In the distance, thunder pealed, announcing a storm. The familiar smell of straw and mud rose from the street, now tinged with the ozone scent of the coming rain. Strawdrift watched them pass: Tahn thought their attentiveness had heightened in just a day’s time.

Slowly they rode through the more brightly illuminated roads, where windows and street braziers glowed with fire. Then, through the dimness, Tahn could see the gate toward which they wound. Vendanj led them into another broad cross street, angling for an alley that passed toward the gate.

“Halt there, travelers!” A familiar voice called out of the shadows.

Vendanj did not slow, but Tahn turned toward the sound reflexively. In a shallow alcove on the far side of the street stood three figures. With careful ease the largest stepped from the darkness into the street. His vivid mahogany cloak looked like a night shadow in the sallow light, but the crest upon it shone unmistakably.

The Sheason continued on, the others following.

“I say, hold!”

Upon the frosted air, Tahn heard Vendanj utter the words, “Mira, gate.”

In a blinding flash, Mira dismounted and dashed into the alley ahead of them. Tahn had never seen anyone move so fast.

“After her!” the captain called. Three more men emerged from another vantage point down the road and disappeared into the alleys.

Vendanj pulled Suensin to a halt, looked toward the leagueman, and then backward at Tahn. The play of dreary light in the Sheason’s eyes made Tahn’s neck and back prickle.

“Why might she have run, friend? Have you something to hide?”

Vendanj sat upright in his saddle. “It is best to be hidden from the eyes of the League.”

The captain surveyed the party, stopping to take account of the boy.

“This fellow here is awfully small to be riding through the murk, don’t you think?” He smiled, his clean, angular features sharp in the weak light of the street. “I believe I will offer him another place to rest this evening.”

“We’re of no interest to you,” Vendanj said with diffidence. “We must be going.”

“Be still!” the captain called. “There are questions to be answered. And I will have those answers.” He walked close to Vendanj. “I believe you may be at the heart of it, too.” He narrowed his eyes to try and peer through Vendanj’s cowl. “You lead, they follow. You talk slowly in the face of questions. I will have a look at your face. I will know your affiliation.”

A slight wind groaned in the eaves of a nearby building, and brazier fire sputtered and whipped. The rest was silence. Vendanj sat unspeaking for long moments.

Then the Sheason turned his head to the man in the russet cloak and inclined his head delicately toward him. “No!” he said, and the thrum of his voice roared like rushing water. He thrust a hand into the air, palm up and fingers curled skyward like talons. A stream of incomprehensible words followed his eyes toward the blackness above. Instantly a streak of red fire erupted from his fingertips and arced menacingly into the air. The fire swirled above all of them, leaping and falling back upon itself. It surged and licked above them like a living serpent, then shot earthward in sustained bolts. The street lit with ominous, reddish light, like the star fire seen deep in the night sky during dark moon. In the space of a breath, a wall of fire formed on each side of them, ending at the alley Vendanj had been heading toward. The horses pulled at their reins, shaking their heads and rearing.

“Ride!” Vendanj screamed over the fury of the blaze.

Tahn kicked Jole, who bolted past the Sheason. He could hear the rest following close behind him. In an instant, he entered the alley. Large, black, hulking shapes flew past Tahn in a blur. Jole carried him so fast through narrow paths betwixt boxes and barrels that Tahn thought they would surely slam into something.

The chill night air ripped at him, causing his eyes to water, roads and byways like a maze in his vision. Jole kept on, and the roar of hooves rose like earth-locked thunder in the confines of the narrow alleys.

Abruptly, they came to the gate. Solus stood placidly there already, his reins hanging to the ground. Mira could not be seen, though angry speech blared from the height of one of the parapets. The shriek of steel being drawn echoed down upon them as they all took rasping breaths. The horses, too, breathed heavily and shimmied about, their legs still blood-warm from their run.

“Now!” commanded a voice, unmistakably Mira’s.

Vendanj came up behind them, reigning in Suensin. “Quickly!” he called.

Then the gates began to draw inward. Shouts echoed behind them, followed by a distant clatter of hooves and boots in the mud. The gate came open with aching slowness, and beyond the wall, the sound of heavy rain upon the trees could be heard, though the showers hadn’t yet arrived at the city. Bolts of lightning fractured the night, booming just beyond the city wall. Mira appeared from the small gate house atop the parapet and looked at the ladder. Briskly she jumped, raising her cloak with her arms to each side. She landed, and fell immediately to a crouch, but more out of defensiveness than any apparent need to brake her landing. Immediately she went to the outer gate and threw the thick, iron crossbar aside.

As Mira pushed open the entry, Vendanj retook the lead and passed by her so closely that her cloak whipped in Suensin’s passage.

“Go!” Mira yelled as rain began to deluge upon them.

Tahn heeled Jole and went directly after the Sheason, the others coming on fast. He looked over his shoulder and saw torches flaring against the rain, and a number of russet cloaks grown almost black from the sudden storm. Mira mounted and passed through the gate just ahead of the League. Into the downpour they raced, the sound of thunder filling Tahn’s head from above and below. Myrr fell away like a dream image behind them and Tahn wondered if their numbers had been increased by one.

A child.

Why would Vendanj allow it?

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Beatings

The hard light of midday beat down on the man. But it could do no injury to skin that had already been darkened by long years in a desolate place of hot sun. He walked contented in the rolling hills, glad for the moment to be in a place of life and hope. There seemed precious little of that to be had.

His contentment was shattered by angry shouts from the cottage he’d come to call on. Raised voices, muted from within the dwelling, drifted on the still air. He hastened his steps, feeling an awful certainty of what he might find. The sun-worn man could discern three voices as he came to the stoop—two belonged to adults, the other to a lad.

As he stopped to listen, a loud crack shot from the cabin, sounding like a fist striking the face of another, followed by the thump of something falling to the cottage floor. A scream rose up, shrieking through the windows and cracks in the cottage walls—the wail of a woman. Then another crack … and silence.

The man’s weathered face drew taut with grim lines. He ascended the stoop and pushed open the door.

Angry surprise registered on the face of a husband and father who stood panting at the room’s center. On the floor to the right lay his woman, crying now, her head buried in her hands. On the left sat a boy of ten—the boy the weathered man had brought to this family long ago. The lad seemed to be struggling to suppress his anger and fear and helplessness. A heavy welt purpled one side of the boy’s face, the skin there split. Blood dripped slowly down his cheek.

The lad shifted his gaze to the sun-worn visitor, and the two shared a long look. The man knew its message. The boy wanted to be rescued; this moment of anger and abuse was not the first. But any intervention would have to be permanent, because anything less would only invite more suffering after the visitor left the cottage.

The man sensed that the lad feared the time—perhaps when his father had had too much to drink—when the beating would be his last.

Indignation flooded the visitor as he shared that look with this father’s son; a son he himself had given the man, had trusted to his care and safety.

He slowly turned his glare on the unworthy patriarch, who stared back with defiance.

“It is my family. I will do as I see fit,” the abuser said. “You’ve no authority here. Get out!”

Instead, the visitor drew close, his limbs alive in anticipation of violence. He allowed his nearness to be his threat, staring, saying nothing. The abuser’s breath reeked not of bitter, but of some recent meal; this cruelty had no reason. As the visitor looked deep into the abuser’s eyes, he also looked inward at the long years of his own life abused in a forsaken place. Those years had given rise to another breed of malice and intolerance: one directed at low men like this, men who defiled the stewardship entrusted to them by denying their families the patience and kindness they deserved.

“Do you know how close you are to death?” the sun-worn man said. “I’ve no care for your life at this moment. Were it not for the family you’ve thrown down at your feet, I would end you here.”

The abuser did not yield his own ire. “I don’t owe you anything. I have fed and clothed and housed my own well enough these many years. Don’t you show up and play the hero. I have my own way of keeping things right around here. And you gave up any part of it the day you left the brat.” His eyes darted to the lad. “So you can take yourself back to your desert, and hope I don’t share ill news of you with those who would see your visits here as a violation of your sentence.”

The visitor shook his head in disgust and leaned in toward the man so that his nose nearly touched the other’s. “You are a fool. If I am the criminal you suggest, what makes you believe I won’t kill you to silence your gossip? And if I am not, then your threat is empty.”

“You possess a double tongue,” the abuser shouted back. “I will not be trapped—”

“It is this family that is trapped,” the weathered man cut in. “Bound to you for sustenance and protection. But instead you feed them knuckles and fear, when they would have the better part of you to learn and grow by.” The visitor’s wrath seethed in his words. “You are more use to them dead than alive. For then at least their fear will be gone, and hope may enter their hearts.”

The abuser sneered. “Hope?”

“The last victim of every prison,” the visitor replied. In his mind he felt a thousand hot suns upon his cheeks and brow, tasted the dust and grit of his barren home, and recalled the countless children he’d carried into the care of others, bearing the simultaneous hope and fear that he was making the right choice of their guardianship.

With profound sadness and resentment—some of it at himself—he recalled that he had found others before today who had betrayed his trust, who had laid hands on the innocents he had entrusted to them.

If his banishment could be more bitter, it was in moments such as these when the only good of it was sullied by the neglect and abuse visited on the children he’d left to such men.

And it was in these moments that the soil of his heart grew stonier, when he sought—with all his training from so long ago (honed by decades of practice since)—not to protect, but to destroy.

Destroy a monster that would harm his own family.

With that thought, guilt pricked at the edges of his consciousness, but he would not let it stop him.

The weathered man gave the boy another long look. “Which is this man’s strong arm?”

The lad’s brow wrinkled. “His right,” he answered.

The visitor then seized the abuser and ran him from the cottage. The other had no time to react or defend himself. With his precise, powerful grip, the weathered man steered the derelict father deep into the trees and out of sight. The abuser protested loudly, swearing oaths and calling for help. His cries echoed back into the grove and were lost around knotted trunks and deep ravines.

Then the weathered man let him loose, his indignation boiling over.

The abuser whirled, whipping a fist around at the visitor’s head. The sun-worn man ducked and struck the man’s chest, knocking the wind from him.

But the abuser did not give up so easily. He kicked at the man’s groin. Again the weathered man avoided the blow and drove a crushing fist into the abuser’s cheek—the same place the boy had been hit.

The other howled in pain and frustration, his eyes bright with rage.

But the man of so many suns had lost his patience. He barreled the man to the ground, and in one lithe motion drew out his sword and cut off the man’s right arm.

As the abuser screamed in shock and pain, the visitor quickly cut off a swath of the man’s shirt and used it to stanch the flow of blood spurting from the stump of his arm. He then tied it off and stood up. The abuser groaned and cried for some time; the weathered man watched with unfeeling eyes.

When he thought he could be heard again over the abuser’s softer cries, the visitor took up the severed arm and held it between them. “You will either redeem yourself with the arm I’ve left you, or I will come again and find you. Don’t fool yourself that you can take your vengeance on your family and run. There is no place far enough I cannot track you. And I have no other cause in life. If you ever trusted in anything, you can trust in that.”

The man who wore the skin of many suns and winds and skies then tossed the arm into the high grass and returned to the small home. He paused at the steps again, considering what he would say to those inside. But that was a brief moment, since he now knew only one way to speak, even to a woman and child.

He strode in and found the boy comforting his mother, who had gotten herself to a chair. He knelt before her, holding her hands. The weathered man took one knee beside them, and sought their frightened eyes.

“He will never lay another hand on you. And if ever you fear he might, remind him of this day.” He then fixed his gaze on the lad. “You’re going to be all right, son. I am sorry for what has gone before. But even that will give you mettle when you are grown, if you use it well.”

The sun-worn man put a hand on the boy’s shoulder to reassure him. Then he stood, nodded to them both, and returned to the road that had brought him to this shattered home.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Sedagin

They rode hard for three days through storms. The downpour discouraged talk; they either rode, ate, or slept. Little more. They were exhausted, but to Sutter, it was a good kind of weary.

The late-afternoon sun emerged, replacing the clouds that drifted south, carrying the storm away. Sutter closed his eyes and relished the feel of the warmth upon his cheeks. Birds bathed and drank from pools of water that had collected in the road. Ravens and crows squawked and flew away as they passed, returning to the puddles behind them.

It had been days since he had dug a root, at least voluntarily. And his nails looked great!

In the light of day, their run-in with the League seemed to him like a dream. A magnificent dream! The fire from Vendanj’s hand, the clash of steel from the gate tower, and the drumming of rain and hooves and thunder all felt very far away as they walked their mounts over the sodden road and listened to the stirrings of the wild around them. A weary peace settled over them, all save Mira, who never seemed in need of rest. As they continued north under a bright sun, chatter ceased completely.

At the close of the day, the road forked, one path turning northeast, the other due west. Vendanj took neither route, instead leading them straight ahead into the dense trees, away from the traveled roads. He did not stop until the constellation of Kittel the ox had risen up from the watery grave legends confined her to each day. Mira left Tahn and Sutter to build the fire on their own, and returned quickly with three hares for supper. Not to be outdone, Sutter searched the soil and dug up several wild roots to roast over the flames. They ate quietly, sitting close to the fire as the chill of night pressed in upon them, the clear skies with all their stars feeling especially close and brittle in the cold.

When they were done, Mira stood and quietly took a position near a tree thirty strides from their bedrolls. Tahn watched the Far as she wrapped her thick, grey cloak tightly about her, and sat in the crook of a double trunk pinion tree. Ceasing to move, she became difficult to see.

Sutter’s friend was smitten. Good for him.

Sutter had something else on his mind. “What of the boy?” he finally asked, his words jarring in the silence that had befallen them.

“Ask me,” the lad said. “My name is Penit. I’m right here.”

Wendra smiled and shook her head reprovingly at Sutter.

“All right, then. How did you come to be sitting on a horse fleeing the League and not staying with your friends back there in the city?”

“Truly a mystery,” Tahn broke in. “Where might he have spent his night if the League had offered their hospitality?”

“Where indeed,” Braethen said.

The boy cleared his throat. “I’m ten, not deaf.”

Sutter turned to the boy. “I just mean, where’s your family? Do you have parents? Aren’t they going to be worried? We all started riding through the rain and no one stopped to think about that.”

Tahn decided he agreed with Sutter. “Sutter’s not making a joke of this,” Tahn added. “A child has family, or should. If Penit has one, we shouldn’t be interfering.”

Penit nodded appreciatively. “I’ve got no one. Just the pageant wagons. And it’s getting harder to play the stories. The troupe was only going to survive if we did well in Myrr. There’s not enough money in the smaller villages anymore, and the larger cities all have the League. You were there,” the boy said, looking at Sutter. “You saw what almost happened. Everyone in the troupe thought the rhea-fols important to portray, but it gets hard on an empty stomach. A scop must get paid. And besides, he asked me to join you.” The boy gestured toward Vendanj. “I’ve got no one else, what do I care?”

Wendra frowned, but refashioned her expression into a smile of welcome for Penit. “It’s nice to have you along.”

Tahn and Sutter frowned as well. Each for his own reasons felt a fatherless child was an unhappy thing. For Sutter, especially, it brought up old, painful memories that this fatherless waif had come to them from a pageant wagon. Memories of his own true parents …

“I’d like to see you play the stories, Penit,” Braethen chimed in.

Sutter groaned.

“I don’t mind. So long as there’s food enough for me,” the lad said, and looked away as if to end the focus of attention on himself.

“Uh-huh,” Sutter harrumphed.

Wendra broke the silence. “Do we put the boy in danger, Vendanj? Brave or not, this is no place for a child.”

The Sheason put down the last of his meal, and looked across the fire at her. “It was his choice to join us,” Vendanj said, appearing to feel as though his answer was all the explanation that was required. Then he added, “Penit, if you choose to stay with us, when we get to Recityv you and I will talk about what that means. You are welcome to remain with us beyond there if we are agreed on that.”

Penit nodded. “Fine by me.”

“So he joins us. But what are we doing?” Sutter challenged.

Vendanj gave the root-digger a narrow look. “You are constantly putting us in danger with your foolishness,” Vendanj answered. “All is not as it was in the Hollows, Sutter. Watch closely.”

Sutter’s jaw flexed, but he controlled his anger and said in an even voice, “You helped us escape the Bar’dyn, and we’re all grateful. And no one here is happier than I am to be out of the Hollows. But I’m worried that you expect to meet more trouble; if that’s true, and you’re not telling us, that puts us at greater risk.”

Vendanj turned understanding eyes toward Sutter. “That is the first wise thing you’ve said, Sutter.” Then the Sheason gathered their attention with his discerning gaze.

“You know our destination is Recityv. It is the seat of the regent.” He received a number of blank stares, which seemed to await more. “Though she has no authority over your homeland of Reyal’Te, she rules the nation of Vohnce. And during the War of the First Promise it was in Recityv that most of the kingdoms of the eastlands formed an alliance to meet the threat of the Quiet. That convocation created the First Promise itself.”

Vendanj frowned. “What is not told in your reader’s tales is that many kingdoms did not join the War of the First Promise. And the Convocation of Seats lost generations of its youth to war. The First Promise did survive the Craven Season, and the Quiet was defeated. But in the countless years that came after, the Promise was lost. People forgot or, in the absence of any threat from the Quiet, no longer cared.

“Thankfully,” Vendanj said, “the veil was sealed. The Shadow of the Hand lay dormant for a time; but its inhabitatants languished in their own scorn and discord … and waited.

“Ages later, the Hand was opened again, and hastily the defunct Convocation of Seats was recalled. Because the First Promise had been abandoned by the family of man, Dannan the Elder opened his shirt, drew his blade across his chest, and spilled his blood in the Great Hall of Promise at Recityv, uttering the words of the Second Promise, the New Oath. It is said that those seated at the table rushed to christen their swords with his blood and stand with Dannan till vanquish or void.”

“And they vanquished, right?” Sutter interjected, his voice now bright with enthusiasm.

“Indeed they did.” The Sheason touched one hand to his chest above his heart in an unconscious gesture as he appeared to reflect on the victory. “But that war cost dearly. Women who did not themselves fight bore children and raised them to join their fathers and brothers fighting in the farthest reaches of the North.

“The end came with a terrific battle. So powerfully did the Order of Sheason draw upon the Will that the earth itself was rent in twain. A hundred Sheason joined hands to force the land to swallow up the hordes of the Quiet in the Valley of Sorrow. Every last Sheason thus linked fell dead at the violent calling of the rent. But the Bar’dyn were destroyed, and the Quietgiven that survived withdrew to wait upon another day.”

Vendanj paused as though assessing whether to share what came next.

“But balance had been upset, the stability of Forda I’Forza. The Hand had weakened enough to permit the darker creations from deep inside the Bourne into the world. And we have been living on this side of the veil ever since … waiting.”

“And now the Bar’dyn have come as far as the Hollows,” Sutter said.

“The Hand is open again,” Braethen said in horrified awe.

“And whatever or whoever they seek is safer at Recityv.” The Sheason looked at both Wendra and Tahn.

“Can any kingdom be safe?” Wendra asked, standing protectively behind Penit.

Vendanj nodded with appreciation of the sentiment. “The convocation has been dormant for generations. Even during the Mal Wars they did not reunite; a dozen disparate banners flew, and unrest between factions threatened the success of turning back the Quiet. But,” he said, a hint of hope in his voice, “the regent has called again the Convocation of Seats.”

A new question formed in Sutter’s mind. “Is there to be a Third Promise? Is war upon us?”

The Sheason smiled gently, something he did more rarely than even the Far. “There is no need of another promise, Tahn. Only for men to keep those they’ve made.” He paused, looking at each of them in turn, his searching eyes considering, weighing. “I know I ask much of you. And while you’ve exercised your own will to be here, it is not easy. There is more I would tell you, but the time is not right. I ask you to trust me. To accept that knowing certain things before it is prudent to reveal them would put us all at greater risk. Trust that I will not lead you down a false path.” In a much gentler tone he said, “We will be safe, if we choose well. But neither will it be easy. Every day this journey will grow more difficult. You will despair, and some of you may even turn back.”

For a long time, only the sound of the fire could be heard.

Sometime later, Vendanj spoke again. “I will trust you with this: Before we reach Recityv, we will visit the Scarred Lands. We will talk more of it later, to prepare. For now, if you have stories of this place, call them to mind and remember their warnings. It is a dire land that I would rather avoid, but cannot.”

Sutter had heard of this place, known commonly as the Scar. But all he could remember was a vague sense of emptiness and despair. Just what we all need right now!

“How about a story, Penit?” Braethen finally said, clearly trying to steer conversation away from such dark topics. “I wasn’t in the square to see you play a part. And you’ve promised us a fancy.”

Penit smiled. “My pleasure. What would you like to see?”

“How about something about the Scarred Lands,” Sutter jested, helping Braethen lighten the mood.

He then looked at the boy, and wondered if, in another life, he would have been Penit, if he would have been fatherless, playing for bread and cups. The dark thought threatened to ruin the good humor he was helping to invite.

“How about the Great Defense of Layosah,” Penit said. “It’s one of my favorites.” He clapped his hands together twice. “Layosah it is,” he announced, his voice falling to a deeper pitch than Sutter thought possible from the boy’s small frame.

Wendra looked eager with anticipation of the tale. Vendanj sat back, his features thoughtful, as though still reflecting on the previous conversation. Braethen nodded appreciatively, and seemed to remember (too late) the story’s essence, or else he might have tried to stop it.

*   *   *

Tahn looked again for Mira. Her shape was lost in the shadows beyond the firelight. He left the company of the fire to seek the Far. Searching the darkness for her familiar face, Tahn approached the tree where he’d last seen her.

From the stillness, he heard, “You give me away by coming on so directly.”

Tahn stopped. “I did not mean … I will go back.” He turned to go.

“Did you need something?”

Her voice was controlled, low. Tahn finally saw her through the charcoal hues of early evening. “No, nothing. You just always sit alone away from the fire. I thought you—”

“Thank you. I am comfortable. You may join me,” she finished. Tahn wanted to say something more, but found no words that wouldn’t sound clumsy. Instead, he looked up at Kittel and traced her outline among the spray of stars.

Behind him, Penit declaimed in a bold voice, “Do you not see the families driven from their homes? The Quiet is making refugees of the people, and they flood to every safe town or city, seeking safety. The food runs out and the people starve or riot. City arbors reek of the unbathed. Granaries are being ravaged. The streets are filled with every unsavory practice. Children forced into whore dens. All to survive while you send unprepared armies to die!”

Penit became a silhouette against the fire, gesturing and pacing, pointing and covering his heart with his hands.

Tahn, distracted by the lad’s bold speech, turned back to face Mira. “I saw you grab the boy and spring from the wagon at the courtyard in Myrr. I’ve never seen anyone move so quickly.”

A warm chuckle came from the shadow where Mira sat. “How many Far have you known, woodsman?”

“And now the largest legions out of the Bourne march into the east.” Penit’s voice echoed behind them. “And so I ascend these stairs of the great Halls of Solath Mahnus in the free city of Recityv, as one of King Baellor’s Wombs of War whose grandmother’s sons and mother’s sons have gone to fight this enemy and fallen.”

Tahn stepped closer so that he might discern Mira’s face in the darkness. “One,” he answered, indicating her. “But in the Hollows little is known of the Far. Even the readers do not often talk of your people. Braethen’s books seem to have only passing references. We thought them legends and myths, and yet here you are.”

Mira’s grey eyes caught a reflection of the fire behind. “Here I am,” she echoed.

“And I stand here,” came Penit’s strong, young voice. “On these chiseled steps with the child whose life I carried in my womb.” Penit raised his hands high as though holding aloft a small child. “I stand here, denied an audience by King Sechen Baellor the Swift. Denied a hearing, though my family’s blood has purchased this city’s freedoms. I lift my child here and call upon you to form a council to represent all the people.”

Tahn was suddenly grateful for the dark. Perhaps his awkwardness would not be so evident. “You said before, when the raven came, that you would have a choice to make. What choice?”

“It is not for us to talk about at this time,” Mira answered. “Maybe never. But I am grateful for your concern.”

He sat down with her, watching. “That was genuine. Not subtle.”

“I know,” she said.

*   *   *

Penit’s voice came again, loud but tremulous, as if filled with the spirit of Layosah. “Or else I should rather dash my babe on this stone stair and snuff her life, than see her grow and bear another generation to go to war!”

It was clear that these weren’t just sketches to the boy. Something of the valor and integrity in them surely must mean something to him personally.

“Well done, lad,” Braethen said, his own voice soft, reverential. “Layosah’s speech brought about the Convocation of Seats that ended the First War of Promise. She was a remarkable woman.”

Wendra seemed not to hear. The wound for Wendra was too fresh, but the boy, Sutter knew, could not have known that. Still, Sutter’s heart ached seeing Wendra in pain.

Vendanj looked away into the hills behind them, his brow a tangle of deep furrows over dark eyes.

For Sutter, the scene felt like the rub of salt on an old wound newly opened—the awful moment when he was orphaned. Despite being so far removed from the memory—by years and by distance (so far from the Hollows now)—it seared him still, his skin hot despite the chill on the air.

Of them all, that night, Sutter was last to fall asleep.

*   *   *

Tahn woke to the vague and distant sound of drums. He lay unmoving, the smell of frozen earth strong in his nose. At first he thought the sound was the beating of his own heart echoing in his ears, pulsing the way it did when he swam in the Huber River back home, diving under the water, the beating loud in his head. Then he recalled the reader’s story of Nicholae’s Drum—a pauper boy’s toy that had, over the ages, become known as a mythic weapon.

But this rhythm pulsed out of time with his heart.

Tahn pushed himself up and looked around. Only Vendanj stirred. Tahn looked instantly to where Mira stood watch: the tree was empty. Vendanj rose and quietly woke the rest of them. Tahn stood and looked skyward. The lesser light hung near the high meridian; the dawn was still several hours away. Vendanj rolled his blanket. Tahn and the others took his silent direction and, beneath the silver shadows of the moon, they packed without speaking.

The drumming grew louder. Though they beat in unison, Tahn could now hear several drums, the sound repeating at long intervals from the road to the west which they had left. The incessant, monotonous beating unnerved him. If they returned to the road, the Bar’dyn would find them; the open country to the north led directly into a towering escarpment that ran east and west, in both directions farther than he could see. Tahn guessed the plateau above them led to the High Plains of Sedagin—a place of more legends about which he knew little.

Mira stepped into their midst, her face pale in the starlight. “Bar’dyn,” she said to Vendanj. “An entire collough led by a tracker commanding an advance party. They are close.” She paused, looking back the way she had come. “Closer than the drums.”

“Sedagin, then,” Vendanj said in a low voice.

“The Sedagin ceded too long ago,” Mira countered. “The only thing longer than their blades is their memory. We may not be welcome.”

Tahn saw Braethen nodding, though the sodalist kept silent.

The sound of movement interrupted them. Mira wheeled silently, drawing both blades in a deft cross-arm move. Before Tahn could turn, she had taken a position between the trees and the rest of the party. Vendanj came slowly past Tahn and stood beside Mira as four hulking figures stepped from the trees like shadows leaving the darkness. Beside them, a smaller, crippled-looking figure stood hunched, leaning on a short staff just a few strides away—the tracker.

A withered hand crept from the folds of its cloak, each bony finger wrapped tightly by translucent skin through which could be seen a lattice of blue veins. Then it pulled back its cowl, revealing a hairless head covered with the same strange skin. The tissue beneath ran in striated lines over gnarled bone. Its bulging eyes reminded Tahn of a dead animal bloated from several days’ rot.

Tahn’s breath hung on the air in a thin cloud. The sodalist stepped in front of Penit, but no one else moved, and for a moment, the small clearing might have been a court statue garden.

Into the quiet the hunched tracker croaked, “Did we wake you?” Tahn, peering through the darkness, saw the thick, tough skin of the Bar’dyn, their massive hands bearing a talonlike thumb on both sides of their palms. Most of them held large, double-sided axes. The last one in the line held a drum at its side and a mallet in its right hand. But neither the size nor their weapons frightened Tahn as much as the look of patient reason in their broad faces.

Again the crippled-looking thing spoke, its voice like the grinding of small stones. “Why do you flee?” it asked. It stepped forward, pointing its short staff at Vendanj. “Nola Will, Sheason, now and always.” A sallow gleam opened in the thing’s face where crooked teeth reflected the faint light.

Vendanj knelt down on one knee, and Tahn thought momentarily that the Sheason intended to yield. Vendanj turned his head slightly, whispering. Tahn only heard it because he stood directly behind Mira. “Don’t let it strike that drum.”

“Yes,” Mira said softly. “But the rest will not be able to see to use their weapons when it begins.” Her head nodded toward Tahn and the others behind her.

Vendanj shifted his hard gaze again to the tracker. “No,” he said, his response calm, steady, peaceful. Then the Sheason swung one hand into the earth, his fingers tearing like iron tines at the cold, hard ground. He lifted a fistful of soil and tossed it into the air with a great sweep of his arm. The dirt erupted into shimmering dust, which hung on the air as particles of light illuminating the clearing. In that same instant, Mira crossed the distance to the Bar’dyn holding the drum and severed the leather strap used to carry it. The drum fell uselessly to the ground.

The tracker screeched with its wretched voice, “Velle’shea!” The Bar’dyn burst from their stances and charged them. Wendra grabbed Penit and retreated to the far side of the clearing. Braethen, drawing his sword, readied himself for their charge. Sutter lifted his own sword and crouched. Tahn briefly worried he would never again see his friend’s gritty courage.

He raised his bow and drew an arrow quickly, internally speaking the old words I draw with the strength of my arms … and fired almost randomly at the large creatures. He let fly three shots. The first two glanced off the armorlike skin of the Bar’dyn. The third took one in the eye, stopping its charge.

The tracker threw a knife at Vendanj. The Sheason saw the attack coming and thrust up one hand. A sudden gust of wind felled the knife in mid-flight and blew the tracker off its feet.

The Bar’dyn nearest Mira swung its ax in a huge downward stroke. The Far sidestepped the blow and brought her swords up in quick counterstrikes to the beast’s groin. When the Bar’dyn fell to its knees, Mira put her second blade through its teeth. The Given slumped forward. She turned immediately to the one who’d been carrying the drum, and narrowly dodged a waist-high stroke. The Bar’dyn swung past her, and Mira attacked its wrist with her blades so closely swung that they appeared to be a single sword. The Bar’dyn dropped his weapon, but countered with a blow from its taloned hand. Mira slumped into a back roll, regained her feet, and caught the beast’s other wrist in a similar strike. The Bar’dyn howled and threw its massive body toward the Far, wanting to smother her beneath its immense girth. Again, she was too quick, leaping aside as the Bar’dyn crashed into the undergrowth. She jumped to the beast’s back, rotating her swords in a blur, then plunged them into the creature’s neck.

One of the Bar’dyn brought its huge ax up and swept it down toward Braethen. The sodalist retreated, one edge of the Given’s weapon catching him on the arm. A spray of blood hit the Bar’dyn, maddening it further. Before it could draw back to strike again, Braethen pushed his sword forward with both hands in a straight thrust for the Bar’dyn’s belly. The stroke pierced the skin, but the Bar’dyn uttered no cry. It grasped the sword by its blade and ripped it from Braethen’s hands. The creature tossed the sodalist’s blade aside and swung its ax around for a final blow.

Instantly, Sutter rushed in. He threw himself on the beast’s arms, overburdening its attack. The Bar’dyn dropped its ax and clutched at Sutter, sinking massive hands into his flesh and throwing him down. The creature raised its foot over Sutter’s head and was about to crush his skull. Before it could do so, Braethen retrieved his blade and brought it down into the Bar’dyn’s face, sending the beast reeling.

A second Bar’dyn charged Tahn. With no time to draw another arrow, Tahn took several steps back. The Bar’dyn bore down upon him, holding its ax in a wide grip. Tahn lifted his bow as though to strike the Bar’dyn, but knew the futility in it. When the Bar’dyn was just a stride from him, it erupted in flame. Red fire scorched its skin, and an awful-smelling smoke rose from the creature in black waves. The Bar’dyn opened its mouth to scream, but the flames licked at its tongue and teeth and muffled the cry in its throat.

Mira fell upon the Bar’dyn Sutter and Braethen had wounded, slaying it from behind before it knew what had happened. The last of the Given snapped the arrow that had pierced its eye, and looked with its other eye at the fire engulfing its companion. With that, the creature turned and lumbered off into the darkness.

The light in the air began to dissipate slightly as the dust settled. Rasping breath filled the air, but over the sound of labored breathing Tahn could hear the distant beat of drums.

Then, just beyond the clearing, someone struck the drum the Bar’dyn had been carrying. The tracker! And struck it again. The sound rose in a penetrating bass note that carried farther than any scream or cry might. In response, the chorus of drums farther south beat twice in quick succession.

“Your horses!” Vendanj commanded.

Tahn jumped on Jole and the others mounted their steeds. Mira rushed in from the dark as the last of the light dust disappeared. Sheathing her swords, she jumped in stride onto her horse, and turned an inquiring look at Vendanj. The Sheason did not hesitate. “North,” he said. “To the Sedagin.”

Mira nodded and kicked Solus into a gallop. Vendanj waved for the rest of them to follow, and took the rear position behind Braethen. Shapes rose up and slipped by in a blur: trees, large rock outcroppings. Tahn rode hard through the weave of foliage and knolls and sudden dips in the land.

The drums grew louder, each beat sounding to Tahn as though it was joined by still more mallets upon tightly drawn hide. The night air chilled his cheeks and hands, making them throb. He looked back at Wendra, who rode beside the boy, and found fierce determination on both their faces. Past them, he saw Sutter actually smiling thinly in the starlight. That was when he saw them. Just over Vendanj’s shoulder several shapes were crashing through the trees. Saplings snapped under their feet, their footfalls like large stones rolling down a hill.

“Vendanj!” Tahn called, and pointed.

“Ride!” the Sheason shouted.

Tahn turned forward and saw Mira twenty horse-lengths ahead, jumping a ravine with Solus at a dead run.

Dear Sky, Tahn thought.

“Don’t slow!” Mira called back. “Trust your mount!”

Tahn bent forward and spoke in his horse’s ear; Jole raced ahead. “Come on, old friend. Dash!” Something quickened in Jole’s legs and before Tahn could say more, the horse leapt into the air. The world felt suspended and silent. The chasm beneath them was deeper than Tahn expected, but they passed it quickly and Jole’s hooves caught earth again, never slowing.

Penit’s horse made the jump easily with its lighter burden, as did Wendra’s. Behind them, torches flickered in the woods, and the sound of crashing branches came like a whir of droning crickets ten thousand strong.

Sutter came next, lashing his mount’s rump before the leap. Up and over he came, yawping loudly as though initiating the Kottel Rhine back home. His gleeful cry was met with unearthly calls from the Bar’dyn just fifty strides behind Vendanj. Braethen came on, gathering his reins in both hands to steel himself for the jump. The sodalist’s horse misjudged the slight pull on its reins and began to pull up as they approached the ravine. Dirt kicked up from the steed’s hooves, and it whinnied loudly, spitting clouds of steam from its nostrils into the chill air.

“No!” Tahn screamed, pulling Jole around.

In an instant Mira was beside him. She grabbed Jole’s reins and pulled Tahn close. “Vendanj said north. He knows the cost!”

She tried to yank Jole back into a run. But Jole faithfully obeyed Tahn, who used his legs to direct the animal toward the ravine.

Near the crevasse, Braethen’s steed locked its front legs and slid toward the drop. The earth at the edge was loose, and the horse began to tumble into the ravine. The animal kicked furiously against its slide, and managed to steady itself. Vendanj came on, watching the struggle but preparing to make the jump. It seemed the Sheason intended to leave the sodalist to the closing Bar’dyn. Looking past them, Tahn saw small trees falling like a wooden wave in the Bar’dyn’s passage toward them. The drums grew more frantic, beating out polyrhythmic cadences that began to confuse Tahn and confound his mind.

Tahn turned to Mira, beginning to frame a plea for assistance. Wendra, Penit, and Sutter reached them and slowed, following Tahn’s concerned gaze back toward the crevasse.

Sutter saw it immediately. “Tahn, we can’t leave him!”

Nails wheeled and headed back toward the ravine. Tahn tried to follow, but Mira held Jole’s reins firmly. Then something locked deep inside him, a clear feeling that calmed his heart. He cupped his hands beside his mouth to throw his voice, and yelled, “No, Vendanj!”

Tahn’s call rose powerfully, and the Sheason seemed to sense something in Tahn’s voice. He immediately pulled Suensin to a stop. Vendanj turned to face the advancing Bar’dyn, who were but twenty strides from them now. At least a dozen of the figures rushed toward him without slowing.

“Help him!” Vendanj called. He clasped his hands and lifted his face to the sky. Sutter came to the ravine and jumped it again, yelping with delight as he had before. He jumped from his horse and extended his hand to the sodalist. Just strides away, the air began to rush in toward Vendanj, red and violet particles streaming toward him with increasing speed. Soon they were streaks of yellow and white, and it appeared as if the air itself were gathering inside him.

The Sheason unlaced his fingers and extended them toward the ground in front of him. Great shocks of lightning shot from his fingertips, lighting the ground in a blanket of popping, sizzling energy. The lightning brought the Bar’dyn to an abrupt stop, but not before it caught the first several in its field. The lightning leapt up their massive frames, coursing down their arms and racing around their bodies like a living thing. The smell of burning flesh filled the air, and great howls of anguish accompanied the searing sound of the earthbound storm.

The sodalist took Sutter’s hand, ripping his satchel from his steed’s saddle just as the horse went over into the crevasse. Braethen’s legs dangled in the air, and Tahn heard the horse land with a heavy crash at the bottom of the drop.

“Let go of the bag, Braethen!” Sutter cried. “I need your other hand to pull you out!”

“No!” the sodalist argued.

Sutter’s grip slipped. He thrust his other arm over the precipice and grasped Braethen’s wrist. “I can’t hold you much longer!”

The sodalist looked down, then back at Sutter, but still did not release his satchel.

Vendanj jumped from Suensin and ran to the edge. He put his hand over Sutter’s and in one motion, pulled the sodalist from the crevasse.

“Mount!” he yelled.

The Sheason jumped on his own steed, which sidled close to the edge of the drop, and, from a standstill, leapt the ravine.

Once Sutter and Braethen were saddled and ready to move, Sutter’s face drew dark with concern. Their horse would never make the jump double-burdened. The Sheason came around, brought clenched fists to his chest, and began to fold his arms in and push with his chest, as a man does to pull a heavy handcart. The earth trembled and quaked, and the sides of the crevasse began to draw close to each other. In the space of just breaths, the chasm had narrowed enough that when Sutter kicked Bardoll, the horse jumped it with ease. Vendanj fell forward in his saddle. Mira left Tahn and raced to the Sheason. She pulled him from his horse and sat him in front of her atop Solus. She spoke directly to the Sheason’s steed, which began to run north.

“Go!” she called to the rest. “Follow Suensin!”

They turned without question and pushed their mounts northward into the trees. Tahn didn’t know how long they ran before the horses tired and finally stopped altogether. The sound of drums fell off behind them to a faint pulse that might easily have been their own ragged breath. Tahn climbed down off Jole and fell to the ground, exhausted.

He closed his eyes and turned to the east. It was more difficult than ever to think about the day, the light, but he remembered the calm hues of dawn and the reawakening of birds to the morn, and peace came over him, if only for a moment.

Mira stood guard at the south end of the small clearing where they’d stopped, but Vendanj lay unmoving at the feet of his horse, where he’d collapsed after the Far had helped him down from her saddle. Braethen sat close to the Sheason, his sword in hand. When Tahn’s heart found its own ryhthm again, he sat up. The faintest touches of dawn had crept into the sky. Looking north, he could see where the High Plains rose dramatically in sheer cliffs to an immense bluff that stretched to the horizon in both directions.

Sedagin, another tale from the reader’s books.

Suddenly, the crack of a drum shattered the silence, sounding as though it were right among them. Tahn rose on shaky legs, but did not believe he and the others could flee farther. They’d scarcely caught their breath. Vendanj did not rise.

“Mount!” Mira cried.

Sounds of the thrashing of undergrowth and trees snapping again filled the air. Before the rest could rise, six Bar’dyn emerged into the south end of the clearing. The sound of rough laughter coughed from one of the Bar’dyn.

“Run, run, run, you do,” the Bar’dyn said. “Weak and slow. Foolish.”

Mira raced to face them, silently drawing her swords and taking a low stance. Tahn marveled that she didn’t look fatigued.

“One woman to fight for you,” the same Bar’dyn said. “What of your Sheason?” Another laugh spat from its thick lips as it caught sight of Vendanj lying on the ground.

Braethen managed to get to his knees. He held his sword in front of him.

Sounding like a rock slide, a chorus of laughter erupted from the line of Bar’dyn. Then it abruptly stopped and their chieftain looked at Mira. “No one need die, Far.”

“Never,” she said. Tahn shuddered at the hatred in her voice.

“Velle’shea!” the Bar’dyn growled and its companions lifted their weapons.

As they did, a thrown sword shrieked through the clearing from the rear, burying itself in a tree a hand’s length from one Bar’dyn head.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Teheale

From all sides of the clearing, men appeared, each holding a blade like the one embedded in the tree near the Bar’dyn. The strangers took ready stances and rested their sword points lightly in the earth, each with hands relaxed confidently on the cross guard. At least twenty men could be seen, and Tahn sensed that others remained hidden in the trees, out of sight.

The Bar’dyn still looked implacable, but they eased their weapons back down, and retreated several steps.

“Not over, Sheason,” the Bar’dyn said, looking at the still unconscious Vendanj. “We know where you are. Others will follow.”

Then they vanished as quickly as they had come, their massive bodies forging new paths back through the thicket. The men around them made no move to advance, nor did they retreat. They wore heavy cloaks, some brown, some green, and each man carried only a large sword for a weapon. Beneath their cloaks, they wore thick, woolen shirts dyed a rich fir hue. They were tall men, and there wasn’t one who had supped too indulgently at his dinner table.

Mira finally sheathed her swords. “Who speaks for you?” she asked.

“I do,” said a man from the east. The fellow stepped out of the trees and into the clearing, then crossed to the sword embedded in the tree. He pulled it free and checked the blade, rubbing sap from the tip. He spun the blade once in his hand and sheathed it with expert skill. “I am Riven, First Blade to the Sedagin, and you are altogether too close to the High Plains.”

Braethen reached beneath Vendanj’s tunic and lifted the symbol of his necklace into the early light. “Safe Passage. For the First Promise,” he said.

Riven’s eyes widened at the sight of the pendant. The Sedagin First Blade looked quickly at Tahn and the others. Then he again set his watchful gaze on Braethen.

“Why are the Bar’dyn so far from the Shadow of the Hand, sodalist?” Riven asked.

“It is a fair question, but asked at an unwise time. These few you have scattered will return within the hour with a full collough,” Braethen said. “And I fear there are more behind them. Our discussion, if had now, could be our last.”

“We will take you into the High Plains. The Bar’dyn aren’t likely to follow.” Riven called three men to him. “Take the message ahead of us,” he said to the first. “Make Sedagin aware of our guests, and find them beds.” Riven turned to the second. “Take Henna, Elo, and Nittel and track the Bar’dyn. Learn their route and return to us. Go.” The second man and three others disappeared into the trees to the south.

The third he commanded to build a litter to carry the Sheason. Tahn and Braethen assisted.

Riven pointed north and the remaining Sedagin disappeared into the trees, heading toward the High Plains. Retrieving a horse hidden north of the clearing, Riven took the lead. Less than a thousand horse-lengths farther, their path began to ascend the great bluff of the Sedagin. They followed a serpentine route that gave Tahn a clear view out over the meadows and plains beneath them. The land stretched on forever, divided by small rivers and showing itself in patches of cultivated earth and untouched wilderness. Distant smoke issued from a farmhouse, and the path of the road could be seen snaking west and northeast. Upward they rode, save Vendanj, who lay on the litter.

Tahn understood now that the Sheason’s every use of the Will exacted a great price. And when he looked at Vendanj, it seemed the lines in his face were that much deeper.

When they reached the plateau, Tahn noted that the High Plains were perfectly described, as though the earth had risen straight up, rather than most mountains’ gradual slopes and juts. Sutter grabbed Tahn and drew him to the edge, which dropped away a sheer five hundred strides.

“Look at it,” Sutter exclaimed with awe. “Have you ever seen such a thing? If I look hard enough, I can convince myself that I’m seeing the Soren Sea.”

A haze spread across the land far below. At the horizon one could imagine the vague, hazy blue to be the great sea, though Tahn knew better. But as they stood there, the wind began to howl up the face of the great cliff like an ocean gale.

“The winds that rise off the lowlands are strong, my friend,” Riven said. “We call them the voice of the Sedagin.”

Behind them, Braethen retrieved the wooden case from Vendanj’s inner pocket and placed a sprig on the Sheason’s tongue. A moment later, the Sheason sat up, thanked the sodalist, and took to his horse. They followed the path north through patches of needle trees and conifers, low scrub and quaking aspen. Most of the plains, though, were long, empty fields of knee-high grass. Gentle breezes blew across them, causing them to undulate like slow, green waves.

Toward midday they paused to drink at a small river that wended its way across a great open field. “It is clean,” Riven exclaimed. “Fill your skins and drink deeply.”

“It’s like a separate world up here,” Sutter said. He then lay on the river bank and put his lips into the cool, clear water.

It was too good an opportunity to pass up. Tahn pushed the root-digger’s face under the current. Sutter kicked and pushed back against Tahn’s hand, thrashing his face in the water. Penit laughed, Wendra and Braethen joining the boy as Tahn held his friend’s head down.

“Any roots down there?” Tahn joked, then jumped back, ready for Sutter’s counterattack.

Nails gasped as river mud shot from his nose and dripped from his chin.

“Woodchuck, you are going to see the soil side of my boot,” Sutter challenged and jumped up, splashing in the shallow water of the river’s edge.

Tahn laughed. “Is the world up here different in the river mud, too, Nails?”

Sutter smiled, mud running into his mouth and coating his teeth.

“You’re going to see that up close yourself.”

They began to circle in the grass, Penit cheering each of them when either feigned an attack.

“Actually, it is a part of our world, an old part,” Braethen said.

Tahn stood, losing interest in the game. “An old part?” he asked. “What do you mean?”

Sutter seized the diversion, and tackled Tahn to the ground. Tahn let Nails pin him, distracted as the sodalist continued.

“This land was part of the rest of the plains around it, not rising into the high ground we see today.

“In the Age of Discord, the Sedagin longblades were the only ones who still kept the covenant of the First Promise. Holivagh i’Malichael presided over the Table of Blades. The table was known as the Right Arm of the Promise, and he took his banner into any kingdom or nation the Quietgiven marched upon.

“Holivagh never built a city of his own, though. He taught that the Promise was a constant call, and that his people must be always ready to defend it. Holivagh’s people lived here, tended their fields and livestock here. But when the Table was called in to war, only a few were left behind to occupy and preserve their home.”

Tahn and Sutter forgot to unravel themselves from their game. River mud dried on Sutter’s face in the warmth of the sun. Penit and Wendra listened intently to Braethen. From the boy’s expression, Tahn guessed the sodalist’s story was one the boy had not heard.

“In the Age of Discord, the Shadow of the Hand lengthened. One of the powerful Velle called through the Hand the Maere; the Haelderod, known for its spread of contagion; and other creations not given names by the Great Fathers, creations never intended to descend into the land of men.”

Braethen paused, looking into the clear sky, his face suddenly white and blotchy. “The scola say that out of the Bourne came beings older than these, some as old as the Great Fathers themselves.”

Tahn’s blood ran cold. Sutter fell off of him.

“It was against this movement that the Right Arm of the Promise was summoned,” Braethen continued. “The Convocation of Seats was recalled at Recityv when the Tabernacle of the Sky fell to the Quiet. Representatives from nearly every nation, throne, principality, and sovereign city came to the convocation to ask for help.

“But those nobles and kings who came to Recityv would not commit entire armies to the cause, afraid to leave their homes undefended. Token regiments were offered to the regent as a pledge of good faith. The regent and the convocation met and debated for three days. Threats of secession from the alliance, accusation, threats of war among kingdoms, and personal maneuvers for advancement in the preeminence of the convocation marked the debate.

“The regent of Recityv, Corihehn, disbanded the convocation and issued the order to call upon Holivagh’s Table.

“Corihehn sent word to Holivagh that the First Promise was given new life in a Second Promise, supported by the rulers of every principality represented at the Convocation of Seats. Holivagh was asked to send his legion into the fray against the storm of Quietgiven. The armies of the Second Promise would join them in due haste. The Second Promise was to build on the First by shutting up the Bourne forever, ending the shedding of blood by war and calling into the land civility and charity.”

“Will and War,” Tahn exclaimed in a whisper. “It was a lie.”

“That it was,” the sodalist affirmed. “Holivagh marched north the very hour he received the summons. He left only seven men behind to watch after the children and elderly and those women who did not bear a blade. The rest moved day and night into the breach at Darkling Plain. Forty thousand men and women armed with forty thousand swords, with as many Sheason as could be found, cut a path through the armies of the Velle toward the Shadow of the Hand. It is said that when they reached the mountain of the Hand, only two thousand remained. But this diminished army held the breach against the Bourne for eight days. Each day they expected reinforcements to arrive as Corihehn had guaranteed. The army of the Second Promise never came. And every bladesman who marched with Holivagh perished.”

“But the war was won?” Sutter asked hopefully.

“When the Sheason realized that Corihehn had transgressed against the First Promise by sending its Right Arm to die, Del’Agio the Elder, the Randeur of the Sheason, sent his people into the courts of every known city. They threatened every regent, king, queen, and council with unnatural death if they did not pledge to honor the lie of Corihehn. It was known as the Castigation, both of the convocation and of the Order of the Sheason—since the Sheason were never supposed to invoke the Will as a weapon or means of compulsion upon mankind.”

“Did they do it?” Penit stepped closer.

“They did, lad,” Braethen said, smiling. “The Convocation of Seats reassembled. But one came without coercion, Dannan the Elder, King of Kamas, who had not been invited to the previous assembly due to rumors about the tyranny of his grandfather, Dannan the Stout Heart.

“In the Great Hall of Promise, the awful scandal of Corihehn’s deception was recounted, earning him the title ‘the Defamed.’ Likewise, the demise of Holivagh’s army was related. Hearing these things, Dannan stood and while reciting the words recorded on the writ avowing the Second Promise, he scored his own chest with his sword, sealing with his own blood the commitment of his throne. The realms would have gone to war on the threat of the Sheason. But it is said that with that single stroke, Dannan turned the hearts of men to their children, purpose replacing fear.

“A mighty army was raised, and its command was given to Holivagh’s son, Sedagin, a boy just nine years of age. The Sheason went into battle alongside steel and wood, changing the Sheason order forever after—for no longer did they go only to heal—and the threat was put down, the Quiet destroyed or turned back into the Hand.”

“Then what of these High Plains,” Wendra asked. “How did they ascend into the sky?”

“When the war was over, Del’Agio the Younger gathered the Order of Sheason and journeyed into the fields and meadows of the High Plains. For one full cycle of the moon they linked hands and Willed the earth to move and rise. They built an earthen monument to the courage and honor of Holivagh and his Table. The High Plains are a testimony to the First Promise, and are said to show the distinction of its bearers above the frailties of those who sent them to die. In raising these plains, those Sheason gave the Sedagin a home easy to defend and as beautiful as anything I’ve ever seen.

“These plains are known as Teheale, which is thought to mean ‘earned in blood’ in the Language of the Covenant.”

Tahn’s heart thrummed in his chest, and he could see the excitement on Sutter’s face. They all remained silent in reverence toward the sacrifice made thousands of years past.

Sutter broke the silence. “That is why they are called the Sedagin, isn’t it? Because of the boy-king.” He jumped up and wiped his face.

“Indeed.” Riven nodded his approval. “And our lord bears that name still, in his honor.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

Small Victories

Beyond a line of trees, the plain opened onto a cleared flat tract of closely cropped grass and neatly kept homes. Immediately to the left, hundreds of young boys stood in short lines before men who were demonstrating precise moves and attacks with the great swords the Sedagin carried. Their attention never drifted to Tahn and his companions. In turn, each boy executed the move and returned to the end of his line. The swords themselves were taller than their wielders, but the boys carried them and performed their drills without any apparent difficulty.

Farther to the right, a number of farms with penned sheep and cattle were being tended by men and women alike.

As they rode deeper into the plain, homes grew in number, wood-framed and modest in appearance. But it was the absence of street barkers that caught Tahn’s attention. There were no handcarts filled with food or handmade trinkets; no beggars sat in the shadows of the buildings petitioning passersby. No loud, confusing din clouded the air, no smell of refuse rotting behind and between the homes and buildings.

“Not one house of bitter,” Sutter suddenly said, riding beside Tahn.

A group of men standing beside a house was looking at them. Each wore a sword and exuded an air of calm confidence. As they continued down several lanes, they could see more of the Sedagin at their doors and windows and gathered in small groups outside, regarding the Sheason with a quiet respect.

They came to a stop at a particular house, and Tahn stepped off Jole at Riven’s direction. His companions followed suit. No less than fifty Sedagin stood close by.

Sutter nudged him. “Did you notice that none of them looks like fat old Yulop?” He mimed a round belly in front of him.

The door of the house opened and a man emerged. His hair and eyes were the brown of brushed saddle leather. He, too, wore his long sword at his waist, but sported no cloak or cape. The other Sedagin bowed noticeably as he stepped outside, but Tahn could see nothing to distinguish him as their lord or king. The man made a quick survey of his guests, stopping to note their weapons. At a look, all the men dispersed, save a few who relaxed and began to talk quietly.

“Riven, my friend,” the man said. “You always surprise me when you return from the lowlands.” He offered a lopsided smile and stepped down from the short portico to the grass road.

Riven grinned and embraced the other. “I do at that, Sedagin, but this is different.”

“Your advance has told me, but I suspect their report leaves the best of it unspoken.”

Riven laughed. “You’ve a talent for understatement.”

“Bring them in. Let us offer them rest and refreshment.”

Riven motioned to a few of the men, who immediately came and took their guests’ horses. “You are invited inside,” Riven said. “Don’t let the grass grow up under your boots.”

Inside, a large room lay awash in sunlight from windows on every side. A sweet herbal tea steamed over the hearth to the left, giving the place a relaxed, homey feeling. Against the rear wall, sketches in charcoal of several men hung in a perfect line. Beneath each sketch, a sword stood buried in the wood floor. To each side of the door, bookcases reached to the ceiling.

“Please, be at ease,” the Sedagin said.

“Thank you,” Vendanj replied, and sat nearest the fire.

Riven brought chairs from another room, and they all sat as Sedagin watched patiently for them to be seated.

“It is a long time since a Sheason has been in the High Plains,” the man said.

“Perhaps too long,” Vendanj commented.

The other nodded. “I am Sedagin.”

“I am Vendanj, bearer of the Will through Sheason.”

“To come directly to it,” Sedagin said, fixing his eyes on Vendanj, “the Quietgiven are come into the land again.” He looked at each of them in turn. “And this time they chase you.”

Vendanj followed the man’s eyes, looking at his companions. “It is true,” the Sheason confirmed. When the bladesman met Vendanj’s gaze again, the Sheason spoke gravely. “We must reach Recityv. We thank you, as we do Riven and those in his charge, for assisting us this far. But we make no claim upon your honor, and we cannot stay long.”

Sedagin shook his head as he lifted the teapot from the fire and began pouring several cups. “Any enemy of the Bar’dyn is an ally of ours. But what business has the Order of Sheason in Recityv, especially now that an entire collough of Bar’dyn is upon your trail?”

Vendanj took a cup from Sedagin, as did Mira and Tahn and the others. But he did not drink. He held his cup in his hands and stared long at Sedagin. Tahn knew what Vendanj would say, and how it would sound to this lord.

Finally, the Sheason spoke. “The Convocation of Seats has been recalled.”

A grave look recast Sedgain’s face; a very old wound shone in the man’s eyes. Holding Vendanj’s stare, he replied, “Why do you tell me this?” Tahn thought he heard some small challenge in the question.

Vendanj nodded. “Mark me. I did not intend to claim right of passage here. If a call to the Right Arm of the Promise is to be made, it will come from others than I.”

“We will not answer,” Sedagin said plainly. “We do not recognize anything that came, or will come, after the First Promise. You know why.”

“Perhaps it is more than chance that brings us into your High Plain, Sedagin. It is not my place to ask anything. There are no declarations of war. There is no seal from the regent. But”—Vendanj gave the man a hard glare—“that time may come. And I would have you consider that the Quiet will reach every man’s door if it comes into the east.”

Sedagin looked at them each. “What business have you and your companions in Recityv that the Quiet track you?”

“These are not things I can discuss at this time,” Vendanj answered.

A heavy silence followed. Then a warmer look returned to Sedagin’s face. “We will talk more later. And I get ahead of myself. You must rest. Riven will find you beds, and food will be brought. Tonight a dinner will be held in your honor, Sheason, for the home your order bestowed upon us.” The Sedagin lifted his own cup and drank a toast to the renderer.

“And in remembrance of your sacrifice for the First Promise,” Vendanj replied.

“Just so,” Sedagin said.

*   *   *

The sun danced on the treetops, filling the plain with golden hues and sepia shadows. To the west, over the roofs of homes smoke rose from several fires.

Men and women walked together in the same direction that Riven led Sutter and the others. At the edge of the community, the plain opened up onto a broad expanse of closely shorn grass. Large pits had been dug in the ground at intervals of nearly ten strides, each pit tiered and lined with stone. Great fires burned within them, and tables, covered with food and pitchers of drink, were set around the flames. Children chased one another about the tables, the sounds of their merriment lifting like the calls of morning birds.

Riven led them to a table near the fire where Sedagin sat holding a small girl on his lap.

“My daughter,” he said as they approached. A woman came forward and took the girl from Sedagin. “And my love, Sonja,” he finished, introducing her.

The woman bowed her head slightly. “You are welcome here,” she said.

Sutter put a thumb in Tahn’s back to get his Far-stricken friend to take note. Sonja was exquisitely beautiful.

“Let us begin,” Sedagin announced. He went to the fire and raised a pole bearing the Sedagin banner. In turn, someone at each fire likewise raised the same standard. “Tonight, we celebrate the company of one who wears the symbol of the Sheason. And who in turn reminds us of our Oath.”

The entire company fell silent. Even the children quieted. There was not a movement, not a cough or whisper. The eyes of all attended Sedagin. The leader of the Table of Blades waited patiently for something. In the moments that followed, Sutter realized why Sedagin waited. Presently, the sun dipped completely below the horizon, and blue shadows fell across them. Sutter could hear only the fires and felt the pride and reverence of these people in the profound silence.

Sedagin lifted his cup. “Drink now,” he said. “And enjoy this moment of peace.”

Every glass was lifted in the twilight, and all drank. Then Sutter and his companions were seated at Sedagin’s table. Riven sat with them, and together they feasted on the grand meal set before them. Night came on, lighting the sky with brilliant stars. The fires glowed brightly and kept the chill at bay. All those present talked companionably and laughter rose from the plain with the sparks from the great flames.

“Woodchuck, I could get used to this,” Sutter said.

Tahn nodded as he put several sweet berries in his mouth. “A man who sniffs the dirt is an easy man to please.”

Sutter poked him gently in the side and resumed his meal with vigor.

When the food was nearly gone, several minstrels began to play and people began to dance. Taking his lead from those at other tables, Sutter quickly petitioned Wendra to accompany him, and the two began to imitate the steps of the many celebrants.

Penit jumped into the dance, taking Wendra and Sutter by the hand and capering in a circle.

A moment later, one of the Sedagin tapped Sutter on the shoulder. “I’d like a round with the lady,” he said.

“Not this time,” Sutter said.

The Sedagin raised a hand, and suddenly the music stopped. The Sedagin stepped close to Sutter, who dropped Wendra’s hand.

“You are low born,” the Sedagin man said with derision.

“I don’t know what that means to you,” Sutter replied, “but it sounds like an insult.” The tone of Sutter’s voice threatened action.

“So the lowlander can reason,” the other mocked. “But you do not deny a bladesman a turn with a woman.” The longblade spoke like a court counselor.

Sutter immediately looked back at the table, locking eyes with Tahn. The silent message was clear: If you need help … But he also saw the look in the face of the Sedgain lord—a ready contempt awaiting what came next. And that turned Sutter’s anger more black.

He’d throttled stronger men for ridiculing his trade—always there were jokes about his dirty hands. But this. This somehow make him angrier. The interruption, the presumption of it.

“Hoping to find a friend to take your challenge for you?” the longblade taunted, following Sutter’s gaze.

Sutter shut his eyes, his jaw working as he bit back a retort. Another word and he might explode. He knew the foolishness of it, standing here in the middle of a plain filled with Sedagin. But by the Bourne, he would not yield on this. Not simply to prove himself a man to Wendra, if this could mean that. Not because of the man’s arrogance or any of that, after all.

But because he had to believe that a boy left by his parents to a life of root farming wasn’t any less than a blessed, vaunted nation with a glorious history of promises and honor in war. Otherwise he could have, should have, stayed in the Hollows.

A hush fell over the the company, the plain now as quiet as it had been during Sedagin’s toast. Only the sound of burning wood filled the air.

Sutter opened his eyes and shifted his gaze to the Sheason. Vendanj did not appear ready to offer assistance, but something changed in Sutter as he looked at the renderer, and remembered what Vendanj had said in Hambley’s Fieldstone. His jaw relaxed, and his fists unclenched. A thin smile softened his features even more, and he looked back at the Sedagin before him.

“And what of the lady’s choice?” Sutter asked in a low voice, his words nearly lost in the crackle of the fire.

“You’re suggesting she would rather dance with you than with one who is highborn, given in blood to the Promise.” The man chuckled.

Sutter choked back more anger, then shook his head. “So close to the sky, the sun has withered your wit,” he said dryly. “I’m suggesting that she ought to have been asked, not me.” Sutter stepped closer, his face only the width of his fist from the Sedagin’s nose. “What is this First Promise that you invoke to give you station above another? Is it possible that it could have been meant for such a use? I have known the face of the Fathers more intimately in nurturing life from my soil than you have in all the grandeur of your sword and oath.”

“You tread close to death, lowlander,” the Sedagin said. The longblade’s face tightened, and he took a wider stance as though preparing to fight.

“Then we will have ourselves a fight,” Sutter said evenly. “And either your arrogance will come to an end, or my dirty hands will fall defending the will of another.”

Sutter was a good fighter, but he was no match for the Sedagin’s skill with a blade. Fear rippled through him; whatever happened, he would have to handle alone.

“Vendanj,” Tahn said from the table, his voice sounding loud in the lengthening silence.

“Hold,” the Sheason whispered.

The longblade reached for his sword.

“Or,” Sutter said, his smile returning, “you could ask Wendra if she’d like to dance. Does your Promise allow for such civility?”

The man paused with his hand on the hilt of his blade. He looked across at Sedagin, who nodded. The man unhanded his weapon and turned to Wendra. “Anais, would you care to dance?”

Wendra’s face shone as she looked at Sutter. Then she answered diplomatically, “Yes.” The longblade took her hand, they made one turn, and the music started in again, as festive as before. Sutter was turning to leave when the longblade grabbed him by the wrist. Sutter wheeled about, surprised, but before he could think to strike, the man forced something into his hand. Sutter looked down, confused. When he glanced up again, the longblade nodded and returned to his dance with Wendra. Sutter ambled back to the table and sat, inspecting the present.

Tahn leaned close. Sutter held one of the wrist bracelets they’d seen the Sedagin wearing.

A wide leather band of the same deep fir hue, a thin cord meant to loop up and around his third finger.

“You’re meant to wear it, Sutter,” Riven said. “It is a gift.”

Sutter put on the bracelet and flexed his hand into a fist. Riven and Sedagin appeared pleased, but neither spoke of it, returning to their food and conversation.

“I thought you were going to lose your nails,” Tahn said as Sutter continued to study the wrist-band. “You’re lucky it didn’t come to a fight.”

“Maybe,” Sutter replied, finally picking up the last of his wine and finishing it. “We know their skill, but they’ve never fought a man from the Hollows before.” He laughed and refilled his goblet.

Tahn shook his head, then jostled Sutter’s arm, splashing wine on them both. “What happened?”

“The guy wanted Wendra to dance. Forced himself in,” Sutter said, trying to sound incredulous.

“So you defended your love,” Tahn teased.

“Of course,” he said, smiling.

“And you’re not worried Wendra will take a stronger liking to the longblade?”

Sutter laughed. “Nah, I’m sure his blade is the only thing about him that’s long. Besides, I won the challenge, didn’t I? I used his own virtue to defeat him.” Then, softer. “I wish my father could have seen it.” He flexed his hand again, pulling the string tight over his fist. “I think he’d have been proud.”

*   *   *

Tahn looked across the feast at Mira. At that moment, she reminded him of the purple logotes, a small stubborn wildflower that flourished where nothing else ever could—on the rocky, windy hills of Cali’s North. Before he could stop himself, he’d rounded the table and asked her to dance.

“You think you can keep up?” she asked.

Tahn took her hand just as the music changed to a slow air played on a deep-pitched fiddle, sounding to Tahn like a lamentation. He put his arms around Mira and they swayed in time with the music.

“You’re not very good at this, are you?” Mira looked down to where Tahn’s feet had pinned her own to the grass.

“Just need more practice. I’d think you’d be used to that with me by now.”

She smiled and they turned slowly under a canopy of stars.

“Your sister,” Tahn asked. “Did she have children?”

Mira looked at him. “You’re a bit of a clumsy dancer, but you’re more perceptive than I thought.”

“If she’s a queen, and she’s childless … will you be expected to bear the line an heir?”

“It is possible. Authority means something different to the Far than it does to others. It’s not dominion. But in some ways, it’s more important.”

Her eyes held a distant look Tahn had rarely seen. This woman lived so completely in the present that to see her so distracted shocked him. A young boy and girl, no more than eight, danced by, a bit fast and not in time with the tune. “Do you want a family?”

The Far looked down at the children passing them. “It’s not a question of what I want. I am Far. For us, even the most favorable conditions leave a mother but a very short time with her child. Our idea of family is different than yours.”

Tahn caught her attention. “I didn’t ask about the Far. I asked about you.”

Mira stared back at him. They’d stopped dancing, and now, without speaking, were sharing a set of impossible questions. And except for when she sat vigil in the depths of the night over his sleeping friends, it was the only time he could remember seeing her motionless. He believed her heart stirred, mostly because his own told him it must.

A desire and ache for what one might wish but could never have.

For them both.

But Tahn would not let go of his hope for her that had begun in his heart, any more than he could give up his hope for a new sun each day, begun in the stillness of the dark hours of night.

*   *   *

Dust coated the path. In every direction earth rolled away, the crust parched and cracked, the sage dead, wind whistling over the plain. Tahn strode heavily across it, following a pair of footprints. The sun beat down upon him. It seemed not to move in the sky above. Beads of sweat rolled down his brow and into his eyes. He blinked against the sting, and wiped his face with his sleeve. Stumps of trees long dead, bleached white and forming jagged patterns, jutted up like gravestones amidst the dry grass.

The dreary plain continued, heat shimmering at the line of the horizon. Onward he trudged, his heart grieving for the loss of vitality. Occasionally, deep grooves scored the blackened, scorched soil, the sun hot on the sooty surface.

Farther up the path, stones cropped up in odd shapes, pocked and scabrous. Then more stones. And more. Tahn looked past them quickly, his mind refusing to see their shapes. Soon, he could no longer deny their stares, and he stopped to rub the eyes of one of the stones which rose from the ground like a human statue.

Past these he staggered, until he could see the sky growing bluer, green hills rising off the plain, and a tree rising against the horizon. Tahn fixed his gaze there and pushed himself toward it …

*   *   *

In the dark of early morn, Tahn slipped past a Sedagin sentry by going out his window. He crept to the stable and quietly mounted Jole. At an easy walk, he rode Jole to the edge of the High Plains, there to look out upon a crystalline dark. The constellation of Merade the Devout dipped on the eastern horizon, its head fallen below the edge of the plain. Tahn peered out over the vastness of the land that stretched out beneath him. It looked like a mural of shadows, veiled but beautiful. If not for the stars, Tahn would not have known where the earth ended and the sky began.

Sitting with his legs over the edge of the sheer drop, Tahn thought of Balatin and of the old questions that still plagued him: nightmares that felt like memories, faceless figures that seemed somehow familiar but unknowable, maddening words he was compelled to say each time he drew his bow—words that crippled his decisiveness. When did these things begin? It all made Tahn feel like he was slowly losing his mind.

In his worst moments, he simply didn’t know who he was, slave to these things that had no rhyme or reason. A man with no history.

He kept thinking how all this strangeness had something to do with his father—the man he’d loved, and who’d loved him—since Balatin, Tahn had learned, had not always lived in the Hollows. But he’d learned nothing more than that about his father’s early life.

Balatin had rarely spoken of things outside the Hollows. Tahn, for his part, was finding the variety and wonders of the land to be filled with possibility. He reflected on the way the Sedagin spoke of their own home, the High Plains, on the mirth and candor of Penit and his stories. Even Vendanj with his secretive tongue and hard face. These things led him somehow to his thoughts of dawn. But as he closed his eyes and considered the beginning of another day, more questions rose in his mind. Why did the Sedagin isolate themselves from the rest of the world? Why did they patrol their borders against intruders? What purpose existed in a troupe of players enacting the stories of the reader’s books, bringing the tales on wagon-stages into each town they thought would listen and pay? And Vendanj, why did he speak in whispers with the Far? Why wouldn’t he share their plans with those he compelled to accompany him? Why did the man’s heart seem as hard and rough as stone? The questions tumbled over one another and brought darkness to Tahn’s mind.

Then another thought occurred to him, and he opened his eyes to the wide reaches of the land below. These things were connected. He could not understand how, but all these strange things felt like part of something bigger, something that had, impossibly, the power to shape the lives of men.

“That is right.”

The voice startled Tahn and he turned around to find its source.

No one.

He looked down the drop into darkness and saw nothing. The sky above remained empty.

He was alone.

Tahn refocused his attention on the color and warmth that would come into the land at the rise of the greater light. As soon as he did, the thought came over him that the lesser light should be allowed to rule, that the time of the reader’s stories had gone by, their memory a testament to the failure of the Fathers, of men.

The voice came again. “You begin to see.” It spoke as softly as a cottonwood seed borne upon a gentle breeze brushing his cheek. But it left a taint in Tahn’s mind in its passing—he could feel it in the way that, in this dreamlike state, he couldn’t focus on things that had always mattered to him. “You will see further with your mind, Quillescent, than you will ever see with the glare of your youth in your eyes.”

Tahn panicked. The intrusion of the voice, its soft menace that spoke of barrows and widows and silent autumns, got inside him. He tried to stand. But his legs were numb, and he fell back down. The voice descended upon him from the air, rose into him from the earth, and echoed out from deep inside him—unspoken, but felt and understood. Like love or hatred. It began to bind him, close him in. At the edge of this great High Plain, looking into a fathomless distance, Tahn felt as confined as he had ever been. He struggled, trying to remember why he had come out away from the others. He kicked his legs and flailed at the night around him, disregarding the imminent drop beneath his dangling legs.

Someone grabbed him.

He screamed and forced his mind past the voice and its cryptic words to the single thought of daybreak. In that moment, he opened his eyes, and found himself sitting a few feet from the edge of the plain, staring into the openness, with light just touching the horizon. A dream? But somehow he knew better. He had fought a battle, a small one. But with whom? For what? His mind reeled in the wake of it, and he thrashed at the inexplicable implications.

The hands did not release him, though.

Mira.

She had dragged him back from the cliff edge. In the faint light of predawn, a look of concern showed in her eyes. They faced one another for several moments.

“Why do you rise before the sun? What prayer do you make that must be spoken at such a time? Every day?”

No one had ever asked Tahn about waking so early, about the purpose of his morning vigil. She had seen him spending those moments each day in reflection. She studied him closely.

Tahn had no reply. He’d never spoken of this to anyone, just as he had never spoken of his inner need to test the merit of every bow draw he made. Twice he had gone to Balatin to tell him, but had not found the words. Part of him believed they were secrets that must be kept, at least until he understood them himself.

Unable to lie to her, he said simply, “I don’t know.”

And together they walked back into the heart of Teheale: earned in blood.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Partings

Countless points of light shimmered as the sun reflected off the condensation across the plain. The horses stood saddled and ready. Vendanj gave Tahn a measured look as he approached the party gathered in front of Sedagin’s home.

“We were going to leave you, Woodchuck,” Sutter said. “But the Sedagin prefer guests who bathe.”

Tahn mounted Jole. “And quiet guests, I think.”

His friend laughed. “Well, you missed endfast, so stay downwind of me with that gamy breath of yours.”

Penit giggled, and was silenced by a look from the Sheason.

“Have you forgotten what we are doing?” Vendanj asked. “The north face of the High Plains is a difficult descent under the best of conditions, and we will almost surely meet Quietgiven once we reach the lowlands again. We have many leagues to cross to reach the Scar; we must move fast, and still have strength to enter that place when we arrive. Turn your minds to these things.”

With that, the Sheason rode toward Sedagin, who had appeared from a nearby stable on a sleek white stallion appointed with the customary fir-colored tack and saddle. Behind him came two more Sedagin, Riven and the man who’d challenged Sutter at the feast.

“Stay downwind of me, too,” Wendra whispered. Her lips drew into a wry smile. Sutter stifled laughter, causing snorts and chortles.

“And me,” Braethen added.

“And me,” Penit joined in.

Mira said nothing, but the Far half-smiled, causing Tahn to do the same.

“Any idea why we’re going to the Scar, Braethen?” Sutter asked. “It sounds like a lot of fun, for sure. But you know, details would be great.”

Braethen stifled a laugh, and shook his head. “My knowledge of Scar history is sketchy. And what I do remember … no idea why we’d go there. Seems a bit out of the way, too, if we’re going to Recityv.”

Vendanj and the Sedagin returned just then. “I will escort you to the north face. The path from there is dangerous, but passable if you are careful,” Sedagin said.

With that, they got underway. Just after midday on the third day of their ride, they came to the end of the High Plains. At its edge, Sedagin wheeled to face them. “It has been my privilege to offer you safe passage through our homeland.” He nodded to Vendanj. “It is our custom to offer a gift to friends when they leave us. Sutter, will you come forward?”

Sutter looked up, putting his hand to his chest in question. Sedagin nodded, and Nails rode forward, casting a skeptical look back at Tahn.

Sedagin pulled his blade and flipped it into the air, catching it by the edge of its shaft. “Tylan made a present to you of our hand. Now I make a present to you of our arm.” He extended the sword to Sutter. “Faced with the challenge to fight, you spoke the truth of the Promise so that the grounds of your action were clear. On the lips of a lowlander this sounded strange to us.”

Sutter did not take the blade immediately.

Sedagin sidled closer. “Please take it,” Sedagin said in a respectful tone. “It is as much a blessing to give as it is to receive. Do not deny us this.”

Sedagin held the blade out so that Sutter would have to reach out to claim it. Hesitantly extending his arm, Sutter grasped the blade by its hilt. Tahn watched as Riven bowed at the gesture. Before letting go of the greatsword, Sedagin maneuvered it so that the point pierced the tip of his middle finger. He kept it there as Sutter continued to hold the blade, connecting the two men in that precarious position. Tahn knew the sword must be heavy, and Sutter’s arm soon began to quiver slightly. Sedagin did not move his finger, but pressed more firmly to steady Sutter’s hold. As he did, blood welled up over the tip of his finger and dripped to the plain below. For several moments Sedagin thus helped Sutter hold aloft the blade. Sutter’s arm began to shake more violently, and he started to sweat. When Tahn thought Sutter would surely drop the blade, Sedagin pulled back his hand, and the sword swooped down harmlessly.

“Thank you, my friend,” Sedagin said, and bowed his head slowly.

Sutter opened his mouth to speak, but found no words. At last, he bowed as well. Vendanj watched closely, seeming more pleased than Tahn ever remembered seeing him. Admiration shone in Mira’s eyes as well.

Sedagin turned to Vendanj. “It must be done slowly. Even my own people take care on the Face.”

“We will watch closely,” Vendanj returned.

“If there are changes…” Sedagin trailed off.

“Thank you,” Vendanj replied. Then he turned to the others. “Remember that we have been found by a Quietgiven tracker. The tracker is dangerous because he can feel the connection of Forda I’Forza in the land and in the air—your Forda I’Forza.” He pointed at each of them. “It is how he tracks. And he can reason as you do, but he carries the craft of scrying. Now that he knows of us, we will not be free of him until he lies dead.”

The Sheason visually surveyed each of them, then turned to start down the path.

“Did you see it?” Mira asked.

“Yes,” the Sheason answered.

Tahn did not know what the Far meant until he came to the very edge and started his own descent. Enshrouded in a dense mist, the lowlands could not be seen. Somehow Tahn knew the mist was the work of Quietgiven.

The path wound more narrowly than the one they’d taken on the south side of the High Plain. Switching back on itself at sharp angles, the route became more circuitous, dropping hundreds of strides in a short distance. Before long, they dismounted and walked the horses down.

Tahn watched his feet, but found it difficult to look away from the roiling mists below. The mists bore the look of a storm cloud, dark grey and pregnant with thunder and sleet, except they moved silently as if with a patient, baneful intelligence.

Vendanj called a halt several strides above the fogs. Tahn looked out across the tops of the clouds, feeling as though he stood at the shore of a vast dark sea. He kicked a rock from the edge of the path. It tumbled downward, and Tahn jumped when a number of tendrils of mist rose like tongues and seemed to lick at the reception of the rock into its folds.

“Empty your minds,” Vendanj said. “Think nothing of what you know about any one of us or where we are going. Find a single, pleasant image and fix upon it.” He stopped and looked away at the menacing bank of dark clouds. “It is Je’holta. The caress of the Male’Siriptus. Be focused on whatever thought brings you comfort. Anything else will tear at the edges of your reason. Je’holta will inspire panic and madness by exaggerating your own fears. Mira, tie the horses one to another. Braethen, you will lead the animals. They are unaffected by the mists. Each of you will hold the hands of those next to you. The mists do not have the power to separate you.”

Sutter shook his head and muttered, “Here we go, come Quiet or chorus.”

Mira finished securing the horses, and Vendanj took Mira’s hand, each of the others joining in turn. Together they walked into the darkness.

The mists folded around them, thin streamers reaching out to wrap them and draw them in. The sun became a pale disk in the sky, the damp and cold instantly chilling Tahn’s skin. The mist touched his cheeks and fingers like icy velvet. Mira’s hand firmly gripped Tahn’s own, while Wendra’s grasp tightened once they passed completely into the swirling grey and black fog. Vendanj led them slowly, peering into the depths around them.

Tahn could see Penit holding Wendra’s other hand, but Sutter blurred to shadow and Braethen appeared as nothing more than a shape that might have been mists shifting and shaping themselves. The hoofbeats of the horses came as muted, dull clops, but the horses themselves were completely lost to sight.

Noises echoed in the depths of the dark cloud, faint sounds that Tahn felt more than heard—echoes like cries or laments, or death-side prayer offerings that traveled upon the mist. Desperation grew inside Tahn, manic and wild. He fought an almost irresistible need to turn and race up from the darkness, though he’d seen no evil. The mists would drive him mad if he stayed long in their velvet folds.

The shadows deepened as they further descended the north face. Soon, the sun disappeared completely. Charcoal-hued light encircled them, and Tahn somehow felt that they had become part of the mist itself.

The Sheason did not waver or slow, their progress cautious but steady. The Far, her eyes constantly searching and darting, seemed uncomfortable without a free hand to take up her sword.

Gradually, pressure built, constricting Tahn’s chest and making it difficult to breathe. The mists plumed in successive shadows, pushing in upon them, as soft as cottonseed but as oppressive and suffocating as a dozen wet blankets. Tahn gasped, drawing into his mouth and nose gulps of the dark mist. From the blackness, he heard others coughing and fighting for breath. Suddenly, a wave of warmth coursed through him, entering from Mira’s hand and passing to Wendra in an instant. His lungs expanded, and he breathed more easily. The Sheason had sent something through them, from hand to hand, and the coughing stopped.

Vendanj pressed forward.

Tahn had no idea how long they had been in the mists. His hands cramped from clutching the hands of Mira and Wendra. His eyes ached from the strain of trying to peer through the clouds that enveloped them. Finally, the path leveled out. They had returned to the lowlands.

In moments they were encircled by the mists on every side, and Tahn lost all orientation.

The languid calls from deep in the mists grew louder, more urgent. More than once Tahn thought he heard voices call his name. The words were shapeless and vague and sounded as though they were uttered from lips too pained to form them completely. Finally, the mists fell utterly quiet and calm.

Then distantly, a sound like tree roots pulling free from the ground rose in the fog. Deep, thunderous tones, like tall trees being felled, resounded all about them.

“What is it?” Sutter asked.

“Quiet,” Vendanj ordered.

The sounds grew louder, accompanied by wretched cries in a cacophonous chorus. The din was somehow visible in the mists around them. It began to swirl in tight, angry eddies. Through the dim light, Tahn saw forms darting at the edges of his vision, moving in every direction and vanishing as quickly as they came.

“Do you see them?” Sutter called out, his voice desperate.

“Quickly!” Vendanj commanded.

The Sheason pulled them forward into a jog. Something that felt like saplings whipped at their feet, the mists swirling in a frenzy as they rushed blindly through the dense fog.

“Hold fast!” Vendanj called back. But his words scarcely reached Tahn over the sibilant rush of the wind and the dark song of rending earth and tortured cries.

Then came the beat of a drum, struck only once, but with a sound so deep and resonant that it seemed to Tahn as if he heard some god beating on the very land they rushed to escape. The air throbbed with the beat, which seemed to echo out and back from the north face. The pulse came at them from above and below, like a quake disrupting the very fabric of the world. The Sheason abruptly stopped. Again everything was preternaturally still. Tahn could see mist frozen in the air before his face, unmoving.

Then the mist began to take form.

The darkness swirled in front of him, coalescing into an image of … himself. The disembodied mask mouthed words. Its eyeless sockets looked nowhere, but also somehow saw inside Tahn. Then its features were gone, and the image hung before him like a canvas to be written upon. Tahn averted his eyes, turning to Wendra for reassurance.

Before he could find her eyes, a scream erupted in the mist. Penit’s high, shrill voice pierced the cloud banks. The boy pulled his hands free and raced into the dark fog. Without hesitation, Wendra took off after him.

“No!” Vendanj commanded.

Wendra did not heed him.

“Find her!” the Sheason said to Mira.

The Far jumped into the roiling clouds and was gone.

A flurry of movement exploded in front of Tahn, as the misty face before him found its own voice. “Draw and release as you choose, dead man.” The words came in a malevolent growl.

In his mind, Tahn suddenly saw sunrise after sunrise, but the greater light was moving backward, retracing its arc back into the east, time and time again. It was as though a thousand days were being taken back, and each time the sky became blacker, more blurred. He saw a desert wasteland, where children walked barefoot in the sand. He saw crags and dried roots, and himself standing at the mouth of a stone canyon, tearing at its walls with his bare fingers. Burning pages floated in the wind, becoming cinders and sparks that winked out against a violet sky. His voice was gone. He witnessed himself speaking, but the toneless words lived only in his mind. He saw broken swords lying like kindling, and bodies dissolving to ash under the lesser light. He saw a great white mountain thrumming and quaking. Then he saw the face of a man, the same face that twisted and writhed in the mists before him. And the face was his own. Tahn screamed.

“Don’t betray yourselves!” Vendanj yelled.

But it was too late.

Tahn bolted from the line to escape the image. Blindly, he rushed through the mists, branches whipping at him, the black clouds hungrily licking at him as he raced aimlessly. He could hear someone in pursuit calling him, and he ran faster. Recklessly, holding his arms over his face, he thrashed through the foliage and undergrowth. He stumbled and went down hard, smashing his leg against a rock. But he did not stay down. He clambered back to his feet and rushed on, unsure which direction to go, only trying to escape the face and the voice that followed him incessantly no matter how fast he ran.

“You cannot outrun the consequence of another’s choice.” The menacing communication resonated in the mists around him, throaty and hushed. Tahn screamed again and redoubled his pace. The darkness descended upon him and still he ran, careening off trees and falling over boles. Forever he seemed to run, the images becoming stronger and more searing to his battered mind. His pursuer seemed to grow closer, to home in on the sound Tahn made in his flight through the wild.

Finally, the darkness began to break. The charcoal light softened to grey, and soon Tahn could see the faded disk of the sun through the mists. He lost his footing again, but scrambled on hands and knees toward the light, the pull of the mists strong in his mind and on his body. But he began to break free from the mists. A rushing scream of failure grew behind him, and suddenly with a cacophony of jarring thunder, he leapt from the mists into the full light of day. And collapsed.

Through the mists Tahn heard the voice of the Sheason call: “To Recityv!” Or did the cry sound only in his mind?

Gasping, Tahn touched his head and pulled away bloody fingers. The world turned and his eyes filled with blackness.

*   *   *

The mists rushed in, hindering Wendra’s pursuit of Penit, the dark grey clouds swirling and thickening to obscure her sight. She crouched as she ran, and could just make out Penit’s feet as he sprinted away from her. The boy dodged in and out of low alders and lunged through tight stands of bottlebrush. Images and forms moved maddeningly at the edges of her vision. Masses of dark fog leapt, encircling her arms, tendrils clawing at her. They lacked the substance to hold her, but their touch impeded her progress, filling her mind with thoughts of failure, of never catching Penit, of losing him as she had lost her own child.

“Penit, wait, it’s me!”

The dinsome rush of wind and distant, anguished voices rose to swallow her pleas, making their cries indistinguishable from her own. The lad pushed on as though manic and rabid and terrified that stopping meant death. Then, from the left, two huge hulking shapes materialized out of the mists. Wendra ignored them for only a single moment before something told her that they were not insubstantial like the other shapes constantly rising and dissipating in the mists around her.

These were Bar’dyn.

The first dove at her, launching its huge body in a powerful arc to intercept her. Wendra found a reserve of strength and jumped forward to avoid the attack. The Bar’dyn crashed into the trees behind her and howled its fury. The second closed in from behind her, waving massive arms through the air in deadly arcs. It would be upon her soon; she could not hope to outrun it.

The mists thinned to a lighter shade of grey, and Wendra could see Penit clearly now.

“Run, Penit! Faster!” she cried.

The boy still did not acknowledge her, continuing to run at a breakneck pace through the mists. She was gaining on him, but the Bar’dyn was only two strides behind her. Its huge, powerful arms whistled through the fog as it tried to strike her down. Wendra heard a guttural grunt, and turned her head in time to see the Bar’dyn dive at her legs. She tried to push herself faster, but her muscles would not obey. One of the Bar’dyn’s large hands clipped her ankle, the other her hip, sending her tumbling into the grass and brush. The Quietgiven’s body landed with a heavy thud, but the beast quickly regained its feet and bore down upon her.

Wendra rolled over, pulling a small knife from her belt. She instantly knew the futility of her own defense, and saw a sudden rush of images stream through her mind: Balatin and the warm fires and brambleberry tea they used to share on winter nights; Tahn and the way he had cared for her, she in turn sitting at his side to soothe him during many nights of restless sleep; the child that had so recently been in her belly, and the Bar’dyn that had ripped it from her and carried its lifeless body into the night. With the cascade of memories, something happened deep inside her. It began in her bosom, a warmth like fire, reminding her of Balatin’s anger the day he had driven the merchants away from the house when they came with bags of silver to trade for human flesh, but soft like tears of joy at seeing an infant learn to walk. The feeling shot through her and rose into her lungs and throat, needing someplace to go. As a thought occurred to her of where and how to release that feeling, the Bar’dyn arched its back and hissed, breaking her concentration. The Given’s broad features pinched tightly, the mists seeming to recoil as though they, too, were wounded.

The beast fell, revealing Mira standing close behind. With a blade in each hand, she took a step back, setting her feet and extending one sword, holding the other in front of her breast in a defensive posture. The Bar’dyn jumped up and whirled around, issuing a guttural curse Wendra could not understand. The warmth in her chest abated, and she forgot the thoughts of a moment before as the Far lunged again, this time so quickly that the mists appeared to pass through her rather than around her. In a crosswise motion, she pulled down her blades upon the Bar’dyn’s neck. The creature could not avoid the attack, but this time Mira’s swords scarcely pierced the beast’s thick skin. She backed up again as the Bar’dyn drew a pair of axes and started for her.

“Go!” Mira yelled. “Find the boy! We will look for you beyond the mist. But you know our goal, should we fail to find you.”

The Bar’dyn seemed to take Mira’s words for a lack of concentration and lunged forward, aiming with one ax at the crown of her head. Mira easily sidestepped the blow and brought her right sword down on the Bar’dyn’s shoulder. The beast howled again. As if in response, the sound of many feet could be heard beating through the mists toward them.

Wendra did not want to leave the Far to fight alone, but she was little help with her knife. She stood, wincing from the pain of the gash in her ankle where the Bar’dyn had clipped her, and hobbled on as quickly as she could in the direction she had seen Penit go.

She heard the clash of steel muted by the mists behind her, and the sound of heavy feet grew louder, bearing down on the scene of the fight. Slowly, the sound of battle faded and the mists receded until the sun penetrated the darkness. Wendra caught sight of several broken stems and branches and followed them, hoping they led to Penit. Her entire leg began to throb, and she slowed against the onslaught of pain that washed over her in nauseating waves.

As she limped onward, the mists grew lighter still, until she could see several strides ahead of her. A few limping steps farther, Wendra spied Penit, crouched near the base of a large elm, shivering. She fell to her knees beside him. His hair and clothes were drenched with sweat, and he clung to the tree like a child holding his mother.

“It’s all right, Penit. You are safe.”

The boy did not respond, did not even look at Wendra. He trembled more violently, spittle falling from his lips. Wendra removed her cloak and wrapped it around him. Distantly, the sound of footsteps thrashing through the undergrowth cut through the thinner fog.

“We must go,” Wendra urged, trying to help Penit to his feet.

The boy resisted, his small arms bulging with his effort to remain rooted to the spot.

“Please, Penit, trust me,” Wendra pleaded. She knelt again, coming face-to-face with him. “I will protect you.” As she spoke the words, she silently wondered how she would do such a thing, having not been able to protect even her own child. But in that moment, she vowed that she would do so, or die in the attempt.

The sound of voices came, accompanying the footsteps. Wendra looked over her shoulder and saw the mists enlivened and frantic, appearing to part in anticipation of the passage of one it did not care to touch.

Wendra looked back at Penit. “You must play the part of someone brave.”

At that, Penit’s eyes focused upon her. He seemed to suddenly be aware of who and where he was. He released the tree. His inner arms were marked with the pattern of the tree’s bark. He blinked away the tears in his eyes and nodded.

Ignoring the wound in her leg, Wendra helped him up, and nearly fell as she placed her weight upon it. Penit put his arm around her waist, and together they started toward the lightest break in the mist. The dark fogs stilled, and in an unexpected moment, they stepped into the light of day, leaving the darkness behind.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Escaping the Darkness

The horses broke free from Braethen’s grip, scattering into the mists. He tried to keep control of the one closest to him as it reared and whinnied and kicked its forelegs. Braethen stepped away, trying to flank the steed, but the horse went to ground and was gone before he could grasp the reins.

“Forget the mounts,” Vendanj said. “They will find the light. Stay close.”

Braethen ran to the Sheason’s side, drawing his short sword and looking about them. “What happened?”

“The boy saw the face of Male’Siriptus,” Vendanj said.

“I did not see it.”

“The child sees with simpler, truer eyes, and his feelings are close to his skin. The mist laid hold of these things and used them.”

“What now?” Braethen asked.

“We will hope that an entire collough does not await us at the edge of Je’holta.”

The mists continued to form strange shapes, but Braethen paid them little attention, focusing on the words of A’Posian to keep his mind clear of fretful thoughts. He could hear the simple admonition as clearly as the day he’d first heard his father speak it: “Mind that your path is to be a creator. You may yet become an author. But creation of any kind serves the Will and those who bear it.”

Braethen still believed in those words, but his sword was unskilled and weak in the defense of Vendanj or Wendra or Tahn. The root-digger, of all people, had saved Braethen’s life in their first encounter with the Bar’dyn.

The mists began to solidify in front of him, forming deep, wide holes where eyes might have been looking into him, and a slack jaw gaping in a frozen scream: his doubts given form.

“Hold now, sodalist!” Vendanj commanded, putting his hand on Braethen’s shoulder.

Braethen recoiled, blinked, and the face was gone.

As if in answer, the mists began to list and heave, moving first one way, then another, but slowly, as though dancing to a silent, mournful dirge. Vendanj put a hand to Braethen’s chest and cautioned him to step back. The mists began to part like a curtain, creating a clear, dark path out of the obscurity before them. He heard the approach of soft steps over the dank ground, and Braethen suddenly felt a terrible chill. A shape made its slow way toward them, draped in shadow, but with hatred clear in the simple inclination of its head.

Vendanj turned to Braethen. “Sodalist, are you completely sworn to the oath you accepted?” His eyes were stern, searching. “It is too late for guessing in this. Either you are in it marrow, blood, and sinew, or you are but a well-intentioned fool.”

Braethen looked past Vendanj as the shadow came on, the mists undulating in a series of waves at its passage. How many nights had he sat at his table reading, rehearsing the words, the genealogies, the Covenant to the First Order? His elbows had worn thin the varnish at the table’s edge, and the smell of candle wax had become his closest friend. In the small Hollows home he had dreamed of adding his arm to the Sodality, to defend all he knew against the changes men thought to write or cause in the land. Was he to go into the breach, or was he merely a reader of tales?

The image of himself seated as a child in the oversized chair of A’Posian, with a book wider than the span of his own arms in his lap, crystallized in his head. Then he immediately saw himself vowing an oath offered by a sodalist taking his dying breaths.

He was decided.

Gently he pushed Vendanj’s arm down. “I am truly sworn, Sheason,” Braethen said with conviction.

The renderer reached within his cloak and withdrew a sword. He handed the weapon to Braethen. “Then stand with me now.”

Braethen took the blade, casting his other sword aside. Then the mists erupted in a din of snapping wood and rustling leaves and the roar of a thousand whispered voices from the dust of the earth.

The Quietgiven emerged completely, and pointed at Braethen and Vendanj. Just as it did, the world turned black in a heartbeat and Braethen could see nothing.

Struggling to see, the sodalist turned in circles. He began to feel weightless, having no idea which way was up or down. In his hand he still held the sword Vendanj had just given him, but he could see neither it nor his hand. He reached out, hoping to feel the Sheason, but felt nothing. Quickly, he crouched, sure he would find the ground beneath his feet … but it too was gone.

Braethen’s mind reeled, and he wondered if he had been cast down that black tunnel in the mist. Or perhaps this was death, perhaps the stories of an eternal walk of life were a delusion created by the early storytellers to give men hope. He tried to speak; no sound came. He shouted; still nothing. He pressed his fingers to his lips to be sure he was opening his mouth. The only thing real, touchable, was his own flesh.

And the sword.

In his hand the solid feel of the hilt reassured him. Inside the blackness, he and the sword were all that remained. Its weight comforted him, and though he still could not see it, he lifted it before his face.

What is happening? Vendanj gave me the sword just as the darkness parted and the shape came upon us. Am I still in the mist? Did the creature destroy us? He squeezed the sword. No. The sword would not exist in death.

Then Braethen began to fall. He could not see the passing of clouds or rocks or birds, but his gut wrenched as though he were plummeting from the heights of the north face into the lowlands below. A feeling grew violently in him that he was rushing toward his own end, and must complete the riddle of his imprisonment in this stygian nightmare or be dashed against whatever came at the end of the darkness. His heart hammered in his chest. He gripped the hilt of the sword with both hands.

What am I meant to learn here? The question seemed to hasten his fall.

The Sheason asked if I was sworn to my oath. With that thought, an elusive awareness danced at the edge of his understanding. He reached for it, trying to bend his mind around the hope it represented. But it evaded him. His shoulders and legs began to cramp, and quickly the pain became exquisite in its intensity; he despaired of escaping it. Then he realized what the rushing was, the fall; it was him becoming one with the darkness. If he did not find the puzzle’s answer, he would be swallowed by the endlessness of the blight around him, forever a part of it.

Then the awareness, the understanding, danced in again, closer now, and he reached out for it somehow, knowing there would not be a third opportunity. And the smallest, surest knowledge of it took hold in him.

“It is I!” he screamed, the sound bursting into the darkness like a horn blown from the heights of Jedgwick Ridge. “I am Forda. I am Forza!” He looked at the sword, which now glowed a brilliant white in the darkness. “We are here! Now!”

With his words, the world rushed in, the darkness retreating, and the ache and cramps were gone. He was back in the mist beside Vendanj; the creature stood before them in the same place, as though not a moment had passed.

The Sheason gave Braethen an approving look, and turned to meet the Quietgiven. Braethen lifted the sword before his eyes. Its blade no longer glowed as it had in the dark world he had just escaped, but he held it with a new purpose.

Before he could look up again, the being attacked. It lifted its tattered cloak like an evil bird preparing to take flight. A pulse of darkness rushed forward in a thick wave, cutting a path through the mists and knocking him and Vendanj off their feet.

A withering laugh escaped its cowl. “Mal i’mente, Therus.” Braethen suddenly felt cold. Behind his eyes he saw the memories of his youth being rewritten and unwritten. As the changes continued, he recognized the creature: Maere. Unlike the stuff of cautionary tales, the hate and fright that beset him began to steal the memory of those events that made him who he was. He was being undone. In his mind he saw flashes of the past, many of his most cherished and formative memories being taken from him or reformed into painful scenes he would never want to revisit.

Braethen howled at the loss, and jumped to his feet. Unbidden, something rose in his throat. “I am I!” he screamed. The cry repelled the darkness and the shifting in his own mind.

He turned to see the Sheason regain his feet, a violet light growing in his hands. The Maere whipped its cloak back from its broad shoulders, its entire body seeming to rear as might a horse. But before it could do more, a series of bright pulses shot from Vendanj’s hands into its chest. It yawped an unearthly scream.

Braethen did not hesitate. As the Maere screeched, he lunged forward and brought his sword around with all his strength. The blade tore into the beast and its clamoring intensified, shaking the very mist. One muscled arm flew with lightning speed at Braethen’s head and sent him sprawling. He landed hard on the ground, his head ringing. But he did not let go of the sword. Hot blood ran from his ear down his neck. He tried to stand, but the world turned at dizzying speed, the force of it pulling him down. Braethen lost his balance and collapsed back to the soil.

Vendanj took advantage of the Maere’s distraction with Braethen and reached into the folds of his cloak. He retrieved the small wooden case and withdrew one of the leaves Braethen had seen him eat. He held one between the second and third fingers of his left hand and placed the hand on his chest. His other hand he extended, palm down, and said something in low, quick words.

Instantly, the mists withdrew from around him, and a rush of light descended from the sky. Braethen looked up and saw a long, wide opening through the dark mists. The sun streamed down, returning natural, vibrant color. Radiance grew from below, even as the sunlight coursed down from above. The Maere began to thrash to and fro. Steam rose from its body and holes opened in its flesh as though it were completely insubstantial, a construct of their minds.

In a last desperate attack, the Maere charged Vendanj, whose eyes were shut as he focused his energy and words into the Will.

Braethen got to his feet, but fell forward onto his hands. He scrambled ahead, using one hand on the ground to keep his feet under him. The Maere closed in on the Sheason, but came hindered by the light, and losing substance with each step. Vendanj’s eyes were still shut, and he stood, unaware. Braethen pressed on, gaining speed and resolve. He pushed away his dizziness, focused on the Maere and rose, bolting for the Sheason. The Maere raised its awful hands and darkness enveloped them, just two strides from Vendanj. Braethen howled, and the Sheason’s eyes opened just as the Maere blew from its torn lips a rank breath across its darkened hands. The darkness leapt, flashing forward in jagged arcs toward Vendanj. Braethen arrived and with his last vestige of failing strength brought his sword up into the belly of the Maere. The sword thrummed as it met the Quietgiven. The beast doubled over, its dark magic dissipating as it crumpled, writhing, to the ground. The sun continued to stream down upon them, and in moments the Maere was nothing more than steaming ashes at their feet.

Braethen looked up again at the marvelous tunnel carved from the mist straight up into the light of day. The Sheason slumped to the ground, and Braethen sat down beside him, together in the light of the sun, surrounded by the darkness.

*   *   *

Tahn lay facedown on the ground, gasping for breath. Sutter collapsed on his hands and knees beside him, drawing his own ragged gulps of air. The smell of dirt and rocks warming in the sun helped reduce Tahn’s panic. After a moment he turned over and propped himself up on his elbows. The mists remained just a few strides behind him, small plumes puffing outward, threatening to expand and engulf them again before being drawn back into the body of the great black fog. Distantly he thought he heard a shriek, but his heart still throbbed in his ears; he couldn’t be sure.

In the distance, Jole and Bardoll were fretting and stamping.

“Will and Sky, what is that?” Sutter exclaimed, looking back at the mist.

“More than Vendanj told us,” Tahn replied bitterly.

“Why did you run?”

The images flashed in Tahn’s mind—the mind-cry of an infant falling off a broken stone monument, singed sheets of parchment rising on hot winds. He saw an image of himself tearing at stone with bloodied fingers. Tahn held up his hands and looked at them, but saw nothing save the old scar on the back of his hand. He tried to make sense of the images that flashed in his mind, but even now they were fading. The memories of countless suns folded into nothing; the gentle voice of Balatin teaching him on a summer porch with light flies winking in nearby piñons dissolved into a mirror of desert brush, waterless wastes, a barren tree, and finally to nothing. He was left with only the litany of flesh and Will he rehearsed every time he drew his bow, and that meant no more to him than before. He took fistfuls of dirt in his hands and recalled the cloaked figure near the ravine on his last hunt, a patch of earth turned to glass, and soil that resisted the nourishment of rain. He realized that he did not care to see another day come, and shuddered beneath the growing heat of the sun on his back.

Sutter gently grabbed his arm. “Tahn, what’s wrong? What did you see? Why did you break the line?”

Tahn shook his head. “I don’t know, but whatever the reason, it’s gone now.” He stared at the bank of dark fog. “It got inside me, Sutter. I don’t know how, but I could feel it reading my memories like pages in one of Braethen’s books. And then it was like something was writing the story forward.” Tahn paused, trying to understand the feeling. “The story was the same,” he finished.

“What story?” Sutter asked. “What do you mean the same?”

Tahn shut his eyes, trying to say it clearly. “I’m not sure. Maybe ours.”

Sutter stared at him for several long moments. Finally, he said, “We have to go back in for the others.”

Suddenly, Tahn remembered Wendra. “Great Fathers, what have I done?” He rose to his knees.

As if in response, the sound of pounding feet issued from the fog. Tahn sat up, hoping to see Wendra emerge from the grip of the dark cloud. Several feet inside the mist, the large shapes of several Bar’dyn appeared.

“Run!” Tahn yelled.

He scrambled to his feet and headed for Jole, Sutter at his heels. The stamping of heavy feet shook the earth behind them. Sutter quickly drew abreast of Tahn, matching his every step. Tahn looked back and saw the Bar’dyn emerge from the mist, their eyes fixed upon him and Sutter, massive legs carrying them with impossibly quick strides.

Tahn’s chest burned. He’d not completely gotten his breath back before starting to run from these creatures that seemed not to tire. As he struggled up a low hill, something pierced Tahn’s foot. Not watching his step, he’d planted a boot on a spine-root. Several needles shot through his boot and entered the soft flesh of his sole. He almost fell, but Sutter caught him, grabbing his waist with one arm and jerking him forward.

As they struggled toward the horses, something hit Sutter in the back. Nails pitched forward, breaking his fall with his hands. On his back, a small iron ball with several dozen spikes—like the head of a small mace—had struck just beneath his shoulder. Sutter got up. Blood spread in circles around the spikes. Tahn glanced back, and saw a Bar’dyn hurl a second ball. The beast threw the weapon with its bare hand, its fibrous skin too thick to be harmed by the spikes. The ball hurtled with tremendous speed. Tahn dove to his left, his foot jolting with pain as he hit the ground.

The Bar’dyn closed on them, their eyes set and determined, a bitter intelligence burning from within. Two took swords out without breaking stride, a third shifting a long ax into its other hand. The look in their large eyes somehow frightened Tahn more than the weapons they carried; there resided an old anger in them. Sutter stooped and helped Tahn up, reaching one arm around his head and arching his back against the intrusion of the ball lodged there. Leaning together, they hurried through the dry grass. Tahn could hear the labored breathing of the Bar’dyn, like horses going full-on. He fought to continue, expecting at any moment the steel of a blade or the huge, gnarled hands of the Bar’dyn to rip them roughly back. The horses were close, but each step grew heavier, more difficult. Tahn’s legs threatened to give out. His hair fell in wet strands over his eyes and face; his friend’s cheek and jaw dug into Tahn’s own as they pushed forward, heads together. The mere heat of the sun fell like a weight upon him.

They reached the horses, and Jole nudged Tahn with his head. Sutter climbed onto Bardoll and looked back, riding around and putting himself between Tahn and the Bar’dyn. He lifted his sword as a challenge, but the Bar’dyn paid no heed and came on undaunted.

“Hurry, Tahn!” Sutter yelled. “They will take us from our saddles in another breath!” Sutter ducked, another ball sailing past his head.

The horses sensed the impending danger and began to sidestep, tugging at their reins. Tahn could not get his foot in the stirrup without stepping on the barbs that had broken off in his foot. He anticipated the agonizing pain of placing pressure on them to mount.

“Hold!” one of the Bar’dyn called. “You run only from lies!” Its voice rasped powerfully, the words glottal and hard to understand.

“I’ll send you to eternal night!” Sutter cried in defiance. But even in his stupor, Tahn heard his friend’s fear.

The Bar’dyn yelled deep in its throat. The proximity of the cry warned Tahn of their closeness. There was no time to move around Jole to mount from the other side, and he could not jump into his saddle with only one foot. Tahn gritted his teeth and thrust his boot into the stirrup. Intense pain filled his foot, shooting ripples into his entire body. Something snapped in the middle of his sole as though one of the spine-roots had broken inside his foot as it met bone.

Tahn screamed, and put his full weight upon his foot to hoist himself up. The force drove the spines deeper into his tender flesh. Seated, he let go the reins and put his arms around Jole’s neck. He scarcely needed to tap Jole before his old friend ran like canyon wind. Sutter swiped down once with the flat of his blade and kicked Bardoll into a full run. Sutter raced away with Tahn, looking back warily for further spiked balls. Another ball hurtled past, missing badly over their heads. Each time he bounced in his saddle, Sutter’s face twisted in agony at the sharp points driven into his back.

“Faster!” Tahn yelled. The Bar’dyn kept pace with them, one even gaining ground. Glancing back once, Tahn watched their gait, graceful despite their immense size, and the powerful muscles rippling beneath their thick, coarse skin. Their faces had eased into a terrible, placid expression, though their arms and shoulders pumped vigorously.

“We’ll have you,” one of them announced with an even voice, not a threat but a comment. “Then your lies and the lies of your Fathers will we show you.” The Bar’dyn’s face remained unchanged as it called after them, the eerie calm not unlike that belonging to the Sheason.

“They’re gaining!” Sutter yelled over the fury of hooves and the pounding of Bar’dyn feet.

Tahn looked back. He could see that in moments they would be overtaken. What can I do! Suddenly a calm came over him, as though the world fell silent. Tahn felt still inside. Just then a cry shattered the air. The Bar’dyn all stopped and looked backward to the mist a thousand strides behind them. The creatures out of the Hand looked confused and without direction. The sureness in their aspects had fallen, though a cold hatred was still etched into their thick features. They looked at one another and then back at Tahn and Sutter, who now were well beyond their reach. One of the creatures pointed, and the Bar’dyn began to run again, this time south toward the north face.

Tahn and Sutter did not slow, and gradually the High Plains faded in the distance as they raced east toward Recityv.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The Help of Young and Old

As Wendra stepped into the light, she immediately saw six Bar’dyn and a figure draped in a long, oversized cloak that hinted at scarlet folds whenever it moved. The Quietgiven watched the mists farther to the north, and didn’t see her or Penit duck behind a rock formation twenty strides from the mist’s edge.

The exertion of freeing herself from the darkness had caused her hip and ankle to bleed freely, the blood pumping madly and coating her entire left leg.

Penit looked at her wound with horror. “Are you dying?”

“No,” Wendra said, suppressing a nervous laugh. “But we must be quiet,” she whispered. “They will not be kind if we are found.”

Penit nodded and looked around, grabbing a rock and holding it with his arm cocked and prepared to throw. Wendra let him alone in his protective pose and tenderly touched her cuts. The wound burned hot, fever assuredly; it would get into the rest of her soon. A few drops of blood fell to the cool soil in the shade of the large rock. Will the Bar’dyn smell the blood and track us down? Wendra looked around and realized they were only paces from the north face. In their flight through the shadows of the mist, they had fled south and east. The dark cloud held steady, rising several hundred strides up the cliff. But on this side of it, the face of the sheer bluff shone red, orange, and white in jagged striations that looked like lightning. The summit of the north face was lost beyond sight, too far for help, but close by at its base she saw her answer.

A cave.

Wendra pulled the strapping from her left boot, tore a strip from her cloak, and tied it to her wound as tightly as she could bear. Then she tapped Penit and pointed to the hole at the base of the cliff. The boy understood immediately. He helped her up and, using the large rock as a shield, they stepped as lightly as they could toward the cave. Wendra watched closely for drops of blood on the ground, but soon lost her concern in the flashes of heat that stole over her.

Occasionally, strange sounds emanated from the mist, but Wendra did not stop. She fixed on the dark mouth at the cliff base and pushed all other thoughts out of her mind. She hoped the Far had fared well against the Bar’dyn. She hoped Tahn and the others were all right. But even her concern for her brother fell away under her determination to reach shelter for herself and Penit.

They reached the cave and guardedly entered, stopping to sit only when the shadows hid them completely. Penit eased Wendra to the cave floor. She felt the cool invitation of the ground there on her cheek and let everything else go to blackness.

*   *   *

When she awoke, she could not see the entrance to the cave. Worriedly, she looked around, searching for Penit, but all remained black. Finally her eyes adjusted, and she saw the flicker of several stars shining through what looked like a tilted arch—the cave entrance.

“Penit,” she whispered.

“Right here,” the boy replied. He reached out and touched her arm.

She jumped at his touch, causing a twinge in her leg. Her face slick with sweat, Wendra knew the fever had spread. The cuts were almost surely deeper than she had first thought. She sat up and leaned back against the cave wall.

“Any sign of the others?” she asked.

“No, but I found your horse,” Penit answered, his voice proud.

“You left the cave?” Wendra asked with mild reproach.

“I crawled to the entrance and watched the Bar’dyn search the edge of the dark clouds, disappearing inside and coming out in different places. I didn’t see them get anybody.” Penit scuttled closer to her, his boots and bottom scraping the cavern floor. “Then the mist blew away in a great wind, scouring the ground. I waited a while, then I went out to look around for Vendanj to help you with your leg. I saw Ildico drinking at a small stream. I got him and brought him back. He’s just outside, tied to a tree.”

Wendra wanted to scold him for taking such a chance, but she didn’t have the energy. Besides, he’d gotten them food and transportation, which might just save them.

“Thank you, Penit. That was very brave.” Wendra, her eyes now more fully adjusted, saw a shadowy smile spread on the boy’s face, though he said nothing. “Bring the saddlebags in. Let’s have something to eat.”

The boy rose and became a dark silhouette against the lighter darkness of the night beyond the mouth of the cave. Stars on the horizon winked in and out as he passed in front of them. He disappeared for a moment, then quickly returned, dropping the heavy bags to the ground.

“Can we start a fire?” he asked. “It’s getting cold.”

Wendra considered the risk, but heard the fear behind his request. “Gather some wood, but quietly. And don’t stray too far from the mouth of the cave.”

“Won’t have to, there’s plenty just outside.”

Penit left again on his errand. Wendra retrieved a bag filled with dried meats and cheese, and another with Sedagin flatbread that she’d saved from the previous night’s feast. Thoughts of the Sedagin left her dejected. They certainly would have come to their defense had they been close at hand. Instead, here she lay, far below them, holed up in the bedrock of their High Plain and bleeding out her life’s blood. Suddenly, her thoughts turned to her lost child, and to the Bar’dyn who had come into her home and taken it from her, and who had pushed them up the road to Myrr, into the wilds and finally into the high home of the Sedagin. Then, upon leaving, they had passed through these mists. Anger brought bile to the back of her throat, and she tasted the hot acid of her stomach. Tears of frustration and loss shook her, but she let them fall without a sound, for fear of being heard by the boy and worrying him.

Penit returned with an armload of wood and laid it on the cave floor beside her. She took a flint and handed it to the boy, who readily built a fire. His face, streaked with dirt and tears, glowed in the orange glare of the flames with a thankful smile that warmed Wendra’s heart. They ate in silence, building meals of the bread, meat, and cheese. Penit fetched the waterskin, and they both drank deeply before settling in and tending the fire.

Sometime later, Wendra decided to have a look outside, but her leg had grown stiff and numb and did not respond to her attempts to use it. She sat again and looked at Penit, who appeared lost in thought and somehow content here in the cave despite the events that had brought them here. She thought she could see all the terrible circumstances and nightmarish beings disappearing from his consciousness as he put himself in the present moment, fed and warm and tending a healthy fire. She envied him this, as she watched him live so contentedly even for a few moments without concern for tomorrow. Unwittingly, she smiled with the same expression that she’d seen on Balatin’s face so often: wonder, love, admiration. She’d assumed her father lived a contented and happy life. It pained her now to realize that these moments were, for parents, but islands in a river current. But it made her glad as well that, though she hadn’t known it, her life had offered him some respite from the hardships a parent knows.

“When do we go find the others?” Penit said, interrupting Wendra’s reverie.

She looked at Penit with increasing amazement and wondered if life on the wagon beds had instilled such persistence and courage in him. “Tomorrow. My leg is stiff and I have the sweats. After I sleep, and it’s light, we can search for them. They may well find us; Mira is an adept tracker.”

“Good,” Penit replied.

Wendra studied the boy’s face, wondering if she dared jeopardize the feeling of safety he seemed to have. Not tonight. Tomorrow. When the greater light is firmly over our heads, I will ask him what the mists showed him. So she sat with him in the light of the fire. They steadily fed the flames and remarked softly about unimportant things, the way she and Balatin and Tahn had done in the years before. Sometime later in the evening, Wendra began to hum softly, her dulcet tones a perfect counterpoint to the crackle of the fire and the low hum of wood being consumed by flame. Penit watched her, grinning. Wendra returned the smile, spontaneously creating a soothing, lilting melody. Penit crawled closer and rested his head on her lap. Long before the fire had burned to coals, Wendra followed the boy into sleep.

*   *   *

She woke to the sound of wood being laid for a fire. Opening her eyes, Wendra saw Penit fussing over kindling and flint. Beyond the cave entrance, the day had already grown strong in the sky. Her attention returned to Penit, who began quietly singing to himself, though his efforts were not so practiced and squeaked in his adolsecent throat. Wendra sat up, several drops of sweat falling from her nose and forehead. The fever was worse. She had lost a great deal of blood. Even without standing she knew her leg would be of little use to her.

Propping herself up, she wiped her face and sat a moment as Penit finished relighting the fire. The boy had stripped a green switch and sharpened one end, threading several pieces of dried meat onto it for their endfast. He sat with his knees up close to his chest, heating the meat over the fire. Wendra smiled weakly through her fever at his innocence. What she must ask of him was too much. At what cost would it come for a boy who believed all the old stories enough to stand up to a league captain in his own defense to play the tales? But she knew she must ask. Merely propping herself up had exhausted all her energy; she couldn’t even reach the entrance to the cave without help, and Penit could not carry her. He certainly couldn’t help her reach Recityv.

“Penit, I need your help.”

“Sure. What can I do?” He turned over the roasting meat and looked at her.

“I cannot stand.” Wendra swallowed hard to keep her emotions from welling up. “I will need help if I am to make it to Recityv. I need you to find that help for me.” She paused, looking into the boy’s large blue eyes. “Can you do that for me?”

The boy did not hesitate. “I will.” Then he surprised Wendra. “It was hard for you to ask me that, wasn’t it?” He put his meat down on the saddlebag. “I am young, and I have been without parents for as long as I can remember. And,” he said, hesitating, “I don’t want to meet the Bar’dyn again.” He smiled nervously. “But I can do it. I can follow the stream. Deleira always said water leads to people. He was the troupe leader.”

“You must be careful. Even if the Bar’dyn are gone, a child … a young man alone is not safe in the world of men.”

Penit smirked knowingly. “I’ve seen my share of scalawags. They’re always close to the wagon pot or spinning a tale to see your pocket stitching.” His smile faded and he looked distantly into the fire. “I will be careful. I don’t want to see any more of the darkness in the clouds.”

He offered no explanation, and Wendra chose to hold her questions for another time. “You’ll be all right, Penit.” Her voice broke with emotion. She wiped her brow and eyes with the hem of her cloak.

“You, too,” the boy said.

Penit gathered a great stack of wood for her, and refilled the waterskin. He took four strips of meat and a slice of cheese and put the rest in the saddlebag. When he finished, he knelt beside her.

“You’re sick because of me, because you came after me and got hurt. I won’t fail. I will come back.”

Wendra put her arms around him and kissed his cheek. “Go safely, Penit.”

Then he rose and walked to the mouth of the cave, where he stopped and looked back. “I lied before. I did care about the pageant wagon, the troupe. And I miss them.” He stopped, reflecting. “But I had to get away. I saw what happens after a life on the boards.”

He left off there, and jogged from the cave. She heard him mount Ildico and pass briefly across the mouth of the cave, heading east. “And come back to me again, son,” she said to herself and lay her head back down on the cool loam of the cavern floor.

*   *   *

Wendra drifted in and out of consciousness. Too weak to even lift herself up, she lay on the ground inside her cave and watched the last dances of fire-shadow on the uneven surface of the rocky ceiling. Fever sweat drenched her back, and her lips were dry and cracked from panting and dehydration. The food Penit had left was beyond her reach, but the thought of it nauseated her anyway, so she gave up on eating.

As the fire died, the cave grew quiet and cold. Dim light shone from the entrance as the day came fast to a close. Chills shook her violently, alternating with hot waves of fever. She managed to pull her blanket up over her shoulders and listen to the sound of her own heart in her ears.

Perhaps the Sheason or the Far would find her before Penit could return with help. But she had been here more than a day. If they hadn’t come to her yet, they had likely turned east toward Recityv.

When Penit tore from her grasp in the mists, she had reacted without thinking, chasing him, hoping to catch him before whatever darkness groaned in the clouds could destroy him. Her thoughts grew darker still. She would probably have failed if Mira had not come after her. The Bar’dyn had put its sharp, powerful nails into her and she had crawled into this large tomb to die.

Wendra pushed back the morbid thoughts. There was still hope. Hope that she would live … a hope her own child had lost at the hands of the same brutal beasts. Her throat tightened with weak anger at the thought of what they had cost her: her home, her child, and now possibly her life. Wendra started to cough from the thick emotion. The convulsions from the coughing tore at the wound in her hip that was trying to heal.

Lying on her back, the coughing worsened, each fit reopening her wound. She summoned all her strength and rolled onto her side to try and calm the spasms. Her coughs now stirred the fire ash into small clouds that settled and clung to her sweat-slickened face. The smell of spent alder and soot nauseated her, but the wracking convulsions stopped, and she breathed easier. Lying still, Wendra felt an uncomfortable lump protruding into her side. She reached into the folds of her cloak and removed the box she had brought with her from beneath her bed back home.

Carefully, she placed the songbox beside her head. A wan smile touched her lips at the memories the box’s cedar smell evoked, and the gulf that seemed to separate her from her life when the box had been so important. Then her thoughts turned bitter, and she considered how much better this token might serve as wood for her fire than to remind her of what was no more. Salty tears stung her eyes and ran over her nose and cheeks. She liked the feel of them and did not wipe them away, tasting them as they ran onto her lips.

The songbox reminded her of home, the Hollows. The thought of it raised the question to her mind again: Why had the Sheason brought her? Was she supposed to support Tahn? Would she have been in danger if she’d remained behind? Something told her there was more to it than simply keeping siblings together. But no matter how she concentrated or reasoned, she could find no good answer. And now she was alone; left to try to make it to Rectiyv with only the help of a boy.

Wendra fingered open the box’s clasp and lifted its lid. Softly, its melody began, small gears turning the roll inside, which plucked a tune through the tiny tone prongs. The delicate song was too soft to ring as high as the cave’s ceiling, but it fell on the fire pit, the cavern floor around her, and her own tired ears like a memory, and she closed her eyes. The gentle notes called out their tune like a wounded bird, and Wendra felt herself falling into a fevered sleep.

Suddenly, Wendra had the feeling that she was not alone. Opening her eyes, she saw seated across from her a kindly looking man in a brilliant white robe. Between them, the fire had been rekindled. Distantly, like wind causing chimes to jangle, she could hear the melody of her box.

A fever vision?

Maybe. But despite not feeling any immediate fear, she sensed that her life had just irrevocably changed.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

The Rushing of Je’holta

Braethen lay on the ground staring up through the great hole in the mist. His chest still heaved from exertion. He clutched in his left hand the sword Vendanj had given him. The Sheason remained still, his eyes shut, one hand to his chest, the other extended. Not far from either of them, the ashy heap that had been the Maere still smoked in the bright shaft of light that broke through the gloom. Sometime later, the Sheason opened his eyes.

The sound of hurried footsteps could be heard in the mist, vague sounds that were retreating from him. The cries and moans deep within the fog bank slowly faded, leaving the sodalist and the Sheason in a pervasive silence. The hole torn in the mist began slowly to close, but for several moments the two sat in the sunlight, catching their breath.

“Do we wait, or do we continue on?” Braethen asked.

“The Maere likely means Bar’dyn are close by,” Vendanj said. “I believe I heard their heavy strides chasing the others when the line broke. The Quietgiven will feel the death of the Maere, gather quickly, and come for us. We will wait for Mira to return, then we will try to find Tahn and the rest.”

“What of the sounds in the mists?”

“Always a threat, sodalist, but they are no longer alive in the flesh. The mist gives them shape to the eye: their influence is in the mind. Their voices belong to souls lost while serving the One. They cry from beyond death, their hollow voices audible within Je’holta, like corrupted remembrance.”

“You said the Bar’dyn were here in the mist,” Braethen said. “Are they not affected by it?”

“Not as you or I. The Bar’dyn and other lost races that serve the Artificer no longer feel hope. Abandonment is what they know, and so the taint of Male’Siriptus has no hold over them. It is said that all the Bourne is Je’holta. For them,” the Sheason said mournfully, “it is like home.”

The Sheason’s words drew Braethen’s thoughts back to the black world that had enveloped him as he’d taken the sword he now held. In stark contrast, the brightness of the sun above him made his eyes water, but he did not turn away. He decided it was some kind of test.

“When you gave me the sword,” he asked Vendanj, “darkness swallowed me…”

Vendanj looked first at him, then at the encroaching wall of mist. Cautious footsteps could be heard approaching. The Sheason put a finger to his lips to silence the sodalist, stood, and turned in the direction of the sound. From the bank of darkness, Mira slowly emerged, her swords drawn, her face flushed.

“The girl?” he asked.

“Bar’dyn found her and the boy deep in the mist. She fled while I fought them back.”

Vendanj nodded. “Are you all right?” he asked.

“Out of patience with the beasts out of the Hand,” she said sternly.

The mists followed her as she approached, and quickly Je’holta filled in the large hole above, occluding the sun. She stopped near Braethen and appraised him carefully, her gaze alternating between him and the sword in his hand. Under her scrutiny, Braethen got to his feet and replaced the sword in its sheath. Around them, plumes of mist rose and fell, their touch feeling as a willow bud might in early spring.

“We will go north to the edge of the mist,” Vendanj said. “Perhaps the others have reached safety beyond its grip.” The Sheason extended a hand. “The power of Male’Siriptus still exists around us. If even one of the Velle came with Je’holta, we are far from safe.”

Braethen took the renderer’s hand, and put his own out to Mira. The Far sheathed one sword, and took the sodalist’s hand in a firm grip. Together they walked on through the mist.

It took time, but eventually they emerged from the low, dark cloud, into the light of day beyond. Braethen raised his arms and turned to face the sun.

“I’ll find the horses,” Mira said. “The Je’holta cloud will not go quietly.”

“I know,” Vendanj replied. “It will rage soon.”

Mira left at a run, covering ground at great speed, scanning the terrain she passed. In a moment she disappeared from sight. Braethen had not seen her move thus. He gaped openly at her rapid departure.

“We must find shelter,” Vendanj said. “The rushing of Je’holta is painful to the point of death. It will howl and blow like a storm dropping off the slopes of the Pall. The despair and loss of those that inhabit Male’Siriptus race over the body in torrents and tear at the mind like daggers. Come.”

Vendanj hastened up a low hill. A dense copse stood halfway down the lee slope, the rain and weather having hollowed a space beneath the gnarled root system on the downhill side. Braethen and the Sheason ducked under the cover.

They sat silently in the protection of the hollow, looking out on the day and watching cloud shadows move across the land. Then a wind rose up, mild at first, nothing more than the breeze that precedes a summer shower. But soon it became a gale, carrying leaves and dust in streams down the hill below them. The trees swayed, low oak and sage rippling in the fierceness. Above them, the sky darkened, and the wind screamed in horrible gusts. Braethen squinted at the mists that rushed past them at incredible speed. Branches were torn from their trunks and smaller plants uprooted entirely. Small sticks wheeled into the sky like feathers, and the dark cloud rushed out. The gale raged for several minutes, the tree roots around them groaning and straining against the onslaught of wind. The noise was deafening, like standing beneath a waterfall during spring thaw. Braethen grasped a root nearby to anchor himself, and hoped the Far had found cover. The Sheason sat with his cowl drawn up, a shadow in the rooted hollow, patiently waiting out the rushing of the winds.

The angry cloud expanded outward, dissipating to nothing. Soon, the howling died and the wind grew still. Light filtered through, replacing the darkness, and revealed the terrain around them, ravaged in the passing of Je’holta.

“Will and Sky,” Braethen muttered.

“Let’s go,” Vendanj said, and stepped out from under the trees.

They hiked back to the top of the hill, and watched as Mira appeared over the rise to the west, leading four horses. Moments later, the Far arrived with their mounts, and Penit’s besides. Her hair had blown free of its band and fell in long, silken strands about her face and neck. Braethen had not seen Mira like this; the difference surprised him.

“We may find them traveling east toward Recityv,” Mira said. “But the rushing winds have erased any trail we might have followed for leagues in any direction. The boy is either on foot, or with Wendra. They should be easy to find.”

The Far did not mention Tahn and Sutter.

They mounted and rode east, Mira taking the lead, constantly scanning the ground and horizon. All the rest of that day they rode, stopping finally when the light became too dim to see any further.

Mira secured the horses, then started a fire. Braethen helped her gather wood before sitting near the blaze and placing his sword in his lap to look it over. The blade bore the mark of a craftsman’s care, but had not yet seen its polish and finish. The metal was unyielding though. It glowed in the night, but so imperceptibly that Braethen half doubted any glow at all. Yet, when he looked closely, he could see the metal held a faint white cast, as though lit somehow from within.

Vendanj took a seat near the fire and removed his small wooden case from his cloak. Opening it, he took two leaves from a stem and placed them in his mouth, then, without once looking at Braethen, settled in, clearly exhausted, to savor the fire’s warmth.

Mira left for some time, returning without a sound. She seated herself on the trunk of a fallen tree. “There is no sign of them. But there is also no sign of Quietgiven, either,” she reported. “We are beyond the land affected by the rushing. Perhaps they moved farther north before turning east.” Mira shifted her attention to Braethen. “We need to continue your training.”

“And you asked me of the darkness, sodalist,” said Vendanj. “I have not forgotten. But that must be left for another time.” The Sheason drew back his cowl and looked at Braethen. “There are things from your books that you must know the truth behind if you are to fulfill your oath as sodalist. I know your heart now, but your inexperience and lack of understanding are more dangerous to us than the boy, Penit.”

“Why?”

“Because you are aware of the histories and the truths they offer us, but you haven’t comprehended them. To hold that sword, to lift your arm with others as your emblem suggests, you must have an understanding of the power of the Will, its meaning and purpose.”

Braethen listened intently.

“The Will is the power of creation, sodalist,” Vendanj declared. “You’ve read this countless times. It is what moves us, the wellspring of all life. The Will is without beginning or end. It is the power that resides in all matter, and the matter that resides in all power. It gives purpose to each age, those past and all those that will ever be.” The Sheason lifted the symbol fastened to his necklace, three rings, one inside the next, all joined at one point. “Each age is a part of the one before it, its consequences spreading, resonating, outward like ripples on a pond. But you may also read the emblem in its opposite, focusing inward.” Vendanj ran his finger across the circles toward the point where they were joined. “An inner resonance reducing forever to a single, perfect point.” He traced the woven figure of the rings thoughtfully. “The Will is both these things. Indeed, its meaning is forever dual.”

“And Forda I’Forza?” Braethen asked.

“Yes,” Vendanj answered. “Called also Ars and Arsa in the Language of the Covenant. Its true meaning is ‘energy and matter.’ All things are a marriage of the two, or one that becomes the other through transformation or growth or offering. Matter and energy have always been and will always be. They can be neither created nor destroyed. They list and heave under pressure from each other, becoming new, sometimes refining each other into beauty and balance, sometimes becoming discordant and unstable in a struggle to reach harmony. The Will is the union of these separate and everlasting elements.”

The Sheason spoke with deep reverence. Braethen thought that it must be because he invoked the power of the Will, taking it inside himself to cause change in the way of things, the cost of its use evident in the sunken cheeks of his face.

“To be confirmed a Sheason,” Vendanj went on, “is to accept the responsibility of wielding the power of the Will. The authority cannot be claimed; it must be conferred by those who already possess it to a pupil worthy to bear such a mantle.”

Mira tossed two pieces of wood into the fire. “It is a noble call, sodalist, but not all those who receive it live to know its worth.” She stared at him across the fire, her grey eyes bright and knowing.

“She is right,” Vendanj said. “But you must understand this first.” He touched an open palm to his chest. “We ourselves are Forda I’Forza. Our physical bodies are one half; thought and feeling the other half. For some this second part is known as the spirit or soul. In the covenant language, it is called us’ledia. But it is all Forda.”

He lowered his eyes and took a handful of dirt from the earth between his feet. “The Will was not intended to be drawn upon and used to influence this age, or any age since the High Season when the Noble Ones walked among us and used the Will to give form and variety to the land. It was their first hope that there be balance sufficient in this world that men would strive together to know the Will without trying to manipulate it.

“But while the Great Fathers yet held council at the Tabernacle of the Sky, the One put at odds all they had hoped to achieve. The peace begun in that blessed age started to fail.”

Vendanj looked away, the words distasteful in his mouth. Flaring eyes returned to Braethen.

“It was the Sheason who kept the dream of the Fathers alive. The Sheason were those who served the First Ones with untiring arms and perfect conviction. No power did they wield, only the desire to serve, to assist, to sustain. Sheason means ‘servant’ in the covenant tongue.” He took a deep breath and let the dirt slip from his palm as though it were sand in a time-glass. Then he gathered Braethen’s attention with a hard stare. “The world all but surrendered itself, becoming wicked and craven, and the age that followed the departure of the Fathers was given its name for it. It was a dark season, when the veil was thin and the emissaries of the One wrought havoc and destruction over most of the kingdoms south of the Pall.

“When all seemed lost, a Sheason known as Palamon rose in battle against Jo’ha’nel—the first dark messiah out of the Bourne—and defeated the beast. Palamon was a simple servant who had studied the writings left behind when the scola—the first disciples and scholars of the Framers—fled their colleges after the Fathers departed. He learned how to vender the Will, to use its power to direct change and organize matter. But he could do so only because he had been deemed a servant by the First Ones, and so was conferred the ability to render.”

Vendanj paused, lending weight to what he said next. “That ability came with a price.”

Several long moments later, he continued. “Since matter and energy can be neither created nor destroyed, to draw upon the Will in order to change things as they are requires an expenditure of Forda I’Forza. The Sheason were ordained to serve the land and its people; they were entrusted with this authority by the Fathers, and Palamon would not abrogate that trust. So he drew the power of the Will from himself, costing so much of his own Forda I’Forza that he could never fully recover. All those who have come after him have honored this covenant of personal sacrifice.”

Braethen stared with wide eyes in amazement. “Then each time you draw upon the Will, you die a little?”

Vendanj said nothing, but Mira’s eyes answered Braethen plainly. The Far rose and glared across the fire at Braethen. “Mark well what has been added to your understanding this night, sodalist. It is dangerous knowledge. It inspires your compassion and admiration, I can see, but joining yourself to this cause has put a price on your head.” She stopped, the sound of her words replaced by the yowl of coyotes in the prairies to the west and the crackle of pine boughs in the fire between them.

Braethen’s hand tightened instinctively upon his blade.

Mira noticed his whitened knuckles. “Well enough, sodalist. Tomorrow then. We will show you better use of that steel.”

Mira left the fire, disappearing in an instant beyond the circle of its glow. Braethen knew he would not see her again until morning. He still had so many questions. Some of the gaps in the accounts he’d studied had been filled, but what of himself? What of the Sodality? And he desperately wanted to know what had happened in the mist when he’d taken hold of the sword.

He turned to Vendanj. “What of me? What of—”

“Not tonight, sodalist,” Vendanj interrupted. “Sleep. We will talk of these things again. But now we need our rest. We have a longer route to Recityv than the others, stops to make.”

“The Scar,” Braethen said.

“And before that, Widow’s Village.” The Sheason’s voice became thoughtful, soft. “We have names to record.…”

The Sheason lay down and soon his breathing slowed. But Braethen’s mind would not be quieted. For hours into the night, he sat pondering the words Vendanj had spoken. What was Widow’s Village? What names did he speak of? But mostly, Braethen worried that every time he used the sword lying in his lap, the darkness would return.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The Tenendra

The land and sky turned bronze as the sun began to fall toward night. Shadows lengthened and the hazy light of end of day rose over the full-bellied roll of the land north of the High Plains. The trees became dark shapes, and the whir of cricket song came as the heavens exposed themselves again.

But Tahn and Sutter did not fully stop until Sutter fell from his saddle.

They’d ridden for many hours, pausing only when the horses’ legs had flagged beneath them. They’d allowed their mounts a brief rest to drink and graze a bit. Then they’d continued toward the east. Tahn had ridden with his injured foot free of the stirrup. The pain of the spines in his sole sharpened with Jole’s every stride, but bothered him less with his foot unrestrained. And unable to concentrate, Tahn followed Sutter’s lead.

Until his friend tumbled.

Tahn jumped from Jole’s back, taking care to lessen the impact on his damaged foot. He got to Sutter’s side. His friend lay on his stomach, his nose in the dirt, the spiked ball bloody and still protruding from his back. But the bleeding had been relatively light. Sutter’s fall had not resulted from loss of blood.

“I feel weak.” Sutter’s words came soft. Too soft, even after having fallen.

Something on the spikes?

Tahn looked around, panic seizing him.

They were alone. There was no help.

“Let’s sleep here,” Sutter said. Something in his voice struck Tahn’s mind like a warning. Don’t let him slip into sleep. Keep him talking.

“How about you stand your lazy ass up? I could use some help. My foot’s killing me.” Tahn jostled his friend.

Sutter managed to look up with a tired smile. “Ah, Woodchuck, stuff that swollen foot of yours into your mouth so I can’t hear you complain.”

Tahn needed to get Sutter back on his horse. But he’d never do it still hobbled by these spines in his foot. He carefully removed his boot and stocking. The coppery smell of blood rose from the wool sock, sodden with sweat and blood. In the dim twilight, his wounds did not appear too serious. Tahn slowly probed the sole of his foot. He winced when his fingers brushed the entry marks.

“How about some help with this little prize in my back?” Sutter spoke from behind Tahn, his words slurring a bit.

“I think it suits you fine. I say we leave it for a while and see if it grows on you.”

Sutter laughed, and immediately groaned. “Don’t make me laugh. It hurts too much.”

“Never thought I’d hear those words from you.” Tahn stood on his one good foot.

“Only when you’re telling the joke, Woodchuck. Now about my back.”

Tahn drew his knife and doubled his cloak in his hand to pull the ball out with a quick yank and toss it aside. It fell to the ground with a thud. Sutter bit back a curse before Tahn tucked a cloth in Nails’s shirt and patted his shoulder. “Good as new. You’ll be stooped over the dirt again in no time.”

Sutter returned a wry half smile and stood, the pain dispelling some of whatever had gotten into his blood. Tahn sat and took a drink from his waterskin, then washed his foot.

“Ah, Dust and Wind!” Tahn exclaimed.

“What you whining about now?”

“I can’t even see the spines. They’re too deep inside.” Tahn continued to probe, grimacing as he touched each buried needle.

“I can get them out,” Sutter said. “But your cries will be heard all the way back to Hambley’s if I do it.” His lips tugged into a lopsided grin.

Tahn mocked him. “It’s all those marvelous years plucking twigs from the ground that qualifies you to do surgery on my foot. Is that it? Because if that’s what you’re thinking, forget it. I would rather burn the foot off. It would be less painful.”

“Your will is your own, Woodchuck.” Sutter made a show of two good feet by stomping down hard on the ground. “My father taught me how to use a short knife to remove the slivers that a professional root-digger such as myself is bound to get working the soil. And those spines are a great deal larger than some of the barbs and thorns I’ve coaxed from my hands.”

“Have you any of that balsam root to dull the pain?” Tahn asked.

“I think there’s a bit left if your womanly foot is too delicate to stand for man’s work.”

Tahn smiled defeat through gritted teeth. “Find the balsam root.”

As Sutter looked through the saddlebags, Tahn had his first moment of quiet and calm since they entered the mists of Je’holta.

By the Bourne, what have I done?

He looked west, the way they’d come, as though he might see Wendra even now in her own flight from the Quiet. Only the hues of sunset there. He thought of her, of the simple life they’d led in the Hollows, of the awful moment of her childbirth … of abandoning her defense then, of leaving her in the dark mists a few hours ago … He hoped she was all right.

He chastised himself for allowing the mists to get inside his mind, to send him fleeing recklessly away from his friends and causing himself and Sutter to be separated from the others. He wanted to go back and find them, to make sure Wendra was safe. He owed his sister that much.

But he needed to get Sutter and himself to a healer. Even now he could see his friend’s hands trembling as he searched for the balsam root. Still, the guilt of abandoning her again plagued him. What would Balatin have said? Tahn examined his throbbing foot, delicately fingering the wounds. Sharp pains shot up his leg. Balatin would tell him he was no good to anyone unless he was whole.

He needed help.

With unexpected suddenness he missed the Far. He had grown used to her certainty, to seeing her at the edge of camp looking out into the night. He had become accustomed to her unsmiling way, and the sureness with which she moved and spoke and knew what to do.

If nothing else, Wendra would be safe with Mira and Vendanj to protect her, though unlike the thought of the Far, recalling the Sheason did not comfort him. Tahn sensed that Vendanj had sought him out because Tahn might prove useful or important, not out of regard for his safety.

Then like a crack of thunder, the images he’d seen in the mists flashed violently in his mind. Tahn pushed them back, refocusing on his sister. He should have made her stay in the Hollows. Whatever danger the Sheason placed him in, Wendra should not share it. But even as he had these thoughts, Tahn knew them to be false. Despite the danger, it had felt right for her to come. He just wanted to find his way back to her as soon as possible. Because after all, perhaps being near her had less to do with keeping her safe and more to do with the mutual comfort they could give each other. As they always had. And moreso now than ever: She with the recent loss of her baby, and Tahn with his growing dread of where this journey was leading him.

And the sacrifices it may require.

Tahn then considered Penit, the boy his sister had grown so fond of so fast. The boy’s presence troubled him. Why would the Sheason permit a child to accompany them? The dangers were very real, and this orphan belonged on the boards of a wagon-bed, performing. Now he accompanied a renderer. The Sheason surely had a use for him. The thought of Vendanj’s manipulation burned in Tahn until Sutter returned, hefting two roots in his hand.

“Here,” Sutter said, and threw a root at Tahn.

The root hit him in the stomach. “Such compassion.” The words came out more bitterly than he’d intended—thoughts of the Sheason still lingered in his mind.

Tahn stripped the shoots from the main root, then broke the root in two. He ate the first half, grimacing at the bitter taste.

“You’re a picture of loveliness,” Sutter said, pulling a short knife from his own boot.

“And you’re a credit to dirt everywhere, Nails—” Tahn gagged on the root. He forced himself to swallow.

“Eat the other half,” Sutter admonished. “It’s a thin root. You’ll want it all if the pain is as bad as you’re making it out to be.”

Tahn frowned and put the second half in his mouth.

“Chew it,” Sutter said. “It works faster that way.” Sutter took his own root and gobbled it up.

Tahn bit into the balsam and quickly chewed it into small pieces before swallowing. “How long until you can start?”

“The balsam won’t dull the pain of getting them out, just the throb once we’re done.” Sutter was slurring his words again.

“Come here,” Tahn said. “Let me check your back.”

Sutter turned. “Why?”

Tahn slapped Sutter’s wound, eliciting a yowl. “What in all your days was that about?” Nails complained.

“Something was on those spikes, Sutter. I don’t know what it was, but you’re slurring your words and your hands are trembling. The sting keeps you sharp. Now, get these spines out, and try not to enjoy causing me pain. Then let’s find some help for us both.”

A look of disbelief on his friend’s face quickly changed to worry. Sutter sat, lifting Tahn’s foot to the last light of day. The smile left Nails’s face as he carefully put the blade against one thumb and started on the punctures near the toes. He folded back a flap of skin, and pressed the knife into the wound. Terrible pain shot up Tahn’s leg. He muffled a cry, and in a second, Sutter lifted the first spine for Tahn to see.

“Not bad for a root-digger, wouldn’t you say?” Sutter commented, though his face held no hint of humor.

Tahn gritted his teeth against the next operation. One by one Sutter removed the other spines, and as he did he began to speak in a faraway voice. This, Tahn thought, was not the poison on the spiked ball, but remembrance.

“This was my father’s knife when he was a boy,” Sutter said, holding up the bloodied blade along with another spine dug from Tahn’s foot. “He gave it to me when I saw my tenth Northsun. Told me a good knife and a bit of root knowledge was all a man needed.”

“He’s a good man,” Tahn offered.

“I know.” Sutter nodded, returning to his task. “And he was always good to me. Never said a bad word about the parents that left me. Never asked more or less of me than he did of Garon.” Sutter was quiet a moment, as if thinking of his stepbrother. “He needs me on that farm,” he said, mostly to himself.

Tahn heard guilt beneath the words.

“We’ll go home eventually,” Tahn offered.

Sutter looked up and caught Tahn’s eyes, a question passing unspoken between them: Neither of them knew if they’d ever get home again. He worked another spine out of Tahn’s foot. Then he stopped, and stared at the knife. “It wasn’t for shame of him or my mother that I never said anything about being adopted, Tahn. I want you to know that. Never of them. It was … it was the parents who left me to begin with. That’s what I didn’t want … I love my father, my mother. I wanted to come with you, yes, but I love them … I do. They were never anything but kind to me.”

“You’re a good son to them, Sutter.”

“Am I?” Tahn’s friend squeezed back sudden tears. “They don’t deserve the hardship of that farm without my help.” Then softer. “Maybe the Sheason is right. Maybe putting my hands in the loam should have been noble enough.”

Sutter’s words were painfully clear. No poison, Tahn thought, could have dulled them.

“Your secret is new to me,” Tahn said, “but it’s not the reason you left the Hollows. Remember what Vendanj said. Staying there would have put them in danger.” Sutter looked up. Tahn nodded. “They know you love them.”

In the dying light, Sutter looked at Tahn a long moment, then nodded. His grimy face showed the vaguest hint of a smile.

“Now, can we get on with it?” Tahn concluded, pulling them out of the past. Sutter’s smile came on full.

The last two spines felt as though they slid from bone-deep inside Tahn’s foot. The pain in the flesh of his sole was excruciating. When Sutter finished, Tahn’s body fell limp. His foot throbbed while his friend gently wrapped it with several lengths of cloth torn from the hem of his shirt. Sutter then helped him into his saddle, and the two friends turned east and rode hard enough that the jouncing of their mounts kept their pain fresh.

*   *   *

The terrain undulated in long, rolling hills and vales. As darkness descended more fully, the pain in Tahn’s foot grew. When they came upon a road stretching north and south, Sutter reined in his horse. As Tahn looked both directions, Sutter handed him another balsam root.

“Eat and be well, Woodchuck.” This time his friend’s words slurred badly.

“Your face is pain enough to need this bitter medicine.”

“You’re feeling better, I can tell. Any thoughts?” Sutter pointed up and down the road.

“Yeah,” Tahn replied. “But your face would still be ugly.” Tahn looked both directions again and turned Jole north. After another hour, they crested a low rise and found a town nestled in a narrow vale. Firelight flickered in windows like light-flies, and people ambled along the streets. A few rode in overland carriages—the type built strong for long journeys that might encounter highwaymen.

At the far end of the town, several large tents glowed like the hollow gourds fitted with candles at the commencement of Passat each Midwinter in the Hollows. But these were grand tents, decorated with stripes that flowed from their pinnacles to the ground. Tahn could see six tents in all, and from a distance could hear the thrum of voices and activity. People were entering and exiting like bees coming and going from a hive. And in the air hung the scent of animals sharing close quarters.

“A tenendra?” Sutter asked.

“Looks like it,” Tahn said. “I’ve never seen one in the Hollows.”

“My father says they’re low entertainment, unworthy of our coin.” But Sutter’s eyes were alight with curiosity. “I don’t suppose it would hurt to test the wisdom of our elders.” He turned a devious grin to Tahn, his smile lopsided, as though the left side of his face was growing numb.

Tahn looked back at the brightly lit town below. He wanted to see the tenendra. The stories of the feats and wonders they exhibited were known almost as widely as those of the reader. And the bright tents looked warm and welcoming, the kind of thing he and Sutter had talked about finding ever since he could remember.

But more importantly, they needed a healer.

“We will go,” he concluded. “But we find a healer first. And remember there’s no one to stand behind us if we get into trouble.”

“You couldn’t even stand behind me, gimpy,” Sutter said. “Come on, before we miss all the fun.” Then, in a worried tone, he added, “Tahn, I need help. I can’t feel my hands.” Sutter looked unsteady in his saddle. They were running out of time. Whatever had gotten inside Sutter had gone deeper, and would continue to work at him until …

Sutter clucked at Bardoll and Tahn hurried to catch up. Together they descended into the vale as night closed in completely.

*   *   *

Tahn guardedly watched the faces of people he and Sutter passed as they rode into the town proper. To his surprise, no one seemed to take note of them. Men and women crossed in front of their horses without care. More than once, he and Sutter slowed or wound their way around pedestrians who stopped to share a greeting or an insult with one another. At the prospect of dipping into this new town and its culture, Sutter gave Tahn a look of delighted, unrestrained glee as comic as the scop masks they’d seen in Myrr. But his friend’s eyelids seemed to droop, giving him the look of one deep in his cup of bitter.

They needed to hurry.

The variety of fashions gave Tahn the impression that the town hosted travelers from near and far. Every third building either let rooms or announced itself as a full-service inn to this town called Squim. Brightly painted signs nailed to building facades listed what could be purchased within and at what price. More than a few led their menus with blandishments like “Fairest Anais east of the Sedagin,” and more plainly, “Bed Company.”

And if there were a lot of inns, there were scads of taverns. Loud laughter and the sounds of challenge poured from open doors, and the jangling strains of poorly tuned citherns and badly carved pipes and flutes floated on the air. Each of the taverns had one or two large men sitting near doors propped open for ventilation. Dull expressions hung on their faces, and their massive arms rested in their laps. Hambley had never needed such men to control his clientele, but Tahn felt sure that was precisely these fellows’ purpose.

Most of the buildings were wood, built with little care for appearance. Rough, ill-fitted planks showed slices of the light within. Narrow alleys ran alongside many of the shops and passed through to secondary streets. Shadowy forms huddled in the darkness of those alleys, the wink of lit tobaccom stems and pipes flaring orange as they smoked there.

They passed a long building with multiple entrances, each lined with signs two strides high. The signs were large slabs of slate carefully quarried to remain intact. Upon the black surface, long lists of sundry items were scrawled in white chalk. As Tahn and Sutter passed, a short man with thinning hair and wearing an apron bustled out and used a cloth to erase a number of items on two of the slates. Men and women in various states of agitation entered the store. Tahn watched some who carried wrapped parcels, whose heads twitched and who looked around nervously as they passed through the doors. A few women went in looking distressed and mournful, their gait halting as they neared the entry. One woman strode briskly up to the door, her face heavily painted and her bosom threatening to free itself from its tight, constraining bodice. She carried a man’s belt over her shoulder like a hunter returning with game from a hunt. The buckle glinted in the light from the shop’s windows, casting shards of blue and violet and red on the ground behind her. She disappeared inside without a backward glance.

“What’s that?” Sutter asked.

“I would guess it’s some kind of trade shop.”

Without realizing it, they’d stopped in the street to observe the traffic in and out of the many doors to the long store. Dirty men with knotted beards carried soiled bundles into the place. At one point, Tahn was saddened to see a young boy and girl sneak into the first door on bare feet, holding something together in their small hands. Whatever this place was, Tahn wanted no part of it.

Farther into town, narrow streets were filled with horses hitched to posts and overland wagons unloading large barrels and chests. People gathered together in storefronts and windows, their shadows falling in long jagged shapes across the road.

The byways were dry from the recent sun. From their shadows, emboldened beggars reached up toward the street’s edge to harangue passersby, their cant so much like liturgy that Tahn wondered at their potential as readers. The repetition of their pitches soon combined into a deafening white roar that compelled Tahn to cover his ears.

That’s when Tahn saw it: HEALER, the sign read.

Tahn and Sutter moved as fast as their injuries allowed, hitching their horses with double knots in this questionable place, and going right in. A diminutive man with stubby fingers and thick spectacles sat in a chair against the back wall. Seeing them, he said simply, “You pay first,” and pointed.

A metal box with a thin slot in its top stood bolted to the floor in the corner.

“Three handcoins. I’ll need to see them first.” The little man waddled over and looked up at them.

“How do we know you can help us?” Sutter slurred.

“Sounds like you just need to sleep off some bitter, except your eyes look funny. Come now, my fee.”

Tahn found the payment and showed the healer, who snatched up the money and rushed to put it into his box. His face lit in delight at the clanging sound of the coins as they rattled. He then turned back toward them. “Okay, what ails you?”

Tahn looked at Sutter, who had begun to weave now that he’d come to a full stop. “Get him a chair.”

The healer scooted a seat up behind Sutter, who sat heavily.

Tahn considered what to say. He didn’t think he had time to dissemble. He didn’t know what was at work in his friend’s body, and caution might kill him.

Tahn knelt to be close enough to speak low and still be heard. “We were attacked by Bar’dyn. One hit my friend in the back with a spiked ball. I pulled the ball free, but in the last several hours his speech is slurring, his eyes are heavy, and his balance is off. I think he’s been poisoned.”

The short fellow buried his face in his stubby fingers. “The first fee of the night and this is it? What did I do to deserve you?” He stabbed a finger into Tahn’s chest and immediately went back to his lockbox. He produced a key from inside his shirt, opened the box, and drew out Tahn’s money. Stumping back, he lifted Tahn’s palm with one hand and slammed the coins into it. “I can’t help you!”

Tahn stared, slack-jawed. “Can’t? My friend is sick. What do I do?”

The diminutive fellow went back to his chair to resume his vigil. “He’s got Quiet poison in him. You need a healer from the Bourne. Good luck.”

Tahn’s ire began to stir. “But I don’t know where to find one. Can’t you do something?” He stood, feeling for the first time the kind of righteous anger he remembered of his father. Things had grown serious, and now so was he.

The small man seemed to hear it, too. He puffed air from his wide nostrils. “The tenendra. They have a tent of low ones at the far end. They say there’s a creature from the Bourne caged inside. Good luck.”

With some difficulty, Tahn got Sutter to his feet, and the two stumbled back into the street. The peaks of the several tents to the north glowed like beacons and lured Squim residents to come and pay the admission fee. Tahn and Sutter followed the crowds, which all seemed to stream in the same direction. The closer they got to the the brightly lit tents, the stronger many sweet smells wafted on the air: honey, molasses, and flower-nectar creams. But so, too, did the acrid smell of people long without a bath, massed together for whatever entertainment the tenendra brought to this shady town.

“There,” Sutter said, getting Tahn’s attention.

They rounded the last large building near the end of town and stopped at the massive tent that seemed to swell before them. It rose to at least the height of Hambley’s Fieldstone. Ropes the thickness of Tahn’s arm anchored to great iron stakes, holding the tent in place. Great swaths of color ran in wide stripes to the peak—red, green, yellow, blue, violet. Straw had been laid all about, but in the heat, there was no mud to cover, so chaff rose under the hundreds of feet that trampled it, filling the air with the smell of a dry field.

Along the perimeter of the tents, carts filled with honey-glazed fruit, sugar wines, and rolled flat-cakes filled with berries and dusted with powdered sugars were surrounded by men, women, and children all clamoring for a taste. Torches blazed all around the tents, casting rope shadows and the occasional figure of a man upon the outer canvas, while the light from within bobbed and shifted with the movement of talking heads and arms raised in applause. Excitement carried Tahn along with the flow of the crowd. Roars of approval erupted from the tent at frequent intervals, often followed by gales of laughter. Outside, those still standing in line for their food looked anxious to gain admittance to the tents and join those inside before whatever entertainment within came to an end.

The tide of the throng took them around the first tent. Two more tents rose against the darkness like enormous, pregnant light-flies. One of these glowed a peerless aqua blue color; the other was covered with sketches of faces in exaggerated expressions of pleasure, pain, joviality, sadness, anger, and contentment. Booths were erected close to each tent, others in the thoroughfare that ran between them. The intoxicating smells of food and drink wafted over the crowd like an invisible cloud.

Several booths were manned by men and women who hollered the merits of one game or another. Tahn passed one woman wearing an eye patch who barked about the ease of tossing a small dart through a hole in a plank of wood set fifteen feet from the front counter of her stand.

Farther on to the right stood three more tents like the first, all in a row. But on the left, out of the way, sat a long, square, dimly illuminated tent. Tahn thought he detected a more acrid smell from that direction.

No one stood in line there.

This had to be the tent of the low ones, with a creature from the Bourne.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

A Songbox

“Don’t be alarmed, Anais,” the gentleman said.

His long white hair was drawn back in a ponytail. Clear blue eyes shone beneath thick white brows, and the clean scents of sandalwood and oak leaves seemed to emanate from him. He sat with his elbows on his knees and his fingers laced, smiling paternally at her across the fire.

“Who are you?” Wendra asked, looking around for Penit. Perhaps this was the help the boy had brought back with him.

“Your friend,” the man said. “What else would you have me be?”

Wendra shook her head and tried to push herself up. She collapsed quickly from the effort.

“Do not exert yourself,” the old man said. “I will do you no harm, and you must conserve your strength.” He took a piece of wood from the nearby pile and stirred the coals with it before tossing it into the flames. “It is a joyous sound, is it not?”

Wendra looked at him, confused. “What sound?”

“The fire.” He closed his eyes. “If you close your eyes it sounds like the wind filling a sail, the rush of water over a falls. Yet it is both gentler than these and stronger.” He smiled with his eyes shut. “The life of the wood is consumed, reborn into flame and warmth. The force that gives the tree its form, still deep within the wood long after it ceases to grow, is offered up in a bright flame that warms our meals and soothes our flesh.”

Wendra licked her cracked lips, but said nothing.

“It is an old song, older than the races, and one they’ve forgotten.” He opened his eyes. “Its power is still harnessed, but the sacrifice of the touchable becoming untouchable is no longer appreciated. The song is no longer sung.” He did not speak reproachfully, and the same kindly smile remained on his lips. “This is the way of things,” he concluded, and rested his gentle eyes on Wendra.

“What has this to do with me?” she asked. “How does this help me? Heal my wound?” Her voice trembled as panic closed in upon her. The man was not really there, and he could not assist her. She was having fever visions, death dreams. She remembered her dying father holding entire conversations with the empty chair that sat beside his bed. Tears welled in her eyes. Distantly, the tune of her box continued to chime.

“Only you can decide what it has to do with you, Wendra, how it will help you.” He looked down at his hands, then held them up without unlacing his fingers. “What is their song?”

“I don’t understand.”

The man unlaced his hands. “I may use them to fashion a home, to cup the face of a loved one, I may even use them to take up instruments of war.” He turned his hands over each time he listed an example. “I may even put them before the light and create forms of things which are not.” He joined his hands in odd ways and cast shadows of animals and people on the cavern wall behind him. Slowly, the images there became more distinct, moving independently and taking on color and sound. Suddenly, Wendra was watching Balatin play a cithern on the steps of their home while she and Tahn danced. Her father, laughing, showed them how to perform the next step in the jig while his fingers plucked the strings and the yard rang with a lively tune. Tapping one foot, Balatin finally stood and joined them in their dance, while continuing to play. A freshet of tears escaped Wendra’s eyes, and instantly she remembered the tune her father played, the same tune as her box.

She laughed out loud, and the images disappeared, replaced by the old, white-haired gentleman sitting deathwatch with her at her fire.

His smile never wavered. “Do you understand now?”

Wendra shook her head, then stopped. “Yes. Maybe. These are my comforts as my body fails, as the form inside of me rises and departs, leaving these memories behind.”

The old man’s smile broadened. “Dear Wendra, death is a song worth singing, but not yet for you.” He again rested his elbows on his knees and settled in as though preparing to tell a story. “With my hands I can create many things, many good things. But my art, the things I touch and shape, are only my best interpretation of what I see and feel inside.” He touched his chest. “They can be glorious, as Shenflear’s words or Polea’s paintings. They may ascend into the sky with magnificence, as Loneot’s great buildings that arc and rise in sweeping bridges and spires on the banks of the Helesto. But”—the man leaned forward, excitement clear in his features—“can you imagine what thoughts, what images existed in the hearts and minds of such men and women, but were not so perfectly reflected in the efforts of their hands?”

Wendra began to feel cold inside. The fire burned on, but held no warmth for her. Its flames, even the old man’s kindly face, blurred and wavered before coming into sharp focus again. Beyond it all, her wood box played on, slower now as it wound down, and she tried to fix her attention upon the melody, to grasp something she knew was real, something she could understand.

The old man sat up and flung back his great white cloak. In the firelight, his white hair and beard looked regal. He again fixed his stare upon her, never losing his warm smile. “You, Wendra. The instrument you must play is you. It is the first tool, the first instrument. It is a uniquely wondrous symmetry of Forda I’Forza. And there will be those who will teach you. But you shall have to get up off this floor.” He patted his leg. “So, how will you do that, Anais? Tell me, what song will serve your need?”

“I’ve no strength to rise,” Wendra said. “I’ve sent a boy into the world to bring me help, and I worry that he is harmed.”

“The Quiet do not seek you or the boy. Trust me, you are safe here.”

“My brother … they came to our home … my child…”

“Indeed,” the old man said. “And these are strains of a song that should be sung with reverence and hope, because they create in you what only you can voice. Learn from them, Wendra. I have stood in places for days at a time to hear and know the voices they sing with. Even this place, this dark cave, knows a song. It is inside you now, in the rocks and fire and ash, and the lad Penit and what you see in him that is forever lost to you. It is a lament, Wendra, that you may sing of this place, this moment … but there is joy in that, too. What reprise of joy in sympathetic understanding might that give to another, who cannot for themselves express such things. Not unlike your box.” He motioned toward her music box. “What is captured there that causes you to return to that simple melody? Things forever lost to you in flesh, but alive to you in spirit. Like the wood relinquishing its form to exist as something brighter. We create as we can, but the end must be to fashion something finer of ourselves.”

For the first time, the old man’s eyes grew distant. “But the songs are changing, and there are few who can sing the songs that have given us courage and hope. And greater still, Anais, is the call of the Descant. And so you must arise.” He smiled kindly. “I ask you again, what song is it?”

In a moment, the old man was gone, leaving Wendra in the darkened cave on a bed drenched with the sweat of her fever. The smell of ash rose in cloying waves. And more clearly, more intimately, she could hear her box plucking its tune in the darkness. The soft click of the gears hummed just beneath the melody. In the shadows, Wendra parted her lips to hum in time with the song of her box, and her chills began to fade.

*   *   *

As Wendra sang, she found her voice gaining strength rather than tiring. The natural reverberation in the cave carried her soft intonations farther than she projected them. But her humming soon strengthened, and as she remembered Balatin singing to the melody, she began to intersperse words. Every few minutes, when her box wound down, she rewound the cylinder and sang again to its accompaniment.

Penit had not returned and Wendra began to fret over him, but she could do nothing if she remained ill, so she continued to sing, listening to her own voice echo and re-echo off the rock walls. In the welling sound that filled the cave, she found unique comfort … and more. Wendra’s fever broke before the mouth of the cave darkened on her second day there. She nibbled lightly at some of Sedagin’s bread and sipped cool water. But even while she ate, she hummed around her food, beginning to make subtle changes in the melodies, singing counterpoint to the original tune. The creation of new rhythms and harmonies to the music excited her and she found strength to build a fire to keep her warm as she continued to sing changes on Balatin’s simple tune.

The sun had not yet risen before feeling in her hip and lower leg returned. She had continued to compose her own lyrics and harmonies to the weave and flow of the music begun in her box, and the swell of sound caused her heart to quicken. The vaulted cavern resonated with a score that wrapped Wendra in its healing embrace.

When dawn touched the cavern entrance with the light of day, Wendra realized she had been singing all the night through. Yet her arms were light, her eyes alert, and, without thinking, she stood and felt only the faintest trace of pain in her wound. She lifted her voice in exultation, then ceased her song, listening with gladness as her final notes echoed into the recesses of the cave and outward to the coming day.

Carefully, she walked to the entrance and squinted into the light, allowing her eyes to focus. Early morning haze hung upon the land, leaves and grass glimmering with dewdrop emeralds. The sweet smell of vegetation washed over her, and she took it in gratefully after the old earth and ashes of her fireside bed. Looking out, she could see no sign of Penit, or of the others. They had surely started for Recityv. She hoped Tahn had made it out of the fog. Her brother was prudent, but apt to get into trouble when paired with Sutter—though she genuinely liked Sutter. She had little choice but to try and make it to Recityv herself. But how long should she wait for Penit to return? He’d promised he would. Still, he was so young.

Wendra returned to her fire and took a quick meal. She packed her box and blanket into the saddlebag Penit had left her, snuffed out the fire, and returned to the mouth of the cave to wait for him. She sat on a large rock in the sun and closed her eyes, enjoying the warmth and light that penetrated even her eyelids. She forgot for the moment where she was and why she was there, and found again on her lips a few notes of the melody she’d sung all the previous night. Then suddenly, the image of the old man with a white beard and cloak surfaced in her mind, startling her. Fever visions! But it had seemed so real. A smile touched her lips as she thought of the old gentleman’s fatherly smile. It spoke of certainty and understanding, and Wendra longed for such reassurance.

With growing clarity, Wendra realized what had just happened. She had healed herself by doing nothing more than what came most naturally to her. Music had always been a central part of her life. Balatin had played cithern and often sang with her. It had never been more than entertainment, distraction, perhaps reverie. What had happened in the cave was something spoken of only in rumor, a story repeated more in legend than history. Always it was interpreted as metaphor or symbol, the power of song to affect the way of things.

Wendra lifted her pant leg so she could examine her wound. The cut had closed over and was now only slightly discolored, the blood completely gone. One might have thought the damage to be years old. She touched the scar lightly, feeling a dull pain from the flesh inside. “Will and Sky,” she muttered. “How can this be?”

She pulled her hair back and fastened it with a short strip of hide. The sun burned hot upon the face of the cliff, causing her to sweat. Half the day she waited for Penit’s return, scouting around nearby, singing softly to completely mend herself. After eating a bit more of her food, she found a trail leading east along the north face. Her rations would not last, and she began to more fully regret sending the child out to seek help.

Hoisting the saddlebag over her shoulder, she set out, following the trail of hoofprints and hoping Penit would use the same path to return … if he was able to return.

The trail took Wendra east until dusk, when it veered southeast alongside a small river. She made camp, lit a fire, and ate a small supper, her concern growing for the boy. The sun dipped below the horizon, and gentle shades of brown and red streaked the sky, leaving sepia shadows on the land. Wendra filled her waterskin from the river and washed her face. Kneeling at the river’s edge she listened, truly hearing for the first time the musical cadence of the current, the babble and chuckle of the water over stones, the rush of it around stems and branches growing or dangling in its flow. Wendra thought she could also hear the deeper, quieter pull of the current from the bottom of the river, where cold, blue water moved more slowly, more powerfully. The several voices of the river commingled in her ears in a lulling melody, its soothing power draining the fatigue of the day away from her tired muscles.

She returned to her fire and sat patiently as day gave way to night. Softly she began to hum, creating her own tune in dual harmony with the fire and the river, her concentration so complete on her song that she did not hear the approach of feet. Before she knew what was happening, three figures stood immediately opposite her, smiling devilishly in the glow of her fire.

“What fortune,” the man in the center said. “This place is like a garden; we leave it and it grows new fruit.”

The two other men laughed, their eyes appraising Wendra the way she’d seen herders do with new breeding stock.

The man who spoke had rough, handsome features, two days’ growth of beard, and thick brows. His eyes shone with an intelligence the others lacked, and his clothes were simple but better cared for.

Suddenly, she knew these men for what they were: highwaymen.

Wendra discerned from the man’s first comment that their intentions were not charitable, but Balatin had taught her never to show fear. Half the battle is what they don’t know, her father had been fond of saying. She composed herself, allowing a bit of an edge to her voice, and inclined her chin smugly, preparing to ask the only thing she cared to discuss with these men.

“I seek a child, a boy, about ten years old,” she said. “He would have been traveling this way a day since.” She leveled her eyes at each man in turn. Their stares were filled only with greed and wantonness.

The man on the left spoke up in a voice bruised by too much tobaccom. “You ought to be worried—”

“Silence,” the first interrupted. He looked at Wendra, his eyes appraising her in a different way than the other two. A softer look spread on his handsome face. “Indeed, lady, we have seen the child.” He ceased talking as though he had more information and intended Wendra to know he was holding something back.

It shall be like that, then, hare and wood-cat. One pursued, but both a part of the game.

Wendra steadied her eyes in an unflinching stare upon the obvious leader of the small band and gave a knowing smile. “You’ve seen him, have you? Well, perhaps you also know where I might find him.” She reclined a bit to show her lack of concern.

Straightaway, a wide grin spread on the highwayman’s lips. “I think we might, lady, but how could we ask you to travel these dangerous roads alone?” He paced past his men to one side of the camp.

“Do I look as if I am in need of assistance?” Wendra asked. “Unless of course, my new friend, you mean me some harm.” She lowered her gaze to the man’s sword, holding her smile as surely as she’d seen the old man do in her visions. Inside, panic gripped her, but she knew she mustn’t show it. “I seem to be quite well in this suspicious land you describe. Not a jot of trouble, not a curious word, until now.”

The highwayman bowed persuasively. “Well said, lady, well said. Allow me to introduce myself, and then you and I will no longer be strangers. Jastail J’Vache.” He held his bow, but inclined his head to watch for Wendra’s approval.

A great game you play. We trade places as the hare. Wendra nodded. “A man of breeding,” she said, her words laced thinly with sarcasm. “How fortunate for me to have met you, if, as you say, the world about is so corrupt.”

“My lady,” Jastail said. “You’ve not yet given me your name.” He stood, his devilish smile pronounced upon his rugged face.

“I am Lani Spiren,” Wendra said. “Make yourselves warm at my fire.” Wendra knew they would have stayed regardless. Whatever their intentions, her game with Jastail would at least allow her to retain some freedom, for a while anyway. And if they did know where Penit was, then she would have to convince them to either tell her where or take her to him. She rubbed her stomach out of habit, a reassuring gesture during her pregnancy.

Jastail eyed her closely. He then motioned his companions to a fallen log. The men appeared disgruntled, but finally acquiesced. One of them produced a bottle of wine, and the two began to whisper in harsh, sibilant exchanges. Jastail sat with a flourish near Wendra and turned to look at her directly.

“Be true, lady. Why would you travel alone in open country?” He looked away thoughtfully, relaxing as though he shared a fire with an old friend.

“I have told you,” Wendra answered, not needing to pretend. “I am searching for a small boy.” She turned to him. “But you have not told me where I might find him, or how it is you came to see him.”

Jastail smiled, and Wendra watched the rogue’s profile dance in the firelight. He was preparing yet another prevarication, and she meant to catch him in it. “For my own truth, I see many people, young and old, and remembering a solitary one is a daunting task, even for me.”

Wendra persisted. “You are falsely modest, Jastail. I don’t believe that you forget much of what you see or do. A man traveling with such men”—Wendra looked over at Jastail’s brutish traveling companions and wrinkled her nose—“is clearly upon an errand. Or would you like me to believe that you choose to keep this company?”

Jastail laughed aloud, and his two comrades reached for their weapons in a start. When Jastail stopped, they resumed their muffled whispers and sidelong stares. “A sharp eye and reason besides, Lani,” Jastail said. “But would you also expect me to share with you all my secrets so soon?” He grinned suggestively, the smirk embodying the roguish wit and wisdom Wendra knew must serve him well. “And would you have me believe that I know all I must of you?” Jastail continued. He held up his hands to forestall Wendra from repeating her objectives.

“Yes, yes, I know you seek a boy child. Perhaps yours, perhaps a blood relation, but how carefully you dance around your solitary state in this endeavor. Something, lady, is missing in your story, and I forgive you for not coming straight out with it. Just as you must forgive me for guarding my secrets from a stranger. However”—he leaned in and spoke in a low, conspiratorial voice—“my friends there are not as inclined as I to extend courtesies. They listen to me most of the time, but the errand you mention is in their arms and legs, and as with most men who follow another, they don’t trouble with questions of civility or morality. They understand what they can touch, what they can take, what they can buy, and the work that brings them money to do it.”

He put a hand gently on Wendra’s leg. “I may even grow to be fond of you, Lani, but paid men mutiny when their salaries are threatened. And gifted as I am, I can neither remain awake all the time, nor predict their intentions when they part with my own.”

While her mind raced to understand Jastail’s veiled threats, Wendra forced herself to wear a smile. This man, she decided, was far more dangerous than the rogues she’d heard about. His eloquent language always traveled two steps away from its truest meaning. But she kept smiling.

“You undersell your persuasiveness,” Wendra began. “You convinced me to invite you to my fire, and your concern for me”—Wendra raised her voice so that the others would surely hear her—“gives me confidence that these two will abide your wishes when it comes to me.” She put her opposite hand over Jastail’s own. “You are right that I keep secrets from you. A lady is allowed such discretion, is she not?”

Jastail’s eyes narrowed. “I believe you’re right, Lani. How clumsy of me to forget. You must never allow me to interrogate you further about such things. My concern for you, however, is quite genuine. Whatever brought you here alone, and what the boy flees from or runs toward, is beyond our control.” He placed his other hand over Wendra’s. “But I must insist on conveying you safely to your destination.”

Wendra spared a glance at the men across the fire. They had ceased talking, dazed expressions on their faces, their eyes fixed upon her and Jastail’s clasped hands. She could not be sure that they would lead her to Penit, or that they had even seen the boy. But playing Jastail’s game might afford her an opportunity to escape, while attempting to dismiss them would only force Jastail to do whatever he meant to do more quickly, and perhaps more painfully.

The dark memory of her rape threatened to surface, but she pushed it back.

He had started by saying that this place bears fruit, perhaps his only mistake, suggesting that they had discovered someone, maybe Penit, here, just as they had discovered her. She was their prisoner, and looking into Jastail’s lying eyes, she believed that he knew she understood it. These things didn’t matter; it only mattered that she locate Penit. Her desire to find him grew in her with each passing moment. She would not have two children taken from her, even though one she had not borne.

Wendra searched Jastail’s angular face, trying to imagine what Balatin might do. Finally, her forced smile became natural, widening, and she put her second hand over Jastail’s, trumping him and coming out on top. “And together we will find the boy,” she concluded.

One side of Jastail’s weathered face tugged into a bright, fetching grin. This one, Wendra thought, had more the look of real humor. “And we’ve better than a gambler’s chance at that, lady,” he said, noting the final position of their hands before withdrawing his own and beginning preparations for supper.

But something in the way he used the word gambler left disquiet in Wendra’s heart.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

The Wall of Remembrance

The regent took private counsel in the darkness before the dawn. With her were her most trusted advisors, the Sheason Artixan and General Van Steward. Somewhere out of sight, shadowing them, were a half dozen of her Emerit Guard; they would never be seen, but were always as close as a word.

She had been unable to sleep. The implications of calling the Convocation of Seats plagued her, so she had taken to the street that encircled Solath Mahnus to walk the Wall of Remembrance. The Wall rose to the height of three men. It had been fashioned of granite quarried in the mountains south of Recityv, and carved in relief on its face was the history of the city; perhaps the history of the world. Or at least of those events that should not be forgotten.

Many of the stories depicted on the wall’s surface had begun in the halls of Solath Mahnus, which rose in palatial expanse behind it. Solath Mahnus was her home, just as it was home to all the courts of Recityv. In the darkness it sat, a hulking presence, at the center of the city. From the street where Helaina now walked, she could see all the way up to the pinnacle of her High Office at the top of Solath Mahnus, outlined now against a spray of stars.

Once again the regent recalled sending the birds of war; some few seats had already answered her call for the convocation to begin.

But unrest ruled even closer to home. Her own High Council stood in disarray. And she bargained from a weakened position that would undermine her voice when the convocation finally commenced.

“The League has begun to politick with those still loyal to you,” Artixan said. The Sheason kept his voice low in the stillness. “Some will remain faithful regardless. But others have weaknesses the Ascendant will exploit. And though they’ll loathe themselves for doing it, they’ll vote against you, Helaina, when Roth asks it of them.”

Van Steward nodded. “Staned’s lieutenants have been lurking around our garrisons. They are making their own appraisals of our capacity.”

“Are you concerned about a coup?” The regent continued to walk, noting the histories in the wall to their left.

“No, my Lady. We will hold. But anyone gathering information on the size and readiness of your army should be seen as more than a political adversary…” Van Steward let the rest go unsaid.

“The inns of Recityv begin to fill with the retinues of those answering your call to the convocation. And those they serve are directing them to appraisals as well.”

“Of what?” Helaina asked.

“Of you,” Artixan replied. “Many of them know you by reputation, some only by name. But all will want to come to their own seat at Solath Mahnus knowing your own council is uncompromised, that you possess the strength to draw them together. There will be alliances, Helaina, even before the convocation begins. Indeed, though no one has brought the hammer down in the great hall, the convocation has already begun.”

The regent said nothing. She had guessed as much. But hearing it from Artixan made it real and dire. There was no Layosah in this age of men to inspire the minds of rulers, to force their collaboration against a common threat. Instead there was skepticism and maneuvering.

She stopped again on the stone-cobbled road that encircled Solath Mahnus, and looked up at the Wall of Remembrance, where the Wars of the First and Second Promise played out forever upon the stone. She could see Layosah even now, depicted in the granite with her child raised up in risk of imminent death. The sculptor had given the figure an attitude of resolve the regent could see even in the darkness.

The Wall of Remembrance served its purpose well for Helaina in the dark hours before dawn. She considered a mother sacrificing a son against the threat of nations … of the Quiet.

No measure must be left untaken.

“Your recommendations?” she asked. “What do you advise?”

“Dispatch Roth,” Van Steward said without hesitation.

The regent looked around at her general, at his uncustomary joke. The three chuckled lightly in the darkness.

The general spoke again. “Truly, Helaina, put the call out to bolster the army. As peacekeepers we’re content. But we have not taken to the field in open war for a long time. If that is coming, we should train a contingent twice the size of what we have. It will also give you more weight against the League’s shadowy aims.”

“Are there men in Recityv to answer such a call?” she asked.

“No. But I would invite the whole nation of Vohnce to our ranks. And if even then we fall short, I would recruit beyond our borders.” The general spoke with earnest passion. “There are men who would take a post with us who have no allegiance elsewhere. I can find such men.”

The regent heard secrets in her general’s words, and was considering pursuing them when Artixan placed a gentle hand on her arm to draw her attention.

“You would expect me to ask you to rescind the order set against the Sheason, which even now imprisons one of my own. But it is not the time. The League needs to believe it remains in control where justice is concerned. Their propaganda convinces the people that they are their advocates. While you fortify the halls of Solath Mahnus with alliances, you should not give your people cause to question you.”

“It is an unholy law, Artixan. You know how I feel.” Helaina’s anger rose.

“I know. And the time may come. But that time has not yet arrived.” The Sheason himself looked at the Wall of Remembrance, his gaze growing distant.

The three then took another stroll around the wall, walking for a time in silence before Artixan spoke again. “It is your own council where you must begin, Helaina. Roth is right that many of its members are not rulers, and certainly not leaders. Their appointments were made in a time of peace, and most will either completely defer to your judgment, offering you no real counsel, or they’ll vote with the League, who will offer them false security for their support.”

“Are you suggesting that I remove members of the High Council?” she asked.

“Replace,” Artixan corrected. “Many of them will be relieved to go, I promise you. And you will have the advantage of qualifying their replacements before they take their position. You need to employ the shrewdness that won you the regent’s mantle to begin with. We need that now, more than ever.”

That was all it took.

In the many years of her rule, she’d been firm and fair, but her statecraft had not often been needed. As if new breath entered her bosom, she felt renewed. She would be the iron fist of Recityv again, by Will or war. The carvings on the wall around her home and courts helped give life to these old stirrings.

And with this decision, the path before her became clear.

“General, begin your recruitment. I will draw up the Note of Enmity before the day is done. But don’t wait for the note to begin; get started the moment you return to your offices.” She turned to her closest friend, and possibly most powerful ally. “Artixan, find those who have come already to Recityv to answer the call of convocation. I will see each privately to either discover their allegiance or create a new alliance. I will take those audiences in the High Office, where the glory of Recityv may be seen from the windows to inspire their honesty … and choice.”

She thought a moment, considering her next words. “As for my own High Council, it is made of old friendships, and I must speak with them, too. So we will do that in their homes, where they are comfortable. But we will do more than replace those who no longer have the capacity or desire to serve. We will find our next generation’s stalwarts. I daresay our incumbents can help point us toward them. They know well the guilds and orders they represent.”

Helaina paused, not from doubt, but from gratitude for her own renewed purpose. She had but needed to remember. With the image in her mind of the shrikes taking wing to carry the message of the Convocation of Seats, her resolve hardened further.

“And we will fill again the council chairs that we have thought unnecessary for far too long. The Maesteri will be recalled; I will make this request myself. My own council will be whole and strong when the convocation begins. Send the riders and criers to proclaim it: Recityv’s High Council will be made whole.”

The regent then considered one last seat at her table. “And announce that we will once again seat the Child’s Voice. Let word go forth that we will run the Lesher Roon. And the winner of the race, as in times past, will speak for the children and give us balance.”

Artixan smiled in the darkness. “Roth will take exception to it as another false tradition better left in the past. He won’t care to listen to the opinions of a child.”

The regent spared a last look at the Wall of Remembrance, where she saw the granite image of the Lesher Roon being run by countless children. “Come, we have much to do.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Widows Village

Braethen’s muscles ached. For two days they had pushed on. It was not the ride that made him sore, but the incessant training. Each night Mira worked with him, though he practiced with his old sword, not ready to take up the Sheason’s gift again so soon. And neither Vendanj nor Mira spoke of the blade; their silence unnerved him.

Late in the third day, under gathering clouds, the hills rose up to the north and east. Through a dispersion of oaks they entered a village of humble dwellings thatched together of tares and plant husks and rough wood huddled against the ground.

Meager to the last home, something was missing, but Braethen could not put a name to it. The closer they drew to the dwellings, the bleaker everything seemed. The threat of rain came with peals of thunder not too far distant. He welcomed the promise of rebirth that the rains might bring to this place. But he sensed that the rains held no such promise here, likely only to cause muddy feet and the musk of wet thatch.

The sparse village looked abandoned. Perhaps the residents had retreated indoors with the coming of night or the storm. Yet the windows held no lamp or candle, seeming cold and unfriendly in the grey twilight. A gentle breeze pushed by the coming storm tugged at their cloaks. The wind unsettled the horses, as though carrying a harbinger of bad business; they rolled their eyes and tugged at their reins. The sizzle of rain falling upon the hills began to drone like a distant hive. Braethen hoped they could find lodging before the storms came on full.

They passed through the center of the village, coming to a longer building near the end of the few homes. A woven rug had been hung from the cross brace to serve as a door. Vendanj lashed Suensin to a post and rapped on the lintel as rain cascaded into the streets behind them. Braethen heard nothing stir, and no light or fire could be seen through the windows. Vendanj waited as Mira and Braethen tethered their mounts.

He rapped again, more softly this time, the sound of it meek and hollow, nearly lost in the hammer of rain upon the thatch of the small building.

Several moments later, a woman drew back the rug and stared coldly at them. She wore a featureless smock the color of clouds at night. Around her shoulders she had wrapped a shawl of the same shade. Its weave was so coarse that Braethen wondered if it held any warmth and was not abrasive to the touch. But it was her face and eyes that caused pity to swell in Braethen from first sight. Her ashen skin lacked the flush of womanhood or even the natural color of flesh. And in the pale skin, the woman’s aspect conveyed no emotion. The plain, unexpressive cast of her face could be described only as haunted.

She looked at each of them with indifferent eyes. Under her gaze, a sudden feeling of guilt washed over him, guilt for his ability to feel emotion, to know fury and joy. Her eyes lingered on him for a moment, then she stood back and held the rug aside as she motioned for them to enter.

The room within seemed smaller than it appeared to be from the outside. Braethen took it to serve as the town tavern or common room; a table with a few bottles set to one side served as a little bar or kitchen. The hearth opposite the bar sat cold and silent, the hollow sound of rain echoing down its flue. One lone table stood at the room’s center, three chairs at each side and one on each end. A gourd in the middle of the table held an unlit candle. In the rear wall Braethen noticed a second doorway, also hung with a shabby rug. The floors were clean. And despite the house’s abandoned feel, he could see no cobwebs or dust anywhere. A feeling of habitation resided there, but not of life.

Penaebra, he thought, an old word that described the untabernacled spirit, a soul with no body. This place felt like a body, a husk, left behind when its panaebra had gone.

Vendanj took a seat at the low table, and Mira sat beside him. Braethen stepped fully into the room, allowing the woman to let back the rug. She gave him another appraising look, then shuffled past him toward the others. The rain began to fall more strenuously, pounding the world outside. The hollow sound of drops hitting the window filled the empty room. Middle-aged, the woman slouched like the elderly as she took a seat opposite Vendanj.

Braethen sat at the end of the table, feeling uninvited to the triumvirate gathered at the table’s middle. He wrapped his cloak tightly about him to stave off the growing cold, and focused his eyes toward the others, where grey shadows absorbed them.

“You should not have come here.” Her voice never changed or rose, but fell out in soft, diffident rhythms.

“I would not have,” Vendanj said, “but it is important. Only a list of names. That is all.”

Braethen listened, noting in Vendanj’s exchanges a deference he had not heard before. The tall, imposing Sheason sat and looked across at the frail woman and spoke with a hint of kindness beneath his unwavering words.

“Important,” the woman echoed. “How interesting is that word. And names…”

Vendanj did not reply, merely waiting as the woman seemed to consider.

“North is Scarred land, Sheason. As inhospitable as its inhabitants,” she began. “Foolishness.” She scoffed, but still her voice remained even and uninflected. “The Far perhaps, but this one.” She pointed at Braethen. “He is a stripling, cowering in the windbreak of the tall ones. Shallow roots. The Scar is no place for him.”

“You are right,” Vendanj agreed. “But there is no choice in this. He will learn as he can.”

The woman nodded, then turned to Braethen. “Do you know this place, sodalist?”

Her question caught him off guard. He returned her stare, discomfited by her waxen cheeks and flat eyes. “Anais, I am in a dreary place. And forgive me, but one I hope soon to leave.”

The woman coughed a bitter laugh, but the sound came without mirth. “Your father taught you honesty; I’ll wager he was an author. Well enough, sodalist, but I am going to tell you a fuller truth. And your stripling soul will be cankered by the knowledge, but so be it.” She paused to light the candle between them. The sudden flare of light into the room made Braethen squint. The woman turned more fully toward him, her nose, chin, and brow throwing the right side of her face into shadow. “My name was Ne’Pheola. I walked freely the Halls of Self-Sacrifice at Estem Salo, where the Sheason make their home. For twelve years I lived there, not as a renderer, but as a companion to one. We were wedded, and our life was happy. But that name has no meaning for me now, not in this place, not after his death.”

No emotion cracked her voice as she spoke of her loss. The strange calm of her words continued.

“Yes, sodalist, it is a dreary place. It is Widows Village, where the use of names is no longer meaningful. Those here are the severed halves of such unions as mine, men and women left to live after their companions have been taken. They come here to live out the balance of that life, but it is a desolate heritage we have, sodalist, long and forgotten.”

Braethen did not understand. The death of a spouse was tragic, but didn’t the widowed eventually find some peace?

Ne’Pheola’s eyes lit in understanding. “You don’t believe I deserve my sorrow.”

Braethen did not get a chance to speak.

“That emblem on your breast is a dangerous one, sodalist. It represents what was well begun a thousand generations ago, but is now mocked and ridiculed and denigrated. Beware of yourself. Standing where you will be called to stand with that oath threatens the fabric of your life almost as much as the Sheason’s insignia dooms him.

“We here are baenal.” She looked to see if he understood the word. Braethen shook his head. “Eternally left behind,” she explained. “The Inveterae and Given have swarmed into the land many times. But their last coming wrought one mighty work on our side of the Veil, sodalist.” She paused, her silence lending weight to what would follow. “The Undying Vow.”

Braethen stopped breathing. He knew of it, of course, had read about it. But references to it in the books he’d read did not give a lot of information, and even then had been found only in the oldest texts his father owned, as though the writers of the histories were reluctant to disclose too much.

“Of course you’ve heard of it,” she said. “But you most assuredly know nothing of it, and that is as it should be.” Her eyes narrowed. “Except that now you have placed yourself alongside those who walk into the breach, and the burden is yours to share.

“When the war was all but lost, the Sheason convened at Estem Salo to consider what could be done if the Quiet took all the Land beneath the Hand and Pall and Rim. G’Sare, the greatest among them, returned to the archives, hidden deep in the vaults of the Sheason. In the ancient texts he found an answer: to bind husband and wife together for all time, to eternally sanction their union and ensure their happiness beyond the dust. In this way, even if the Sheason could not defeat Quietus in life, after death, they would defeat what he stood for, by knowing happiness forever with those they loved. What G’Sare did not know was that Quietus had written many of the texts hidden by the order. And the Velle which the Whited One sent into the land wielded a dark power as they drew upon the Will, a power to sunder the Undying Vow and bring not just physical death to the Sheason, but the death of their eternal bond to those they loved.

“Each man and woman of the order that fell, fell alone … forever. Those left behind would likewise go to dust, their union broken, and their spirit, their penaebra, left without the promise of reunion with their spouse. In this way, the One made our defeat complete. Valiant Sheason, confident in their struggle because of the vow, were struck down by the unhallowed, and their companions instantly knew the vow was null. We are these, sodalist. This is Widows Village … and ours is a desolate heritage.”

“But this war was a thousand lifetimes ago,” Braethen said.

“No, sodalist,” Ne’Pheola said, “the war continues. It is more careful now, more subtle. And growing, stripling, growing as sure as the Scar. My love was killed by the Exigents under the Civilization Order sanctioned by a council of men with greed in their fingers and wine in their gullets. Something of the Bourne rests in the vaunted halls of civility. And so your emblem puts you in danger, because standing next to Inner Resonance, your own life isn’t worth a pinch of salt.”

The candle danced slowly in the quiet of the room. Inner Resonance, a rare term for the Sheason. Few knew or used it. Vendanj, appearing lost in thoughts of his own, did not look at Braethen. But Mira looked carefully at him, her eyes seeming to test the conflict the woman’s words might have caused in him. The scrutiny angered him; did she think he would now become a liability?

He mustered a harsh look, forgetting the patience and benevolence A’Posian had taught him, but remembering one of the great truths written by his father’s own hand: “And this is the great gift of life, is it not?” he said bitterly. “That I may choose to go where others have found sorrow?”

He stood and stalked out into the storm.

*   *   *

The rain descended in great drops, hammering the ground like stones. Braethen pulled his hood up and strode through the downpour. There was no place for him to go, but he needed some time alone. He slogged south, the way they had come, watching his feet kick through the gathering puddles. Then the splatter of the rain changed as hailstones replaced the drops, beating the sodden ground more heavily, tapping an endlessly complex rhythm against the earth. The hail fell on his shoulders, and quickly stung him through the thickness of his cloak.

In moments, the world filled with a dizzying white roar, hail striking the ground so hard that it jounced up at odd angles and skittered against other hailstones like glass balls that children rolled in their games. The hail fell in sheets, shortening his vision, the hovels of Widows Village nothing more than low, hulking shadows through the gloom. Braethen looked desperately about for a place to take cover. The tree’s bare branches rattled in the hailstorm assault, offering no cover. He almost turned to dash back to the room, the Sheason, and the Far when a voice rose through the storm.

“Here,” said a voice, “quickly.” The invitation came muffled by the beating of hail upon the earth.

Braethen peered around him, shielding his eyes as he searched for the owner of the voice. He could see nothing, and the hail bit at the flesh of his hand.

“Quickly,” the voice repeated, “to your right.”

Braethen still could see no one, but he hastily followed the directions, finding himself in front of a dwelling a short distance away. Drifts of hail already collected against the outer walls, and rolled from the thatched roof in thick clumps. The shutters had been latched tightly against the storm. A rug similar to Ne’Pheola’s, serving as a door, hung from the lintel of this even smaller hovel. A hand drew back the rug, offering entrance into a darkened room. Braethen hesitated. In the darkness he could not see a face. Hail continued to pelt down in painful waves, covering the ground in a blanket of white. Unable to stand the thrashing, Braethen dashed inside, away from the onslaught.

Without even the neutral light that had seeped through the glass windows at Ne’Pheola’s, the room was utterly dark. The sound of feet was the only evidence of the presence of Braethen’s rescuer. Slowly, his eyes adjusted; dark shapes showed themselves against the lighter shadows. Behind a table stood a figure wearing a coarse wrap much like the one Ne’Pheola wore. She stood patiently looking at him through the darkness.

“Thank you,” Braethen said. “I’d nowhere else to go.” He wiped his face with his cloak and looked around. A small bed, cupboard, and desk furnished the modest home. In one corner stood a trunk half covered with a piece of some delicate fabric. Atop it a slender vase held a number of green stems. It appeared to be an attempt to brighten the spartan room, but the stems, bearing no flowers or buds, seemed more dismal for their thinness.

“How often I’ve said the same thing,” the voice came again. This time Braethen heard the soft inflection of a young woman, different from the even tones of Ne’Pheola. He guessed this voice had not been in Widows Village as long, her remark almost witty, satiric, but bleakly underscored by the sizzle of hail upon the roof and streets outside.

“Do you have a candle?” Braethen asked, growing tired of the dark.

“Yes,” she answered, “but the dark might be preferable to you.”

“The dark has never been preferable to me,” Braethen said. “Would you light it?”

The woman went to the hearth behind her and struck flint to a bed of straw. When it flared alight, she added several small sticks before taking one lighted piece of straw and touching it to a candle wick. The room brightened, but seemed emptier in the light.

“That is better,” Braethen said, and looked back toward the woman. Terrible burn scars had ruined one side of her face, the disfigurement running from her forehead across one eye to her cheek. Scar tissue had grown completely over her left eye; she refused to look at him with the other.

She could not have been much older than Wendra. She wore a shapeless grey dress. Her hair and skin were as drab as her clothing. Over her ear she had tucked a green stem like the one in the vase. It was all the color she bore, apart from the blue of her one good eye. Around her delicate shoulders, she had wrapped a shawl. Her hands trembled, as if unfamiliar with visitors, which Braethen imagined were few here.

“You may leave if you wish,” she said, still not looking at him.

“But I may stay, too?”

Her gaze finally found him. “Yes.” Braethen thought he saw a thin smile touch her lips.

“Well then, I am Braethen. What may I call you?”

“Names have no—”

“But I am not from here,” he said. “And where I come from, our custom is to know a person’s name.”

The woman’s gaze grew distant. “I was once called Ja’Nene.”

“Then I shall use that name,” Braethen said cheerfully. “And it suits you well. You should make a habit of using it.”

“You do not understand,” Ja’Nene said.

Braethen looked about and lowered his hood. He spoke loudly, hoping to fill the room with sound, and paced as he spoke, hoping to fill it with movement. Ja’Nene stood still and did not speak. “I’ve not seen such a storm in ten years,” Braethen said. “In the Hollows, we wait for the hail to stop, then rush into the streets to gather it into balls and throw at one another. Usually only the young ones play the game. But can there be anything funnier than someone getting hit in the ass with a hail-ball?” Braethen chuckled.

Ja’Nene may have smiled weakly, or it may have been a trick of the light.

He went on. “Wait, there is something funnier. We have a grand inn at home, and the roof is not quite even on one side. In the winter, melting snow falls at the foot of the kitchen door. When the skies clear or the night comes, the water there freezes. Our good man, Hambley, can never seem to remember this, and I’ve waited in the morning cold for him to arise early and come out his kitchen door to fetch eggs from his coop. The funniest sound is a man slipping on the ice and falling on his ass.”

Braethen laughed more genuinely, seeing Hambley in his mind’s eye pinwheeling to stay on his feet before landing hard on the seat of his trousers. This time, Ja’Nene clearly smiled, the smile turning to laughter, and the look and sound of it stole his breath. It was beautiful and weary and sad, like the first touch of yellow in the leaves at the arrival of autumn.

Their laughter faded to smiles.

“It has been a long time since I laughed. It feels strange now.” She motioned to her scarred face.

“What happened?” Braethen asked.

“The Exigents came for my husband. When I tried to stop them, they threw an oil lamp at me.” She faltered, a tear escaping her good eye before she resumed. “It struck my face and shattered, spilling burning oil. I ran into the street to find a water trough to douse the flame. By then, the damage was done. And when I returned to our home, Molinu was dead. I felt it even then; I knew we would never be together again. The Undying Vow was torn asunder. And so I came here, as all of us eventually do.”

“Do none of you have families you could go to?” Braethen asked.

Another weary smile pulled at the ruined half of her mouth and cheek. “It’s hard to explain, but when that union is severed, you need the company of those who know the feeling. And yet…” She paused, her gaze distant. “With time, the sisterhood and empathy die from the burden of grief. For me”—she looked up at Braethen—“well, a woman wants to feel womanly. The night they killed Molinu, they stole that from me, too.”

Braethen got up and came around the table and took her hand in his own. “I think what a woman is has very little to do with how she looks, Ja’Nene. On this topic, I will suffer no argument.”

She looked up at him, another tear falling from her useful eye. “Would you kiss me?”

Braethen stared back at her. Ja’Nene did not look away. Deep gravity etched her gentle, ruined features, touched with a pleading hopefulness.

“Is that proper?” was all Braethen could think to say.

“Then you will not,” she said.

“Wait—”

“Questions are the last effort to avoid action or honesty. Is it because I am ugly?”

Braethen felt as though he’d been slapped. It brought him back to himself. “I have come a great distance in a very short time,” he began. “And I have seen things I had only read about in books, some things I did not believe to be more than tales created by gifted authors.” He knelt to look at her eye to eye. “And today I came into this sad and dreary place and found a village of people who have removed themselves from the company of others. People who believe their lives are over or of so little worth that they choose to live apart from those who might care for them. It isn’t proper—”

She shot him a scathing look. Braethen bit back his words, and painfully watched as her anger turned first to sadness and then quickly to apathy. He much preferred her scorn. The diffident look left upon her face served as an indictment Braethen could not bear. She sat at the table silently and ignored him, the shadow of her head cast large upon the table.

Braethen desperately looked around the room, searching to find something to talk about, something to say, to investigate, praise, comment upon. He lit upon the thin, green blades of tall grass, the stems sitting in the vase. They, too, cast long shadows upon the wall, like ethereal fingers trying to claim purchase upon the physical world. The image struck him.

Finally, in an emotionless monotone, Ja’Nene began to speak. “Forgive me. I forgot myself. They say I will eventually come to understand, to accept what I am now.” The haunted sound of her words was more disturbing than Ne’Pheola’s. Perhaps because of her youth.

“What you are now?”

“It was rash of me. But please understand.” She turned her one good eye on him. “I don’t ask because I am love-starved, though that is certainly true. Nor because I seek a memory to warm me on bitter nights.” A tear fell gently down her cheek from her eye. “I sense a gentleness in you. A kind of caring. I have always been fast to know such things about men. And I”—she swallowed, tears coming more freely—“I just wanted to remember … the closeness.”

Braethen looked from Ja’Nene to the long blades of grass and back again, understanding dawning in him.

“Why do you pick the grass?” he asked. And answering his own question, said, “It is because it is not so desolate. Because you hold out hope against the life left to you. Because whatever joy you knew has not been bled from you, even if it is only seen in a blade of grass.”

Something awakened in him at the revelation of what he had just said, an admiration for this woman dressed in grey and living in such a vacant, dreary place. He put his hand on her scarred cheek. She jerked away at first, but after a moment inclined her cheek toward his hand, a warm tear falling on his knuckles.

“Despair overtakes my heart now, as for all of us it eventually does. One day I will wake and will not walk to the hills to pluck a few blades of grass. I fear that day. I can feel it coming.…”

Braethen looked at her, and in that moment did not see her ruined face, but the girl she had been. And thinking of her, he leaned in and kissed her tenderly on the lips.

When he drew slowly away, he saw wonder and gratitude in her eyes. He smiled kindly and nodded to her. Then gazing around the room, Braethen memorized the look and smell of desolation. Fixing on the blade of grass, he turned back to speak directly to her. “It will not always be this way. A blade of grass might sire a forest.”

He stood and crossed to the rug-door. When he looked back, he saw Ja’Nene, sitting in the shadows of her small fire and candle, staring after him. He remembered the darkness he had felt when he took the sword, and his cry when he lifted that sword to defend the Sheason’s life. It stirred in him the one thing more he could leave her with.

“You are beautiful. And I will not forget your name … Ja’Nene.”

The sodalist stepped back into the hail and strode toward the others with more purpose in his step than he remembered ever knowing.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Reputations

The sun-weathered man arrived at the small town of Solencia. Today he traveled with one of his wards for whom he had been unable to find a home. He would need help in transporting and protecting the provisions he had come for—the road back to the Scar could be treacherous. And these excursions away were good opportunities for his wards to learn more of the ways of men, and a means to test their desire and readiness to strike out on their own.

Solencia squatted against a hill, little more than a collection of merchant shops and a smithy, which did most of their trade with overland travelers. A few homes dotted the road into and out of the place, and some few tents and wagons had been set up along the highway, where travelers—who could not or would not afford a room—took a day of rest while they gathered supplies.

It was a town of little talk. Prices weren’t negotiated and passersby didn’t stop to trade greetings. Even the one tavern hunkered small and quiet at one end of the main road—a place to get a drink, nothing more. While outside, the sound of wagon wheels or horse hooves seemed the louder for the lack of human voices.

All of which suited the man and his ward, who were used to the absence of human sound.

They stopped in front of the general store and went in. The traveler handed a list of items to the shopkeep and dropped exact payment on the counter without a word. They waited patiently while the order was filled, then began to shoulder the provisions out to their small wagon for the trip back.

On their last haul, voices finally interrupted the solitude of Solencia.

“So it is our outcast come to take our food and water back to his desert home. And he brings with him one of his bastards this time.”

The man turned toward the sound. Three men stood in the road several strides away, challenge in their stances. They held weapons in their hands. The traveler took a quick survey of the scene, noting the men’s positions, full complements of weapons, the ground itself, onlookers, everything.

This was not the first time someone had called him out, hoping to make a reputation.

“Go home,” the weathered man said. “We have no quarrel with you. We will take our supplies and be gone in a moment’s time. There is no need of a contest between us.”

His challengers laughed, and the leader said, “It is not enough that you take our goods, but the word is you also take our arms. I think you have much to answer for. And we will not wait upon the councils of justice to put things right.”

The man placed his sack of oats in the wagon bed and spoke softly to his ward. “Be calm. I will talk with them. If it comes to conflict, remember your training. You are young but practiced. Have confidence.”

Despite his words, the sun-worn man did not want to see the youth—barely in his thirteenth year—tested on the road of Solencia. He approached his challengers, his weapons still sheathed.

He glared at each one, being sure they saw the look in his eye—something he knew a wise fighter could use to gauge what would follow. “You are not the first to call me out so that you might earn your reputations by putting me down. But if you persist, I promise you, you will not be the last.”

The lead man looked back evenly, deploying his men to encircle the traveler. “Your reputation is known, both for prowess and betrayal. And now for crimes against the innocent. For all these reasons we will not heed your threats.”

“Don’t be a fool,” the man replied. “We need not shed blood this night. But I will not ask again. We are packed and ready to leave.”

The traveler could see immediately that his words had fallen on deaf ears. He cursed the circumstances that made another man’s ambition of him. There were always those who sought to claim they had slain the outcast. But this many years into his isolation, it had less to do with the reasons for his isolation, and more to do with the notoriety killing him might win a man.

And down those years, the skill and refinement of his combat gifts had sent more men to their earth than he could count. Nor did he lament a single one.

“Prepare yourself,” the challenger said into the cool night air.

With that, the weathered man’s blood cooled and he set himself.

The attack came fast, but predictable. A knife shot out from the lead challenger’s left hand, meant to put the outcast off balance while his sword arm brought down a hammer stroke that could end the contest before it began.

The man dodged the knife and in a fluid motion stepped to the side, unsheathing his own sword as easily as he drew a breath. He removed the challenger’s arm in token of the offense with which they’d charged him, then put his sword through his heart. A scream shot out across Solencia.

But it did not issue from the throat of his attacker. The man pivoted around in time to see the two accomplices fall upon his ward, who blocked one stroke, but took one in the belly from the other man.

He rushed to the boy’s aid, howling defiance to distract them as he went. But they seemed not to hear, as they each raised their blades against his ward. The lad ducked and rolled, grimacing with the pain of his wound. The boy brought his blade up to deflect another strike and thrust, sticking one of his attackers. His sword hung in the flesh of the man, and as he fought to pull it back, the other smiled wickedly and used both hands in his final swing.

“No!” the outcast cried, now a mere stride away.

But he was too late, and the blade of the second man tore out the boy’s throat. The lad’s eyes showed awful surprise at his own death, followed fast by a look like a longing for home that the weathered man would never forget.

Then the boy fell back, his head striking the edge of the wagon bed before he landed on the hard earth.

In fury, the outcast laid into the killer. With a single raging stroke, he took the man’s head from his body. He followed the momentum of his sword, doing a complete turn, and brought it around on the other man, ripping his throat out as his cohort had the outcast’s young companion’s.

The challengers fell almost simultaneously, their heavy bodies thudding against the road and bleeding out. The man dropped to his knees. He had a few precious seconds to hold the lad and look some comfort into his eyes before the light there went out forever.

It was once again quiet, and terribly still, as he sat alone on the road of Solencia, holding a child he had been entrusted to protect. He mourned his ward, dead because prideful men had sought the outcast’s death to bolster their own esteem.

It struck him yet again, as it had so often before, that no matter where he went, he never escaped his condemnation, which would spread with the death of this lad. The poor boy, dead so young. His heart ached at the sight of him, while growing yet harder and more rancorous.

Something fundamental had to change.

The land of men could not endure with such pettiness, such selfishness as had banished him into the desert to begin with, and now threatened him and those he safeguarded … even when merely buying a bag of oats.

He had his own set of sins, he knew. But they were long in the past, and more than atoned for, to his mind.

No, something fundamental had to change.

The weathered man picked up the lad’s still body and gently placed him in the wagon, covering him with one of the blankets he’d just purchased. He should not have brought his ward. The dangers of traveling with the outcast were more than ordinary. He knew it too well. Alone, he could have killed all three contenders. Instead, the hopeful life of this stripling lad had been snuffed out before his bright contributions to the world could be made. The man hung his head over the boy’s body. His every breath became a painful, conscious act of grief.

The dark irony in it all came when he realized that even this purest of human emotions added to the rest of the stains on his life and made his heart stonier.

Then he ascended the few steps to the store again. He stepped up to the counter and looked across at the shopkeep, to whom this time he would have to speak his order. The thought in his mind was heresy. But he had reached a final outpost in the land of his heart, and he might be the only one, given such a vantage, to consider such impossibilities.

For what he contemplated might well be impossible.

But the act alone would ease his troubled mind.

“Parchment,” the weathered man said.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Emblems

Wendra slept restlessly in the presence of Jastail and his comrades. She had been unwilling to sing at her fire after their conversation ended, and so was left without the calming benefit it might have brought her. But it was less her own circumstances than those of Penit and Tahn that caused her to struggle with sleep. Though one was much younger than the other, neither had grown past the age of melura, and both were fatherless and now lost to her. She tried to focus on memories of Balatin, and on the vision of the elderly gentleman in the white robe who had visited her the night before in her fever. But she could hold none of them in her mind. The soft whir of crickets and the stream nearby did nothing to improve her mood. She lay silently until dawn, hoping her unspoken pact with Jastail would not prove foolish.

The two other men left after endfast and returned with three horses evidently tethered close by. Jastail helped her onto his own horse and they followed the stream northeast all day. Toward nightfall, it turned southeast through a series of steep hills, where rills out of several small canyons joined the stream, enlargening it. They soon came through a pass, and unexpectedly, in the valley below, the stream merged with a large river that flowed south from the other side of one low mountain. The river stretched nearly a hundred strides wide.

Several hours into the night, as they followed the river, they came in sight of a huge wooden dock. Jastail moved them into the cover of nearby trees where, for a time, they waited and watched. Resting on pilings that rose like dark columns from the water, thick, uneven cross timbers formed the landing on the riverbank. Wendra looked out over the flow, noting for the first time its beauty, a thousand ripples shining with moonlight, and the low musical hum of the vast passage of water.

Jastail gestured, and the first man rode to the dock’s end and lit a torch fastened to the last piling. The torchlight bounced harshly on the water, unable to completely dispel the darkness from the black timber of the dock. The first rider returned, and together from the cloak of the trees, they again watched the river and dock, now with the torch burning its lone flame from the end of the pier.

Distantly, a sound like geese honking floated across the water. Jastail looked north. Soon a large riverboat, multiple torches flaming from its runners, rounded a bend in the river. The sound of laughter came more clearly now, still sounding something like geese, and the boat angled toward the torch on the dock. The parting of water around its hull whispered with the clamor of voices. Wendra looked on in amazement at the sheer size of the watercraft. Several buildings rose from the deck, with second and third stories. At the rear, a team of oxen had been yoked to a thick crossbar fastened to a revolving post. As the animals walked a never-ending circle, the slow-spinning post turned a set of large wooden gears that powered the rear paddle wheel.

Men appeared on deck with ropes in hand, some guiding the vessel to a deft stop beside the dock. The sailors, six men in all, then brandished long knives. One extinguished the torch. Jastail seemed to take this as a signal. He spurred his horse from the cover of the trees and led them all to the pier’s end.

The clop of hooves on the wooden planks drowned out the sound of the river, but not the jollity streaming from the brightly lit middle deck of the boat. The incessant chatter reminded Wendra of Northsun Festival back home: animated laughter, punctuated shouts, and an occasional remonstration.

Jastail brought them to a stop before the men who’d lashed the riverboat to the dock. He lifted his hand in greeting, but folded one finger down.

“Name it,” said the deckhand who had doused the torch.

“Defiera,” Jastail said, and the men relaxed the angle of their daggers.

“What is wanted?” the other asked.

“Passage downriver to Pelan,” Jastail said. “We’ve business there.” His head turned slightly, and Wendra had the impression Jastail was indicating her.

The sailor, his face lost behind a protuberant nose, shifted and peered around Jastail at Wendra. He nodded appreciatively, then sized up the two men who kept them company.

“And these?” the sailor added.

“Hirelings,” Jastail replied. “Honest enough if they’re paid. Sullen enough on an empty gullet.”

At that the sailor laughed, joined by a number of the other deckhands.

“Three horses, three men, one woman”—the sailor leered at Wendra—“a handcoin, no less, and a stem for each man here so that their lips are occupied when asked about the business our new fares have in a place such as Pelan. Putting in there is hazard enough. You’ll not want the captain poking into your merchandise.”

Raucous laughter fell hard upon the wooden dock.

Jastail did not join them, but reached inside his cloak and pulled out a handful of coins. The sailor came forward and greedily reached for them. Jastail pulled back his fistful of money. “I’ve ridden your vessel before, Sireh, and find that I tend to … lose things. I will pay you for boarding, but the rest I will give when we are safely upon the dock near Pelan. If I am complete at that time, twice your price will you have. If I am not, then all the money will I give to but one of you without a word to the others. You may then share the money as you see fit.”

The sailor glowered at Jastail, who dropped a single silver coin. The man snatched it from the air with a quick hand and walked away muttering under his breath.

“Why do you spar with them?” Wendra asked. “They outnumber you, and you’ve no place to hide on the boat.”

“Ah, lady, it is good that we paired together in this enterprise,” Jastail said as the other sailors stood aside to let them pass. “Unwise is the buyer who pays his fee in advance. And with rivermen there are precautions to be taken. I have made this deal for your safety. These men are without consideration of what belongs to another man, let alone the proper treatment of a woman. They may well take us to Pelan, and hold their tongues about our particular transactions. But it is the time between then and now that I have purchased, the safety and assurance of our property and well-being. They will think three times before stealing what is ours, because I would then give all the tongue-money to one man among them. The distrust and danger created when each believes the other is holding money that belongs to him will insure us against pilfering while we travel. Rivermen are as greedy as the river is cold. The one I would pay would never share it with the others. The result would be that each of them becomes a target for the daggers of the others while he sleeps. They are as predictable as the rise of the sun.”

They boarded the great ship and passed into a building used for stabling horses. There they dismounted, unsaddled their horses, and walked through a door into the glare of the middle deck.

*   *   *

Wendra followed Jastail around odd tables that held sunken pits bottomed with slate. Between those standing around the tables, she caught glimpses of grids drawn across the slate with different numbers marked in soapstone in each square. Men and women moved colored markers in a flurry of hands until a man in a bright yellow shirt cast several triangular rods into the recessed area of the table. He then quickly counted the numbers scrawled on the stained surfaces of the rods.

Jastail pulled Wendra along. The two hirelings they’d been traveling with quickly found room at tables and tossed coin onto the slate to enter the games. On the left, a handful of large men stood stoically overlooking the whole of the room. They wore swords menacingly on their backs, the handles protruding in bold advertisement of their function. A black and white patch had been sewn to the left breast of their tunics. Next to them, a very small man, perhaps only three and a half feet tall, stood on a raised platform serving bitter and wine. He waddled in a strained gait, having to throw his left shoulder up to lift his right leg, and his right shoulder up to move the left. His pants were held in place with strange belts looped over his shoulders and fastened to both the front and back of his trousers. He looked terribly uncomfortable, but he smiled constantly, apparently happy in his work.

They wound past the long counters near the entrance and found men seated at short square tables, a man in the same yellow shirt standing as in mediation next to those who were seated. Intense eyes met over a series of square wooden placards that appeared blank. Each man took turns overturning a placard. Disgusted looks rose in their faces until one took up a placard whose underside was graven with the image of a bird. The mediator handed him a fistful of coins.

At still another of the small tables, two men sat engaged in simpler contests. Wendra watched as one of the gamekeepers placed a wooden block in the center of the table, asking the players to put their hands in their laps. The mediator then stood back and waited an indeterminate amount of time before quickly saying, “Take.” The contestants then both anxiously grabbed for the block. The man who took it won the prize.

As they meandered past various games, a general hilarity swirled around them. Wendra noticed that many of those gambling were dressed in unrefined wool, a few even in pelts; these men and women bet more meager amounts than those better dressed, but they drank more deeply, loosing bawdy laughter from wet lips. Beside them were players adorned in silk and twilled cotton, linens of extravagant color and design. Their wagers often flashed of gold, sometimes several coins high. And their cups were just as full as the rest.

The participants seemed to share a familiarity. It was common, Wendra saw, for a man here to put his hand on a woman’s breast, or she to cup another man’s loins. Even men and women who appeared to be here together seemed to feel free to lay hands on others. The gestures fetched bouts of laughter and calls for more bitter. Sweet-leaf tobaccom stems flared and puffed like small cloud makers, filling the room with a pungent haze. The revelry never abated, but fed upon itself as the boat moved down the river.

Jastail took hold of Wendra’s hand to guide her more surely through the throng. Toward the back of the great room, a few round tables sat partitioned off from the rest by a low wall. One of the swordsmen stood at the passageway into the area. Upon seeing Jastail, he stood aside and let them pass. Only a few men sat at the tables, most of the seats empty. Jastail led Wendra to the last table, where just one man sat with a stack of thin wooden placards like the ones Wendra had seen moments before. He wore a smartly tailored russet tunic with golden piping and a double column of silvery buttons down the front. A ring on each forefinger bore a weighty, elegant gem. And his beard had been frosted to match his buttons. The fellow did not rise, did not take note, but sat shuffling the placards over and over. Jastail’s tall shadow fell across the table; the man surely knew they were there. But he refused to immediately acknowledge them. Jastail waited, holding Wendra by the wrist.

The seated man took a tobaccom pipe from the lining of his jacket and tamped fresh weed into its bowl. He pulled a straw from a wooden canister beside the table lamp and lit one end in the lamp’s flame. With deliberation, he applied the flame to his bowl and puffed his pipe to life. With his head wreathed in the sweet smell of perfumed tobaccom, he looked up with smiling eyes and greeted Jastail.

“Hello, my friend,” he cooed. “Come again to test your luck, have you?”

Jastail flashed his standard smile. “You are a temptation to me, Gynedo. How can I resist the game?”

“And you play well for such a young man,” Gynedo said. “But young men should not be so willing to pay the price of the game, I think. Old men as I haven’t the … concern for reputation or consequence that young men should. How say you to that?” One brow rose in expectation of a response.

Jastail motioned to the chair opposite Gynedo.

“Please,” the older man said, puffing at his pipe.

Jastail sat, pulling Wendra to the tableside where he could see her, and let go of her wrist. “In any other time, Gynedo, I would say you are right. But these days we live in are filled with rumors. This is not a time for a man to lay stores by in the hope of surviving the winter. I—”

The old man pointed his crooked finger at Jastail, arresting his answer mid-word.

“You’re a philosopher, my young man,” Gynedo said, his eyes narrowing, “but leave the rhymes and riddles for those you intend to betray. Tell me why you come to game here.” The old man tapped the table with his finger, seeming to indicate not the boat, or even the room, but the very table at which he sat.

Jastail’s smile failed him. Wendra liked the look of his face plain, absent the attempt to distract or deceive. He appeared to earnestly consider the question, his eyes thoughtful and directed despite the confusion of noise from the outer room. “Because it thrills me,” he said finally. “It is a base logic. Fah, no logic at all. I play because no other trade makes me feel alive, no other contest or wager speeds my heart.” His voice grew quieter, but somehow cut through the din. “I come, Gynedo, because I am a young man, younger than you, and I have learned already the intoxication of where you are willing to go. I can no longer do less.”

Gynedo sat appraising Jastail, considering his answer. Finally, he nodded. “A pity for you, I think, Jastail. Your trade in human flesh has dulled your senses.” The old man looked at Wendra.

Jastail said nothing

“But it is a thrill.” And the old man’s eyes lit with excitement and energy. “None greater that I know, no paltry thing as what the herds come to partake.” He motioned in disgust at the outer room. “They with their pittance upon the slate, their heads dulled with watered bitter, their wanton hands betraying their animal nature. I need my wall.” He gave a wan smile. “But yes, it is a thrill, one that I will enjoy until my flesh is gone to dust. But you, friend, you may live to tire of even this game, and then what is left to you?”

“I will never tire of it,” Jastail said in a convincing voice.

“No?” Gynedo remarked, his voice rising with incredulity. “Well, I will hope you are right, because I have seen what is next, and it were better that you should perish now than live to know such stakes.”

Jastail had no reply.

“Then let us make our accountings,” the old man said and stood up, leading Jastail into a small anteroom.

“Stay here,” the highwayman said to Wendra. She sat, glad to finally rest her feet.

But she watched through the open doorway as the old man, Jastail, a woman she could not see well, and a few others took turns holding up various items, pointing and touching them as they seemed to describe what they were. Wendra couldn’t hear what was said, but solemn faces and appreciative nods followed the presentation of each item. Assessing value, she imagined. It seemed clear that the various articles they discussed would be what the players would wager in their game. For the moment, the highwayman was embroiled in something that didn’t involve her. It gave Wendra a much needed respite, and she relaxed ever so slightly, realizing how weary she was.

What Gynedo called the accounting took an hour, and Wendra had nearly nodded off when the group came out of the anteroom.

Gynedo sat, as did Jastail. The two men stared at one another for some time before Gynedo divided the placards and pushed one pile toward Jastail. “Pick them up, my young friend, and let us see where the chances take us this night.”

Jastail picked up the thin wooden placards and fanned them out, studying each with great interest. Wendra could see a number of designs on the placards, but could not understand what they meant or what game they might indicate. As the two began to play, the other players who’d taken part in the accounting gathered around them. Three were men, all elderly like Gynedo, and all puffing pipes as though in imitation of the man. One was the woman, younger and wearing a beautiful satin dress. Her hair had been tied up above her head, exposing the delicate, white flesh of a neck that had never been exposed to the workaday sun. Gold earrings dangled delicately against her skin, and on each thumb she wore a gold ring with a large white stone. But she did not watch the men: she turned her attention immediately to Wendra, looking closely at her hair, her lips, her bosom, and her legs.

“Set three ways,” she said, speaking to Gynedo and Jastail, but looking still at Wendra as if with some prescient knowledge.

The men stopped their analysis of the thin woods in their hands and looked at the new player. Gynedo sat deliberating, smoking his pipe, savoring the sweet blend of the weed and the power he had to make others wait. He looked at Jastail, who nodded his agreement.

“Just so, Ariana,” the old man said. “Take a chair and three will play.” He looked up at the other men. “But no more.”

Wendra thought she could feel peering eyes, and looked over her shoulder to find a number of gamers and gamblers watching the development of the contest. She hoped Gynedo or Jastail would send them away, but the men were busy reshuffling the placards to divide them into three piles. None of this was getting her any closer to Penit, or to Tahn, and her frustration mounted. A stirring of song came darkly to her mind and fought for release, but she held herself still and thought of Balatin and his words concerning patience: Fortune serves he who is long-suffering. She turned her attention to the game, trying to understand how it was played.

After several minutes of consideration, Gynedo put a placard down on the table in front of him. Both Jastail and Ariana looked surprised at the play. The placard held the image, rendered in red, of a serpent with great wings.

“To you, then, Jastail,” the old man said, taking pleasure in his pipe and smiling around its stem.

Jastail spared a look at Ariana, touched one placard, then quickly removed the leftmost one in his hand and set it before him. It was Gynedo’s turn to show surprise, but only in the raising of one brow. The old man nodded, then shook his head, still smiling around his pipe.

Ariana’s face showed nothing, and she did not hesitate in making her play, immediately putting down a placard bearing the same symbol as Jastail’s.

“One round,” Gynedo said. “What have you to carry you to the next?”

Jastail removed an earring from his belt that bore the likeness of a tall woman.

“Most impressive,” the old man said. “It was you that did it, then.” He nodded appreciatively.

Ariana turned baleful eyes on him. Jastail did not favor her with a return look. The woman’s composure failed for only a moment, though, before she removed a glove from a small silken bag tied to her wrist. Woven of metal shavings, the warrior’s glove shimmered in the light.

“He went to battle for you, dear Ariana,” Gynedo said. “How better suited to play the game is a woman, don’t you agree, Jastail?”

Wendra’s captor looked at Ariana, whose obvious hatred now burned through cold, inscrutable eyes.

“We shall see,” Jastail finished.

The old man laid a small drawing on the table, rendered in an unpracticed hand, like that of a child’s. A hush fell over all who saw the wager. “That gets me to round two. Does anyone disagree?” No one spoke. “I will accept that as my invitation to continue.”

Another round of placards was laid down, and again each of the players produced an item that seemed to shock those gathered to watch. Wendra didn’t immediately understand the significance of the objects being used to buy the players an opportunity to present another placard, but her mind danced close to understanding that they represented people in some way, and that the literal value of the item was secondary to what it signified.

Around they went, laying six cards on the table. Each time was followed by some token that appeared to be the personal effect of someone the wagerer had known.

Then Wendra understood, looking at the pile of items on the table: a mourner’s kerchief, a child’s diary, an author’s quill, a worn doll, a stringless fiddle, and more. Things she’d seen them presenting and discussing in the back room before the game began. These were tokens of loss, of emotional pain, of death, the voices of which were the sounds of silence and sorrow, of life’s sacrifice and bereavement. And somehow these gamblers were the cause or custodians of these moments of grief and regret, gamblers whose souls were so hardened to the effects of money and wine that all that remained worth betting—that could stir their desire to wager—was the despair and tragedy represented in the offerings heaped on the table before them.

Only human suffering seemed able to move them, and perhaps thereby convince them of their own lives.

Wendra’s heart ached with the knowledge.

“Young friends, you’ve played well,” Gynedo said with a hint of condescension. “But your placards don’t make a strong bid against your last play.” He leaned back and drew deeply on his pipe. “There is only small shame in getting up from the table. But to do so, I require you to take back your wagers.”

The few men who had first gathered to watch gasped. Gynedo seemed to be demeaning their efforts to play the game and devaluing their wagers. Wendra guessed that in doing so, the players lost more than the game, they lost reputation. Gynedo was mocking them.

Then Jastail smiled, as wicked a smile as Wendra had yet seen upon his lips. “Not I, old friend. I will turn my last placard.”

Ariana studied the placards on the table, appearing to weigh her chances. She looked at Jastail and Wendra, then nodded that she, too, would play to the last.

“Your will to do,” Gynedo said. “Then what shall be the prize that gets you your last turn?” He took his pipe from his mouth and watched Jastail with curious eyes.

Jastail looked at the old man, his cunning gaze holding back something, a secret that he seemed to enjoy not immediately sharing. Ariana leveled her icy glare on him, an angry beauty in her that Wendra admired. The entire area again fell silent, players pausing to hear the last turn even if they could not see the play.

As he leaned forward, Jastail’s chair creaked loudly in the suddenly quiet room. He seemed to want a close look at Gynedo’s face as he put in his last wager.

He slowly reached for Wendra, taking her again by the wrist and drawing her toward the table. “And with this, I buy my last turn.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Names of the Dead

Vendanj sat across from Ne’Pheola in the darkest, smallest hours of the night. By the light of a solitary candle, they worked. Through the rug door, the cold encroached, leaving his writing hand slightly more pained after the cramp of putting the stylus to such long use.

But he would have none other write these names.

It took time, because he would not add a name to the parchment until he’d asked Ne’Pheola to relate the story of both the one that was gone and the one left behind. He would know of the severed union, and to do so, both halves must be understood. These marriages, which had borne a promise binding two people together beyond this life, had also been torn asunder by the the power of the Whited One. For Vendanj, perhaps the most nefarious of Quietus’s evils was that even in his victories, he would not leave those fallen a happiness beyond death.

And so one by one, in the soft tones of mourners, Vendanj and Ne’Pheola told the stories of the fallen, and the barren life of the other half that remained behind. The long hours stretched, but Ne’Pheola went on, and Vendanj recorded the names thoughtfully.

For much of the night those names were drawn from wars with the Quiet. But after a time, the names on the page reflected the will of men to execute Sheason for the use of their gift, even when done in service.

Ne’Pheola drew a tepid cup of water to wet her dry throat and to steady the emotion that crept there as the names now were friends, even her own. “I still do not understand, Vendanj. What power is there in this law that should make the execution of a Sheason everlastingly final for him and his wife?”

Vendanj paused, laying down the stylus at last and putting his fingers near the candle’s flame to urge some warmth into them. “I do not yet know,” he answered. “I used to believe that part of it was that, as servants, we have bound ourselves to honor those we serve. That we should not act contrary to the laws they use to govern themselves and define what is right and good.”

“But you—”

Vendanj held up a hand. “I know. That is why I say I used to believe this. It is at best only half an answer. I have not been able to discern the reason.” Then he said lower, “I am sorry.”

The widow stretched a cold hand across to him, and they locked fingers beside the candle. They remained unspeaking for some time.

“If the law was rescinded,” Ne’Pheola asked, “would it remake the bonds that have been severed?”

Vendanj looked into her eyes. They were etched deeply with lines of grief and sorrow felt over many years. She had once been beautiful, once the flower of Estem Salo. He wanted to give her hope, wanted to see the radiance again, as he had long ago. Her warmth had once done much to make serving as Sheason a more joyful and estimable calling. But he would not give her false hope, for such was the torment of the damned.

“I don’t know, Anais. I do not believe so. Some things cannot be remade. A nail can be removed from a piece of wood, but the hole it created remains. I cannot see if repealing the law would also give the wood its wholeness again.” Vendanj saw despair etch itself deeper into the lines of her face, and he couldn’t leave her with that. “But I will hope with you,” he said. “And I am on my errand to do everything in my power to put an end to the Quiet that threatens all our futures.”

Then briefly, he saw it. The flower of Estem Salo. And in that small hope, he was doubly paid for any loss he might suffer farther down the road.

“You have much to give, Anais. Why don’t you return to the Halls of the Servants? There is yet wisdom and strength in you that could train a new generation—”

It was Ne’Pheola’s turn to raise a hand, cutting Vendanj off. “They are kind words, Sheason, but I do not think my heart could bear it. And more than this, these here”—she tapped the parchment on the table—“have need of whatever strength I have left. Some days are a struggle to convince them that they should want to see another sky.”

Vendanj did not press. This he understood well enough. Yet he also understood that this list might bear fruit when he carried it into the Scar, where yet others bore the sentence of endless, lifeless days.

And so after a long moment, sharing without words the separate griefs and burdens they each bore, Vendanj again took up his stylus and they resumed recording the names of Sheason widows. With each name the magnitude and toll of their service mounted, the document growing. The weight of it thickened the air.

The list they created whispered of the abyss, and he wished that there’d never been need to create it.

Wished especially, as the last name he put to it would be his own.

*   *   *

Mira leaned against the outer wall of Ne’Pheola’s home in the dark of predawn. She surveyed the street, the land beyond the last homes, the sky. Now she understood why Tahn took to the dark for his moments of solace. The peace of a sleeping world before lying tongues and dire threats came into the day was something to be savored.

In those few moments Mira forgot the Quiet, forgot even the changes coming for her and the Far. Mira stood in the still serenity with no need to do other than breathe and listen.

“You don’t sleep, do you?” Ne’Pheola shuffled into the street to stand beside her. Her voice, though soft, seemed loud in the silence.

“Return to your bed. I will watch here,” Mira said.

“I’ve been up at this hour for more years than you’ve drawn breath, Mira Far. That’s not going to change now.” The old woman leaned against the wall with Mira, and stared out upon the unwaking world.

Together they shared the calm for some time before the widow spoke again, her words so soft this time that Mira had to strain to hear her.

“Do you know where your road ends, my girl?”

Mira understood that she meant the journey they all had undertaken. “If it ends prematurely, no.”

Ne’Pheola might have smiled in the darkness. “You will go into the belly of the Quiet if you would see this thing done. And for my part, I hope that’s where you go. It’s selfish of me, but I believe I’ve earned a wedge of selfishness for my own burdens.”

“I think we’re all going to come to the belly of the Quiet before we are through.” Mira did not say it lightly. She’d thought on this.

“We might at that,” the widow said, nodding. “We might at that. But here’s the question: Is it your intention and heart to stand at the Sheason’s side to see it done?” Mira started to answer when Ne’Pheola held up her hand. “I don’t need an answer, girl. I only want you to have considered the question. Vendanj will make an enemy of himself to most before this is done.”

“Enemy,” Mira repeated. It wasn’t a word she’d ever attributed to the Sheason. He was a hard man at times, driven and uncompromising. But those qualities were the reason she’d joined him some four years ago.

Ne’Pheola looked up, surveying the stars above Widows Village. “The world is changing. The things a Sheason stands for, his service and sacrifice, are considered by many to be at best irrelevant, at worst criminal. The Quiet stirs, and this, Mira Far, is not simply another war. The very instruments we have always had to protect ourselves—the Song of Suffering, the Tract of Desolation, the Will itself—are under attack from within our own borders.”

Mira followed the widow’s gaze skyward. “You speak of the League.”

“Not only of the league, my girl.” Ne’Pheola sighed. “If you intend to stand beside Vendanj to the end, you will stand not only against the secrets held deep inside the Bourne. You, child, will stand against nations and kings. Yes, the League, as well. But before it is over … the very Order of Sheason.”

Mira stared intently at the old woman, waiting for her to explain.

Ne’Pheola remained silent for a time, taking in those stars as if she’d never seen them before. Then she looked at Mira again. “I have seen and felt this even just this last evening as I sat with the man. A terrific burden he has placed on his shoulders. You must decide if you are truly yoked with him to carry it. Yes, you’ve brought hope out of the Hollows.” The widow paused, a grave look passing over her eyes. “But hope often fails. Vendanj knows this. He seeks to surround himself with those hardened enough to come against these threats and who will not falter. And that, my girl, will mean looking into the faces of those you’ve esteemed as friends and being willing to do what is necessary.”

Ne’Pheola stopped. She rubbed her eyes slowly, then looked heavenward again. “Before it is done, your friend there will likely become a fugitive, and yet his heart will remain fixed upon the goal. A goal that would see the world safe again. Safe from the Quiet. These things, Mira Far, are not trivial. And one who makes them his purpose must know on whom he can rely. This is why he can be cruel; there is no middle ground. His foot is upon a path from which he will not stray. And it is why this old woman will carry a thought of hope for her lost family when you leave here.”

Mira pondered all Ne’Pheloa had said. At times she and the Sheason had disagreed, and while he trusted many things to Mira, if he set himself on something, there was no further debate. In fact, that quality had made them compatible.

But Ne’Pheola’s words fell like prophecy on the stillness of Widows Village. Standing against Sheason, looking into the faces she’d esteemed as friends and doing what was necessary—these were dark portents to Mira’s heart. It amounted to a war against all of creation on both sides of the veil. There could be no victory for them in such a cause. How the widow could feel hope against such hopelessness escaped Mira.

But that was not the question.

Had Mira considered where this ended?

The answer came when Ne’Pheola spoke again into the stillness. “And what of your own family, Mira Far? You are come to the age to bear your own heritage a child, are you not?”

Mira remained undecided on the choice her king would put to her when next they spoke. And the thought of it brought fresh sadness about the death of her sister. But regardless of what Mira decided about bearing an heir, the larger choice seemed clear. The Far would need no heir if the purpose she set out to aid the Sheason with fell to ruin. On the other hand, perhaps the Far and their commission would have a larger part to play in Vendanj’s plans than she could now see; and if so, they would indeed need an heir.

She desired to go into the belly of the nightmare on either side of the veil to stand beside the Sheason and the children out of the Hollows. But Mira knew that part of her motivation was selfish, even as Ne’Pheola had just self-ascribed; only for Mira, her selfishness had more to do with escaping family than preserving it.

Mira wondered, though, about Ne’Pheola’s other words. She wondered which friends she might be called on to lift her sword against.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Inveterae

Cheers continued to erupt to the right, noise and laughter and applause rising from the great luminous tents. But Tahn ignored them, shuffling Sutter away from the throng. The feeling changed as they walked toward a distant part of the field. Tahn’s skin began to tingle with goose bumps—a warning and expectation. What is in there? But he did not falter, and the two friends made their way to the low, darkened tent hoping to find help from the Bourne.

“Some taste in entertainment you have,” Sutter slurred, and nearly fell.

His weight hung on Tahn, making it difficult to walk. But Tahn managed to get them to the flap of the tent, where he stopped dead, staring at the most captivating woman he had ever seen.

She stood leaning against the stand at the tent’s entrance. A sign nailed to the front of the stand read: STAY TWO STRIDES FROM THE CAGES.

Her long curly hair was drawn back in a tail. Tight-fitting leather trousers, cut extremely low across her hips, clung to her calves and thighs. Her blouse plumed in the sleeves, but stretched across her bosom and ended above her ribs, showing a lean stomach. She could only have been a few years older than Tahn and Sutter, but the experience he saw in her face made her look more exotic yet. Her brow rose with impatience over large, brown eyes and a delicate nose.

“Find what you’re looking for?” The woman used the tip of a knife to clean her nails, sparing an occasional glance at them.

Regaining his composure, Tahn wasn’t sure how to ask. If she knew his desperation, the lucre in this woman’s eye might be beyond his ability to pay. She was tenendra-folk, after all. He could see her already sizing them up. Before he could concoct a lie, she uttered a warning.

“I suggest you speak true words when you open your lips, boy, or your friend here is likely to gather some scars.” With her dagger she delicately caressed Sutter’s lips, which now hung loose, wet with spittle.

Tahn pulled Sutter back out of reach and shot an angry glance at the tenendra girl.

“I will wait on your reply for a moment or two, and then you’ll either turn around and leave or you’ll be food for whatever carrion eaters occupy this tent.” She pointed with her dagger toward the flap to their right, then spun the blade in her hand in a quick circle, and sheathed it against one trim thigh.

Tahn thought quickly. He decided on the truth, and something more. This girl looked both beautiful and dangerous, but she would not stand between him and any chance of healing Sutter. At any cost, he was going in, even if that meant violence. His shock was not that he considered such hostility (maybe even anticipated it), but that such measures didn’t this time make him anxious. He was not long out of the Hollows, but something inside him had begun to shift.

“My friend is sick. The healer in town said you held a creature here that might be able to help him. I need to go in.” Tahn nodded toward the tent.

A wicked smile crossed her lips. “I hear the hope of free admission in your voice. Are you appealing to my sympathies for your friend’s ailment? Because I tell you, you are not the first young boys to try and connive a private show at no cost. Either your friend is feigning his sickness, in which case I’ll make you pay double. Or you tell the truth, he’s truly sick, and you’ll pay triple. Ha! There are sights you are not accustomed to in these cages, boys, things from your dreams and nightmares.” She looked at Sutter. “So, which is it?” She tapped the dagger at her thigh.

Tahn stared back. “How much?”

“I will take you in, and three coppers each.”

Tahn raised the price. “Four. We may need to get close.” He nodded toward the sign on the front of her stand.

The woman’s eyes darted to the sign and back to Tahn, measuring him closely. Then her face lit up with savage amusement, a dangerous humor that lent her features an exotic sensuality. Tahn’s face flushed at the sight of her. Competing needs made his head swim: Sutter’s sickness and the intoxication of this tightly clad tenendra girl. Perhaps, he thought, this is what it means to go beyond the Change.

Through smiling lips she said, “Well enough, boys, but that will cost you three and six, you understand? Three handcoins, six coppers.” She gave Sutter a careful look. “I believe I know what you need, and to have the beast’s cooperation I’ll have to threaten it. It’s a dangerous business.” She pulled her dagger from its sheath and pointed it at each of them separately. “And you take the risk knowing I will not help you if you come to harm. The beast is not human, and mad as the Kaemen Sire when he marched upon the Sky.” The girl twirled her dagger again between her fingers. “Pay now, and you shall have your chance with the low ones. But mind you, no tricks. Real coin. I can smell alchemic ore a league away. And I can throw my stick half that distance at the thief who flees with my wage.” She waved her knife.

Tahn stood. “One and eight, now. The rest once we’re done.”

The girl slowly laid the point of her dagger on Tahn’s chin, just barely pricking him. The wicked smile widened, arousing Tahn even over the threat of her blade. “Another time I might put you into your earth for such a veiled insult to my honor. A dead man’s purse is no longer his.” She leered at him, a wanton look that made him ache in a surprisingly pleasant way. “But I am feeling generous tonight. We are made,” she said, sealing the deal. She sheathed her dagger and straightaway put out her hand.

Tahn took the toll from his pouch and paid her.

“You may call me Alisandra, lover,” the girl said, hiding the coins in a pocket of her trousers that Tahn had not seen. “It is not my true name, but it will help you find me if you have further … desires.” She again looked him up and down, still smiling her infuriatingly seductive smile.

She then strode toward the long tent, her tight leather pants showing a firmness Tahn could not ignore.

“That girl is all greed and muscle,” Sutter whispered as soon as she began to lead them away.

Tahn continued to look after her, noting the hint of sinew beneath the smooth skin of her back—lithe as a mountain cat, and just as dangerous. He rubbed his chin and hurried to follow her, when Sutter collapsed for the last time.

Alisandra reached the tent and pulled back the flap. “In you go, boys,” she said, wearing a half smile.

Tahn hoisted Sutter over his shoulder and ducked inside. The humid smell of caged life hung in the air with the thick, rich scent of straw and unclean skin. Alisandra came in after them, passing to lead them forward.

Inside, small torches lined the far right-hand wall, the light scarcely more than a candle might emit. Straw had been thrown down to walk upon. The fetid smell of mildewed canvas permeated the tent. To the left sat darkened cages fashioned of close iron bars, separated by canvas flaps. The smell of animal waste and flesh left too long to inaction commingled with the smell of the canvas to make Tahn’s stomach heave. Above each cage dim lanterns burned, fastened well out of reach of whatever might occupy each stall.

The first cage stood empty. Tahn walked ahead without speaking. Rustling sounds, as things shifted in the straw, inspired his anxiety. He swallowed and slowly passed the first flap to view the second cage. There, two young girls, naked, huddled together in the straw at the back of their cage. The flickering light played delicately upon their skin, but seemed somehow intrusive. He did not immediately see why they might be caged. Then they moved, as one. The girls were joined at the hip, sharing a middle leg and part of the same stomach. Dirty, ratted hair hung over soft, supplicating faces. They looked away and cowered in a corner, gathering up straw to hide their nakedness. Tahn noted a bowl of wormy fruit and another of filthy water in the opposite corner. The sight disturbed him. But more than that, it left him feeling despair and sadness for them. Somewhere, these two girls had parents who had surely loved them. Yet here they were, an attraction meant to disturb or cause the ugly wonder of ridicule in the onlooker.

Or maybe, Tahn thought, the parents of these poor girls had been glad to be rid of them. Perhaps even at a price.

He moved on quickly to the next cage, Sutter grunting on Tahn’s shoulder with each step.

The lantern above the third stall had burned out, casting the cage into deep shadow. Tahn peered into the darkness, but could see nothing. Then a hoarse cry shrieked from within and a form rushed forward to the bars of the cage. Tahn recoiled, tripping and sending both him and Sutter sprawling. They landed heavily in the straw.

Tahn turned over and looked back at the cage. Vaguely human, the creature’s flesh had been replaced by scar tissue as though it had been rescued from the belly of a fire. Its features appeared to run like liquid. It made noises with its tongue through one side of its mouth, but Tahn could discern no words. Its shortened limbs bore no hands or feet, and in the faded light, it appeared hairless. Without fingers it could not grasp the cage bars, but it beat at them with its stubs, its one good eye fixing Tahn with an imploring stare. Kill me or free me, it seemed to be saying. The thing lost its balance and fell back into the straw, making no effort to get up, but just whimpering with its lipless mouth.

Again, despair bloomed in Tahn’s chest. And pity. What kind of person profits by the misfortune of another? Indignation began to replace his disillusionment. He looked up into Alisandra’s face, and saw an inscrutable look. Did she find him pathetic, or was there a touch of guilt buried inside her?

It didn’t matter. He grabbed Sutter’s arms and dragged him forward, following the tenendra girl onward, staying close to the outer tent wall. Then, she stopped at the last cage. Tahn let Sutter’s arms drop. His friend was now unconscious.

The sheer size of whatever lay captive beside them drew Tahn’s attention. The bars restraining it were double the diameter of the others, casting vague shadow-stripes on it. Sitting in the pen, something very like a Bar’dyn patiently watched them. It was broad in the face, but the bones beneath the eyes did not protrude as he had seen in the Bar’dyn. And its skin, though thick, did not appear as fibrous. Immense legs did remind him of the Given they’d fled, as did the bulging muscles in its neck. The sheer size of it frightened him. Its dense musculature was enough, Tahn knew, to pull him apart. Its fingers rested as passive and hard-looking as stones, and its eyes, fixed upon him, did not move.

He stared back, increasingly sure that this was not Bar’dyn. Though in one way it did seem entirely the same: the reason and intelligence reflected in its eyes, belying its monstrous frame. To his own astonishment, Tahn stepped closer.

He found pity swelling in him, just as it had for the girls a few cages away and for the burned boy. Tahn guessed that the proprietors had meant for this last cage to inspire the most fear and awe, culminating the experience of the wonders of the low ones. But something more gnawed at him, and he struggled to understand it. He dropped his eyes to his own hand, looking again at the mark there, tracing its familiar pattern with his eyes. They were prisoners. All these strange misshapen creatures were captives, and suddenly Tahn wanted to know why. To give others pleasure, to draw money for the tenendra. Forgotten were the delightful smells outside the tent and the rank smell all around him; forgotten were his travails since the Hollows. He looked up in desperation again to the massive creature jailed before him.

He was startled to see the creature standing at the edge of the cage, just a hand-length away—well within reaching distance. The beast had moved close soundlessly while Tahn had looked away. His senses swam and clouded as he stared face-to-face with the being, its eyes still placid. It could take him and kill him with one hand, but Tahn did not budge. Calmly, he studied the intelligence in its eyes.

Then, softly, but in a deep, proud voice, it very clearly said, “Lul’Masi.” It never looked away, and Tahn blinked in ignorance. Was that its name? The word came so quietly, he wasn’t sure he heard it correctly. Before he could ask a question, Alisandra pulled him back.

“All right, back up, back up.” She waved her hands at the beast, who slowly stepped backward to the far side of its cage. “Here’s how it’s going to go. You,” she said, pointing at the creature, “are going to stay where you’re at while I open this door and let our young friends here inside. They want to ask your help. And you’re going to give it or the beatings on this little family of yours are going to start back up again.” She pointed toward the other cages.

The beast’s eyes never left Tahn while she spoke.

Alisandra lifted a lantern from one of the poles behind her, and shined its light deeper into the cage, her face more stern. “Do you understand me?”

The creature nodded.

“You may have come here to dig your own earth,” Alisandra said to Tahn. “This beast may tear your arms from your body. You are either brave or foolish.”

He looked down at Sutter, whose breathing rasped over open lips. His friend was still alive, but for how long? “You took our money with quick hands. Use them to fetch your key and let us in.”

The girl turned reproachful eyes on him. “Don’t grow brave with me. I may feed you to it for half our agreed price, just to silence your tongue.” She replaced the lamp, and retrieved a set of keys from a flap in her boot.

“Mark me, lover. Nothing can be done for you once you are inside the cage. The beast will decide whether my threat is worth its obedience. The strongest five men in the company cannot harness it alone; it takes them all.” She looked in at the massive creature. “I share no blood with either of you, so take your chance, and either I will increase my fortune, or one less low one will need feeding when the supper bells chime.”

“Open it,” Tahn said.

She stepped forward and inserted the key in the lock. A small click sounded as a tumbler fell back, and the lock opened. Alisandra kept her eyes on the beast at the back of the cage as she slowly opened the door.

It finally dawned on Tahn that he had paid to take himself and his friend into the company of a creature out of the Bourne. The madness of it struck him. But a glance at his friend bolstered his resolve. He took Sutter’s arms and dragged him through the hay and into the cage of the Lul’Masi.

Alisandra closed the door behind them.

As Tahn turned his attention to the beast standing back in the shadows, sudden helplessness filled him. A chill raced down his back as he considered the possible consequences.

A chuff of breath came from the great shape in the shadow, and Tahn laid Sutter down and began to creep toward it. Drawing nearer, he marveled again at its immense size. Its sides heaved as it stared at him in the dimness. What if it is Quietgiven? The thought exploded in his mind. The creature resembled the Bar’dyn in so many ways.

Something kept him moving, though, and slowly he crept to within a stride of the creature. Its thick skin rippled with muscle. One hand could easily have fully encircled Tahn’s neck. This close, he noticed fine, dark hair growing on its legs and arms. He stared up into its broad face.

The beast stared back, and bent toward him. The ground vibrated with the shifting weight, and Tahn’s legs locked in fear. His heart thumped in his ears and chest. This was mad. The creature’s arm measured at least the size of Tahn’s leg. He began to feel claustrophobic and started to pant. Waves of hot and cold ran over him, threatening to tumble him to the floor. He turned to look at Sutter, trying to recapture his resolve, and heard his friend moan and his eyes tighten at his unnecessary poisoned dreams. A moment later, Sutter cried out in witless pain.

Tahn whipped around and stood face-to-face with the beast. Its glassy eyes were like large black pools, so close that Tahn could see himself in them. Tahn thought he saw a pain-fed apathy in the creature’s visage. The presence of the beast was dizzying, its silence more menacing than any shriek or cry it might have uttered. Intelligent eyes peered through Tahn, assessing him as the Sheason had done.

For several moments the thing stared at him, unmoving, unspeaking. Then it said in its deep voice, “We are Lul’Masi. I am Col’Wrent.”

The creature said it as if it should mean something to Tahn, but whatever it was didn’t register.

The beast looked back, seeming to consider behind its intelligent eyes. Then its features tightened. “I am Inveterae.”

Warmth rushed into Tahn’s body, like the thaw of winter all in an instant. He knew this word from the reader’s stories. This creature had surely escaped the Bourne. But it was not Quietgiven; it was of the Inveterae, one of the unredeemed.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

The Stakes Are Raised

At the revelation of Jastail’s last wager, Gynedo’s face fell, making him look every year of his age. Murmurs erupted throughout the gambling deck. Wendra felt claustrophobic, and struggled to breathe as the smoke and stares seemed to rush in upon her. Darkness stirred within her, but before it found form, her knees buckled and she fell to the floor. No one moved to assist her. Over the lip of the table she could see Ariana, who alone appeared unsurprised.

“And now you, Ariana,” Jastail said softly.

The beautiful young woman looked a moment longer at Wendra. With steady hands she turned over her placards. She did not speak, but sat with quiet dignity waiting for the game to finish.

Gynedo found his composure, his face twisting into a semblance of the amiable smile he’d worn before. He took a long drag at his tobaccom before speaking. “More than a fair price,” the old man said. Then he bent forward and peered into Jastail’s eyes. “You were too young to learn such a game, friend. You have gone past me. Earth and Dust, I hold no value for your life.”

Jastail did not avert his eyes or blink at the strong condemnation. “Will you try to match this wager, Gynedo?” Jastail asked with a mocking reverence.

The old man sat back, looking over the placards, the wagers, and all the faces surrounding them. “No.”

A collective gasp was heard in the room, mutters slowly filling the silence. Jastail sat back in his chair. He and the old man’s eyes locked, each searching the other. Wendra looked up again, noting the disdain in Ariana’s face, but also familiarity in the way she looked at Jastail. The thought of what had just happened left her breathless and tasting bile in the back of her throat. She had been the last raise, the last wager. And something told her it wasn’t merely her life; that vague thought churned like panic in her throat.

“Great Fathers, what is this man?” she mumbled. The roar of the gaming room rose to its previous volume, clouding her mind further. She longed for the Hollows and Balatin and a forgetfulness of this riverboat and its vile occupants.

As Wendra sat dumbfounded on the floor, the crowd went back to their gambling. Two gentlemen clapped Jastail on the back before taking their seats again at their own game behind the low wall. Gynedo stared at the heap of tokens, shaking his head. Soft words fell from his lips like prayers to broken stones, but Wendra could not make them out. Ariana glowered at Jastail, but whether from hatred or jealousy Wendra didn’t know. Her captor remained at the table, a defeated look on his face though his final wager had earned him the game. He laid his hands splay-fingered upon the tokens and swept them into a bag before extending a hand to help Wendra up.

Wendra slapped his arm away roughly and pulled herself up using the wall at her back. Blood rushed to her head, and she steadied herself, waiting for the pressure to ease. The din of wage-makers calling odds and gamblers squealing delight or shouting misfortune rose in a dizzying cacophony. Laughter and angry barks punctuated the chorus of voices. No one looked twice at her now, involved in the play of their own chances.

“Come, it’s time we go,” Jastail said. The command was salt in an open wound. Wendra’s attempt to play this man’s game, to salvage control over her circumstances, had failed in one raise of the stakes. She thought to jump at him and tear at his eyes, but his companions stepped behind the wall as her balance finally returned.

“Hold, Jastail,” the stately woman said. Her words bit, but retained an air of dignity.

Jastail half turned and smiled wanly. “Not tonight, Ariana. I haven’t the patience for it.”

The woman pushed back her chair and exited the rear gambling area without another look at any of them.

“Bring her,” Jastail ordered his men, and started to leave.

“Too far,” Gynedo blurted.

Jastail paused, though he would not look back at the old man, who went on, his words weak against the noise in the room, but clear in their intent.

“I’ve seen it, but only once. Take care, Jastail. You and I, we know the lie of the wager. It is meat for our wine, and tobaccom for our pipe, but always these things sate the user. What you play at now … it will never satisfy—”

“Enough!” Jastail blared.

The old man’s face sketched itself in stern lines. “Don’t forget yourself, boy.” Gynedo sat tall in his seat. “And mark you this: Will you come again to my table? Will the chances of the riverboat be enough to entice you?” The old man reclined again into his chair. “I judge that the game has more of you than you of it. You are too enamored of the stakes to maintain control. You’re reckless.” He took his pipe to his lips. “Do your trade and leave me in peace.”

Jastail left, briskly striding through the game room and out onto the deck. His companions urged Wendra to follow, and reluctantly she made her way past the revelers into the night air.

She found Jastail leaning upon a rail, watching the lesser light ripple upon the water. Without turning, he dismissed his men, leaving Wendra at his back, unguarded.

“You’re thinking to attack me,” Jastail intoned calmly. “Take your chance.”

Wendra stood, her fingers clenching and unclenching as she thought of shoving him over the railing into the river. She’d lost sight of her goal in complying with this highwayman: Penit. She knew Jastail had used the promise of taking her to the boy to manipulate her. The thought darkened her mood further. What use had he for her now, if she was only to be a prize for a game of stakes? And if she failed to find Penit, how meaningless was her struggle in the cave against the fever of her wound? A dark pressure filled her lungs, burning her from within, but also warming her against the night, against this place, this man. She took a step toward Jastail and raised her arms.

“Do you suppose you can do it?” he asked. His words stopped her. “I mean to say that you do not appear to be one acquainted with death.” He spoke evenly, as he might to a friend, but still he did not turn toward her.

“But there you’re wrong,” Wendra answered. “I’ve seen it.” An image flashed in her mind, and she rubbed her empty belly. She lowered her hands, the dark pressure in her lungs subsiding. “I’ve had it coaxed from my body and torn away from me before I might give it a name.”

At that, Jastail turned. His eyes looked strange as he searched Wendra’s face. His lips parted as if he meant to pursue her comment, a wary concern folding the lines of his mouth and eyes. He looked at Wendra’s stomach, seeming to understand a part of her story. But he left unspoken whatever questions he had. After a few moments, the same smile as he’d given Ariana played upon his features.

“Acquainted, perhaps,” Jastail conceded. “But not the cause.”

Wendra came to the railing beside him and looked out at the expanse of river. Moonlight rippled on its surface, a silent dance accompanied by the music of small waves lapping at the prow and the din of gamblers inside the game room.

“No, not the cause … unless the boy dies,” she threatened. “I will find him. Either you will help me, or you will not. But you will not prevent it.”

“Anais—”

“Anais?” Wendra interjected. “I don’t want to hear that word from your lips. You may be smart at the table, and more than a match of wits for those two dogs you keep with you, but I am not blind to your lies and empty promises. You’ve made a mistake in bringing me into the company of others as greedy as yourself.”

Bitter laughter escaped Jastail’s tired face. It fell flat upon the deck and river.

“There is fire in your belly,” he said. “The dust won’t take you easily. But there’s no help for you on this riverboat.” He considered a moment, a more wry smile returning to his weathered features. “In truth, I am your only friend here. You may have need of my protection against other, less friendly passengers.”

“And what if I should cast myself into the river and swim to shore?”

“In this water?” Jastail asked, his smile lingering. “Not likely. Your legs would seize and drag you down before you stroked half the distance.”

“And if I should kill you while you sleep?”

Jastail regarded her. “Then you will never find the boy.” He took up his vigil upon the river, his amusement gone.

Wendra could not divine the truth. Did he know where Penit was? Or was he playing her false until the last?

The chill off the water bit at her skin while she kept her captor company beneath the lesser light and the river carried them south. On another night, the sweep of stars in the sky above the wide river basin and the reflection of their light in the water would have caused her to sing. But Jastail muzzled her, not with hands or cloth, but with vague promises and deadly wagers. And in her lungs, her breath for song scarred like smoke and threatened to give voice to a dissonant rasp like a cough from winter winds.

They watched the river together in silence for some time, and the tranquil rush of water along the side of the boat nearly caused her to forget the strange relationship she shared with him. She might have been standing with Tahn at the edge of the Huber in the Hollows. The thought of her brother suddenly sharpened the pain of their separation. It had been long since they’d been separated, starting—in some ways—with the death of her child and Tahn’s inaction against the Bar’dyn that had coaxed her child from her womb. That moment, the flight from the Hollows, and not knowing now if Tahn was still alive—because she still loved him—made her need to rescue Penit that much stronger.

And as she stared into the cold depths, she heard new sounds, not the water sluicing down the side of the riverboat.

Wendra heard water splashing.

And the zip of arrows penetrating the river’s surface.

Angry voices suddenly barked commands, fear tingeing their orders. The Bar’dyn, Wendra thought suddenly, realizing what must be happening. Could they have tracked her once she got aboard the boat?

“Bring her!” Jastail yelled, calling his men to action.

As they rushed down the side of the boat, deckhands stood along the railing firing arrows at the Bar’dyn swimming toward them. Wendra looked toward the shore, where dozens of Bar’dyn rushed south to get ahead of them. Hundreds of strides downriver, the Bar’dyn splashed into the water and began swimming toward the middle to intercept them. The large creatures moved swiftly in the river, their long, powerful arms and legs pulling them with ease against the swift current. Arrows continued to strike the water, some bouncing off of thick Bar’dyn skin. Two men manned the front ballista, firing spears toward the Quietgiven with little accuracy.

Jastail led her toward the stern. The riverboat yawed as the wheelman turned away from the Bar’dyn, hoping to put some distance between the watercraft and the Given. The oars and paddle wheel worked wildly, slapping the water and pulling with the current to increase their running speed. Celebrants lined the gambling room windows, their moon faces peering into the dark with concern. Wendra ran past them, and at the rear of the boat watched as Bar’dyn swam to catch the swiftly moving craft.

They came to the building that housed the horses, and Jastail threw the door wide. His men came from behind and darted into the stable, saddling the mounts in a hurry as Jastail watched the railing for any sign of boarding Bar’dyn. Moments later, the two hirelings emerged with four horses, having appropriated one for Wendra.

“The other side!” Jastail barked.

The men led the mounts to the side of the riverboat opposite the attack. The hull sliced across the current, angling toward the east side of the river. Wendra could see no torchlight marking a dock. The clash of metal chimed in the night air, drawing their attention forward, where strangled cries rose and echoed out across the water. Men and women streamed from the large gambling rooms, filling the deck with chaos and more desperate cries. The large sword-bearing guards of the gambling room were first, jumping to meet several Bar’dyn who were rounding the corner. Given eyes found Wendra, and the creatures broke into a run toward her. Jastail lifted Wendra onto her steed, jumped onto his own, and slapped her horse’s rear. Together they vaulted the railing. Their mounts crashed heavily into the freezing waters. Jastail’s men came directly behind, splashing into the river at their back.

The instant cold forced a cry from Wendra’s throat. But her horse began working alongside Jastail’s mount toward the opposite bank.

Already, Wendra’s legs were growing numb from the cold. The horses chuffed and swam, struggling to make the far shore. Behind them on the riverboat, the Bar’dyn howled, meeting the swords of the boat guards and dispatching them quickly. Then the riverboat begin to burn. Some people jumped into the river ahead of the swinging blades; others fell beneath the onslaught. Some jumped to escape the flames, which danced on the river water beside the reflection of the lesser light.

Then into the water came the Bar’dyn, pulling with ferocious strokes. She glanced ahead; could they reach the east bank ahead of the Quietgiven? The Bar’dyn gained on them, snatching the slowest of Jastail’s henchmen from behind and pulling him from his horse. His scream ended in a gurgling sound.

The boat had gotten them close to the bank, but Wendra did not think the horses could outswim the Bar’dyn. Downriver, dozens of Quietgiven had seen their escape and now swam swiftly for the shore.

The riverboat became an inferno of swirling flames on the water, men and women trying to swim away from the heat, their arms succumbing to the freezing cold water and slowing their flight for land. More than a few slipped soundlessly into the depths.

Hearing another splash just behind them, Wendra turned in time to see a Bar’dyn crush the second of Jastail’s men before sending him adrift, blood flowing from a wound to his neck.

Then Jastail’s horse lurched from the water, jumping onto the bank. The Bar’dyn uttered indiscernible words and kicked harder toward Wendra. But before they could close the distance, her own horse gained the land and pulled her from the river. In a heartbeat, she followed Jastail north along the riverbank into the trees, the feeling in her legs all but gone.

The wind cut at Wendra as her horse raced to stay with Jastail’s fleet-footed mount. Tree limbs and tangled roots whipped past as they forged their own path through the dense wood that clung to the riverbank. Twice, her horse nearly went down, the swim having exhausted its legs. But the steed righted itself and fought to stay close to Jastail.

The forest rose like a series of dark columns frosted with the glow of the moon, but its beauty hid itself from Wendra, who clung desperately to her reins. They splashed through an estuary and up into a dense stand of firs. Jastail slowed at the top of a short rise and cocked his head toward the river to listen. Wendra looked in the same direction and saw a shape moving among the trees.

“Run!” she screamed, and kicked her mount hard in the sides.

The horse bolted forward past Jastail just as a Bar’dyn dove from a thicket of saplings. Jastail scarcely had time to draw his sword and turn. The Bar’dyn’s bulky body sailed through the air with a strange grace, hitting Jastail’s horse full in the side. The horse, the Bar’dyn, and Jastail all went down in a knot of arms, legs, and drawn weapons. Immediately, the horse stood and bolted into the trees. Jastail rolled aside, one large Bar’dyn hand clasping his ankle. A wet tearing growl escaped the Bar’dyn’s throat as it yanked Jastail back. Wendra could see blood on her captor’s pant leg where the beast’s razor-taloned hand held him firm.

The gambler struggled against the Bar’dyn’s strength, but to no avail. Jastail’s left hand scrabbled for purchase on root or rock to pull himself away, the other clinging to his sword. Finding it useless, he stopped fighting the Bar’dyn, twisting his sword in a quick spin and clutching it with both hands like a plunging weapon. As the Bar’dyn pulled him in, Jastail used the creature’s force and drove the blade into the beast’s shoulder.

The Bar’dyn let go and stood erect, howling in pain. The sound vibrated in the trees and hummed in the forest floor. Jastail’s sword rose like an ornament from its body, the creature touching it tentatively as it mewled in its throat. With a painful jerk, the Bar’dyn pulled the blade from its fibrous skin, a soft, wet sound accompanying the sword’s removal. One of its arms hung slack, but the other lifted Jastail’s weapon to its eyes and surveyed the blood streaming in runnels down the blade’s flat edge. It grunted and tossed the sword aside, fixing its baleful eyes on Jastail, who crawled backward, kicking with one good leg.

Wendra realized she could flee. Jastail would die, or he would find a way to defeat the Bar’dyn, but either way she could be several thousand strides north of here when the battle ended. She looked north and considered kicking her horse into a run.

The Bar’dyn took large steps toward Jastail, who seemed unable to climb to his feet. In a moment, it would pounce upon him and Jastail would be dead. To Wendra’s right, water suddenly splashed at the river’s edge: more beasts out of the Bourne. In the space of seconds the fury of many Quietgiven would descend upon them. The forest trees and low growth and Jastail and the Bar’dyn all swam before her eyes, her lungs burning with hot breath that longed to pass over her teeth in violent song. She shook her head, dismissing the strange irrelevance of the inclination and thought. What would Balatin do? Still, her legs would not move—they were still numb from the river cold—she could not stand to defend Jastail.

Dear Will and Sky, I prepare to help my captor. I should like to see him suffer at the Bar’dyn’s hand. This very night he played me like a token.

The Bar’dyn took another menacing step, now seeming to deliberately threaten Jastail, knowing the man was beyond self-defense. Jastail butted up against a tree, turning on his side to crawl around its base. Then the Bar’dyn grew still, a serenity entering its face as if it contemplated the death that would follow in the next moment. Heavy feet pounded the forest floor, growing louder from the direction of the river. Time fled—Wendra knew she must intervene now or not at all.

In the tense moment of calm, Wendra slapped her horse with the reins and plunged forward to place herself between the Bar’dyn and Jastail. The Bar’dyn looked up at her in surprise, its death mask gone and hatred twisting its features.

“Sa’hon Ghetalloh,” the Bar’dyn shrieked, compacting the very air around Wendra. It turned at the sound of its brothers racing to its side. “Your blood will nourish the dust, Womb, then no more will you people the land with their plan.”

The coarse, ripping sound of its voice caused her horse to rear, kicking with its front legs. One hoof caught the Bar’dyn in its wounded shoulder, forcing it to double over in pain. A second hoof landed on its head, driving it back into the saplings.

Wendra yelled to Jastail, “Get up!”

The gambler struggled to his feet, leaning against the tree. Wendra pulled her mount backward by his reins and Jastail struggled onto the saddle. As the highwayman put his arms around her waist, three Bar’dyn emerged from the trees behind the saplings where the first Quietgiven had recovered its balance. Wendra kicked hard, spurring her horse into a dead run. Through the trees Wendra pushed, gathering speed. Behind them, the Bar’dyn pursued, their feet pounding the ground. But slowly they outdistanced them, and before the lesser light fell west of the river valley, Wendra was alone again with her captor, who slumped against her back.

*   *   *

Wendra did not stop to tend Jastail’s wound, nor to warm herself or eat. She followed the riverbank, keeping it just within sight through the trees, but stayed far enough away to avoid being seen by anyone traveling by boat. She had done as Balatin would have, and she wondered now if she should attempt to push Jastail from her saddle and regain her freedom. But the man still claimed to know where Penit was, and the promise of finding the boy held her in its grasp.

The cool smell of evergreen softened the heat of their flight, and at dawn Wendra stopped and helped Jastail down to rest. Her horse needed rest, as well. She hoped the Bar’dyn would need to regroup and sleep, or her intervention would have been for nothing.

Birdsong filled the strengthening daylight, and Wendra pulled up Jastail’s pants leg to check his wound. The gambler muttered incoherently, flinching at her touch. His leg where the Bar’dyn had held him was purple and black, lined with several deep cuts from its sharp nails. Wendra cautiously wound her way to the river and wetted a length of cloth from her cloak. Crouching at the water’s edge, she looked both north and south along the smooth surface that reflected a clear morning sky. No boats or Bar’dyn interrupted the perfect glass image of the water. She closed her eyes and muttered hopeful words about the others reaching Recityv safely.

Silent, she paused there, listening to the lapping of water at her feet and watching swallows fly close to the surface gathering food. The steady burn in her lungs subsided, relieving her need to rasp out an angry song. The soft melody of her songbox played in her mind, and she allowed herself to briefly forget Jastail and all that had happened since descending from the plains of Sedagin. Into her repose rose the face of Penit promising to return. The image scathed her, chided her for poor judgment and selfishness. Though she did not fully understand how, she’d been able to heal herself, but had done it too late, after the boy had gone to find help. She realized she had not attempted to sing the song for Jastail, to try to heal his wound. But even should it work for someone beside herself, she did not intend to ease his suffering. He would live; that was enough. Wendra wrung the cloth out and returned to find Jastail more coherent.

“Why did you save me?” he said as she knelt close to him and softly wiped his wound.

“I believe you tell the truth when you speak of the boy,” she explained evenly.

“And if I don’t, you have made a very bad wager.”

She lifted her face from dressing his bruised and cut leg and prepared to press her point with a murderous look. But his words hit home. The anger abated and her face fell slack. “The second time my life will be the stakes,” she replied. “But this time, I choose it.”

Jastail frowned at her words. “Why is this child’s life worth risking your own? You could have left me to the Bar’dyn and been free. Or you could leave me now; I am too weak to stop you. But you tend my leg.… Have you not considered how the child came so far from you, who brought him, or why?”

Wendra returned her attention to Jastail’s leg. She finished cleaning off the blood, and wrapped the cloth around the bruised and damaged flesh, tying it loosely to avoid paining him.

“If you know of him, it is likely it was you who took him, just as you took me,” Wendra reasoned. “For what purpose I don’t know, but I’ve seen how you treat others, and I’ve no delusion that you will repay this kindness.”

Jastail’s hard, angular face betrayed no softness. In his aspect Wendra saw the same look as she’d seen at the game table the night before, the look of abandon and considered revenge wrought on anyone he knew. He would become whole, and become again the deceiver and user that knew no bounds to winning any game.

“Come,” he said, “we’ve lost much time.”

Jastail stood, favoring his hurt leg. Wendra stood beside him and allowed the man to lean on her as they walked to the horse and mounted.

“And let us talk of why the Quietgiven are so deep in the south and so intent on finding us,” Jastail said, cocking a quizzical brow.

Wendra clucked mildly, allowing the horse to walk at an easy pace. They made their way slowly until sun covered the river valley. Shafts of the greater light, filled with dust motes, fell through high boughs of fir and towering hemlock.

“Tell me why Bar’dyn swim a cold river after a girl,” Jastail said as they wound east through the canyon.

“They did not knock me from my horse,” Wendra said, smiling. “I think they sought a highwayman, perhaps someone who has stolen something that belongs to them.”

He laughed. “Yes, yes, they are swept up in their need to reclaim a few coins, which mean nothing to them in the Bourne.” He paused before continuing in a mirthless voice. “Or perhaps what I have is less of metal and more of man.”

“The Quietgiven want nothing of man but his death,” Wendra returned blackly.

“Perhaps,” Jastail began, “but the one may serve the other.” He laughed again. “It is rare fortune that I won two bounties at Gynedo’s table last evening. Though the second is one whose value I’m likely to have to discover on my own, yea?”

Wendra considered. “You find me the boy, and you’ll be glad of it, I assure you.”

“Clever,” Jastail said, squeezing Wendra’s waist affectionately. “Making a partner of me. You’ve seen how well my companions fare, lady. Be careful how you make your alliances. I expect that a time shall soon come when we have fewer secrets from each other. But the time in between is fuller for the ignorance.” The highwayman smiled.

The small earthen highway snaked through the canyons until the mountains fell to wider rolling hills. A fork in the road turned a smaller path south along the back of the mountains that fronted the river valley. Jastail directed Wendra to take the south fork. Within an hour their horse could go no farther.

*   *   *

That night Jastail made a fire from wood that Wendra gathered. Her chill ran deep, having lingered in her flesh ever since the river. The bones in her legs felt brittle and shaky. A lazy sun westered against the mountains to their right, casting them in shadows while touching the few clouds with bright russet and crimson hues.

Jastail had led them off the road to avoid contact with travelers, though Wendra was sure he knew she had no intention of seeking escape. An odd man, she thought, but one who makes every decision with careful deliberation. He warmed his hands at the fire, the mellow glow softening the angular shape of his face, which might never have spent a night’s sleep beneath a roof.

Despite the clear sky, the air did not grow overly cold, and slowly the chill ebbed from her body. Jastail warmed some dried meat and bread on a rock beside the fire, giving half to Wendra and settling back against a low boulder to eat his supper in silence. The highwayman stared into the flames, his eyes distant and flickering with the light of the fire.

As night closed in, prairie wolves howled and small birds chittered, reminding Wendra of the quiet peace of the Hollows. She and Tahn had spent many nights like this, stirring coals and reminiscing about their father. She remembered how she had loved to visit the Fieldstone, sip honey wine aged in a cold earth cellar, and listen to travelers’ tales rendered in florid speech. Balatin had often accompanied her there. Together they would walk home beneath the lesser light and her father would explain to her which parts of the tellers’ tales were truth and which parts exaggeration for the sake of his audience. In time it became a game, and soon she could discern the truth behind the lie nearly as well as her father. She did not remember Tahn always accompanying them, but when he did, he seemed less interested in the tale and more interested in why the teller told it. On those walks home, he’d stroll quietly and occasionally interject something about loneliness, which Wendra never understood, instead always recalling the merriment that surrounded Hambley’s guests.

Looking across the fire at Jastail, she considered that the lines of laughter in his face were the work of sarcasm, mockery, and deceit. His handsome features used a smile or laugh less because of amusement and more to paint the picture he wanted another to see. The sallow, tired mask he wore at the close of such a rough day was as close to anything Wendra might consider natural. In her mind she heard the words of the old man on the riverboat: Too far. And yet when Jastail laughed, it looked and felt genuine. The thought caused Wendra to shiver even as she basked in the heat of the fire. That Jastail may find delight in the labors she’d witnessed him undertaking chilled her as the river never could.

“Are we close to the boy?” Wendra asked, hoping to end the bleak thoughts carrying her away.

“Indeed we are,” Jastail replied. “Tomorrow we will come to the place where I believe he may still be.” He tossed a dry piece of cedar on the fire. “I cannot guarantee it, but the odds are likely that he is there. And I will have kept my part of our bargain by helping you find him.”

Wendra eyed him suspiciously. “And what is your price?”

The same wry smile creased his face. “Isn’t it possible that I have done this for charity’s sake?”

At that, Wendra lips curled into a grin. “Honestly,” she said, “I would bet against it.”

“That’s not a wager worth taking,” Jastail answered. “We will come into Galadell midday. You should sleep.”

“I thought we were going to Pelan?”

“That is only what I wanted the deckhands to believe,” Jastail said, smiling.

The name of the town—Galadell—was unfamiliar to her, but it was Jastail’s unwillingness to say what he stood to gain that unsettled her. She had not expected him to reveal it to her, but she’d hoped to encourage him to lie, and have the chance to look behind it for some indication of the truth. Part of her knew the truth, though. Jastail had not asked for money in exchange for information about the whereabouts of the boy, and he had not sought intimate pleasures from her. His desires must be more fundamental, or more extravagant. The riddle of it only led her back to the certainty that there existed no bargain between them. His promises were possibly lies, but he’d not made a habit of lying to her, either. What was she not seeing?

Jastail covered himself in his blanket and closed his eyes. The last rays of light escaped the sky and gave birth to a thousand stars. Wendra persisted in trying to discover Jastail’s intentions. Then suddenly, something came to her.

“What were the tokens?” she said, her voice tremulous but louder than she’d intended.

Jastail opened his eyes and looked up into the night. “You should sleep,” he repeated. But he did not close his eyes again.

“You made me a final trump in a game of chance,” she said, emotion tightening her throat, the sound of the words somehow more painful than the thought itself. “I don’t know the game, but I saw their eyes when you drew me to the table. By Will and Sky, I want to know what you made of me!” Something stirred in Wendra’s chest. In an instant, the peaceful dell and fire and sky twisted in her vision and no longer reminded her of the Hollows, but of the fragmented skies and dry, charcoal stretches said to exist within the Bourne.

Jastail peered upward, ignoring her indignation, as though threats held no barbs for him, loud language and the wail of the innocent as meaningless as wind in dry grass to his weathered ears. “You do not want to know, lady; on this you should trust the liar.”

“Liar?” Wendra asked, confused. “What game is this? Stop your tricks! I’ve no sympathy for you. I have been brought low, and I scarcely care for my own safety anymore. Tell me the truth!” Her voice rose in querulous pitch, falling in strident rhythms and beginning to rasp in her throat. At her words the campfire pitched like a dervish stirred by the wind. The change was slight, but she could not be sure Jastail did not see it. She noted it distantly, burying the observation beneath her ire as soon as it was made, and accepting it as wind upon the plain.

Still Jastail remained unmoved. As he continued his gaze upon the firmament, his face remained slack and still, like the stuffed grain sacks she and Tahn used in the summer to erect scarecrows to frighten foragers from their gardens.

“Then I will tell you,” Jastail said. “But mind you this, the land east of the mountains of Lesule Valley belong to an unrestrained few. Alliances are all that matter, and I am known at Galadell. Without me, tomorrow will become the worst Sky you ever see.”

The gambler did not know Wendra’s recent skies, but she said nothing.

The highwayman continued to stare into the heavens, half of his face lit by the fire. Cricket song whirred in the night around them, as Wendra waited.

“I care nothing for money,” he began. “Coin is the currency of the ignorant, those imprisoned in the trappings of custom and convinced that it elevates them. The earth provides food, the animals clothes, the timber and mountains wood and stone to build homes and cities. With flint we warm ourselves, and the birds teach us music. All this is given to us freely, the world is plentiful, and each age inherits something of the marvels of the age before it.” Jastail’s voice quieted. “But the deeds of men, the measure of their lives, these are things that cannot be obtained from the land.

“They cannot be bought and paid for, or if they are, they are not natural choices or honest actions.” Jastail slowly turned his head toward Wendra. “The great game is to know the offering in these deeds, these sacrifices people make; to weigh their price, and barter them; to hold them in token is a dear thing.” Wendra remembered the many items upon the gambling table, and feeling that they represented actions, choices of sacrifice.

“Dearer still,” Jastail went on, “is the one who can direct the choice, up the wager, hold the action suspended in one’s hand. It is no less than holding life, for what is life but choice?”

He held up the metal glove won from Ariana. “Our fair lady at the table spoke but a wish to a doting warrior, and sent him to his death, knowing it beforehand.” Jastail’s smile flared. “Do you see, his was the choice, but by her influence he chose a path of ultimate sacrifice. The glove became an emblem of his life, his will offered to another.”

Anxiously, Wendra rubbed her belly, now flatter absent her child. Only vaguely did she note Jastail’s observant eyes as she tried to soothe herself when her mind raced again to understand what else lay upon the table of the gambling boat. Her thoughts, though, went quickly past those tokens to Jastail’s final play—pulling her toward the table’s edge. And then a dark revelation came.

Will and Sky, he does know where Penit is! That was his wager. It was not simply my life. It was my choice, my chance, to find Penit!

Wendra rose from the fireside and raced into the darkness with her mouth open, gulping lungs full of crisp night air to cool the fire that burned within her.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

The Scar

The quiet roar filled his mind like silence, like listening while submerged beneath a swift-flowing river. Braethen’s heart raced as it had when first he’d accepted Vendanj’s sword.

For reassurance, he fingered the hilt. He needed to know he was not really in that place again, that unnatural blackness. The sensation of being both in and of the dark filled him. He fought the duality, trying desperately to see something through the thick pall of black.

The night will not lift! I am inexorably caught in it. But I am not born of this desolate place!

He took the sword in hand, weeping at the sky. But somehow the fevered action left him disconsolate. Was it the sword that defined him, led him, defeated the dark?

His skin ran hot and cold as he denied the violence inherent in the blade but reveled in the peace it seemed to offer. He felt like a child in the womb, blind and helpless and safe. In that moment he started to fall. He could not see the sky turn, or the ground rise up and roll as he slid toward nightmare. He clung to the sword, but released himself to the descent.

“Open your eyes, sodalist!” The command boomed through the obscurity.

Braethen did not understand, and relaxed further into his tumble. He would be glad of some rest in the peace of that obscurity.

A hand caught him. And a wave of disappointment began to wash over him.

“Your eyes!” the voice said again from down a long black tunnel.

But still he did not fully understand. Images cascaded through his mind, all blurring, tumbling, fading, claimed by the dark as quickly as they rose, until he could see nothing save a blade of grass.

He blinked his eyes open, and looked into the hard eyes of the Sheason awash in white light. Vendanj gave him a hard stare and heaved him from his bedroll. Mira looked on, standing still in the fall of rain and lit dimly a few paces away in the same radiant light. The realization hit him as he traced the source of the illumination back to his hand, where the sword burned brightly against the night.

Vendanj continued to stare at him, his sharp features catching the light of the blade, his brow drawn tight. Braethen thought he could feel the force of the Sheason’s thoughts spreading like the weight of a graveside requiem. The turnings of the Sheason’s mind were palpable, living things. Whatever their true message, they fell so heavily on Braethen that they threatened to overwhelm his own sense of purpose.

“Will you still take this mantle?” It was a question without an answer, because the decision had already been made. The real intent was to say that Braethen may fail.

Vendanj shared a final pained look with the sodalist, then walked away. The weight of the Sheason’s thoughts departed with him, and Braethen gasped in relief. He didn’t believe Vendanj had meant to let them get away from him; Braethen had never felt that weight before in all his moments spent near the Sheason. It felt like a yoke, harnessed tight to a beast of burden. In his mind flashed the skeleton of an ox, white bones bleached in the sun, the tatters of its yoke still fettering the skull and hitched to a wagon laden with an immense white stone sculpted at long vertical angles. The flash seared his mind like a portent of things to come. Braethen shook his head and dashed to catch the others.

“It was given too soon,” Mira said evenly.

“It doesn’t matter now,” Vendanj replied, his voice soft. “Two journeys, sodalist. May they converge for you.”

Vendanj rode ahead, leaving Braethen holding the dimming blade. As the light receded on Mira’s skeptical features, he thought he heard the words “For us all.” But the sound of them seemed carried away by the night as they again found themselves in relative darkness.

Mira strode to where the Sheason stood, and the two spoke as they looked east under a starry, cloudless sky.

Watching them, Braethen’s face flushed with anger. He was being left out while being asked to put everything at risk. He wanted to justify the Sheason’s initial confidence in him when he gave Braethen the sword, but now he felt like the boy who first sat at his father’s table and thumbed books he could neither read nor understand.

With as steady a voice as he could muster, he asked, “What is it that must remain a secret from me?”

Neither the Far nor Sheason acknowledged his question.

Again he asked.

This time they stopped. Without turning, Vendanj replied, “You gave light to the sword, sodalist. Any Velle within a week’s ride will now know of us. We have only to anticipate wherefrom the Quietgiven will come, and choose our path appropriately.”

Mira’s level gaze caught him. No contempt showed there, but no consolation either.

“Do not concern yourself, sodalist,” Vendanj added. “There is only one way for us, and the Quietgiven aren’t likely to follow too closely.”

Braethen sat again. In the east, dawn hinted at its arrival, night holding sway everywhere else. They’d been traveling for two days since Widows Village, and thankfully the dreariness had been left behind. Overhead, the patterns in the stars turned slowly. They called to mind stories given to the shapes there: Adon’Imesh the Unyielding, six stars describing the sword in his hand, which was said to have brought an end to the Craven Season behind the might of Adon’s arm and legions of men pledged to put down the Quiet; and the open book of Cervis’Leo, the first author known to have penned fancies and parables to show men to themselves without the use of real names or history. Braethen remembered one journal entry recorded in spidery script that related how Cervis screamed the original creation of a tale as he was burned at the stake by a gathering that an age later would be known as the Exigency.

Shapes and stories fixed in the night sky; a sword and a book. Braethen thought of the irony, his own life ruled now by the stuff of legends, myths. Near his left hand rested the sword given him by the Sheason, near his right, one of Ogea’s books. There was room enough in the sky for both, but would he be big enough to reconcile the two disparate elements that warred in him? Braethen put tentative fingers to each—both reassured him, both appalled him.

“By Will may I find a way,” he whispered.

Soon light shone strong enough to see by; and no sooner had it done so than Mira returned.

“Take up your sword,” the Far said.

Braethen looked a question at her.

“Don’t force me to ask you twice, sodalist,” Mira said, a slight edge in her tone.

Reluctantly, Braethen took the sword in hand, holding it awkwardly. Mira led him to a flat clearing. As he followed the Far, he cast furtive glances back at the fire.

“You seem to fear the sword,” she said, still facing away from him.

“This sword,” Braethen corrected.

“And why this one in particular?” she asked. “Is it different from other swords you have wielded in battle?”

“I have been in battle but once,” he answered, aware of the Far’s deliberate choice of words. He had longed to raise his hand and claim the sword sewn in the crest on his garment, but he feared that he lacked the nobility he had attached to the emblem. He’d sworn to it, but the darkness he’d experienced when taking the sword in hand still haunted him.

“Nonsense,” Mira countered. “You have been in battle many times, it is only the instrument of the sword that you have used but once.” She drew one of the blades she wore on her back and ran a finger down its edge. “Is it physical conflict that you fear?”

Braethen considered the question. Many times he had raised his hands in his own defense or in the defense of another. It was not an activity he relished, but neither did it cause him fear.

“No,” he answered. “I cannot explain it. I’ve little experience with weapons, and the wars have not touched the Hollows in my lifetime.” He looked at the edge of the sword he held, the dark surface catching the light of early morn. “But this blade is … unique. It is more than metal.”

“Oh?” Mira said. She turned to face him. “And why is that?”

Why such games? You and the Sheason hold answers you are unwilling to share with others. His face felt hot in the cool air of dawn. “Because,” he began, then did not finish.

“I see,” Mira replied, a mix of condescension and disappointment in her voice.

“No, you do not!” Braethen yelled. His explosive outburst surprised him as much as it did the Far. But he could not stop what came next. “I took the oath. I believed in the stories, that the Sodality honored what was best about the Sheason, standing beside them to record and remember, to place themselves in the way of whatever risk. It is part of the oath to take up weapons of war if it is needed, to brandish steel and leather and bone and mind to safeguard the keepers of the Will.”

Mira shifted her stance, her gaze fixed on him.

His breath came fast and shallow, the silver rays of daybreak streaking the clouds of angry exhalations that billowed from his lips. “But I did not know the cost. I was naive. I idealized the tales of heroism, the banner, and even wars so old that they are unremembered in the minds of men. And now that I have taken hold of steel and lifted it in conflict, however right or necessary, I have found myself in darkness.” His breath faltered, catching in his chest, and he went on in a softer voice. “Will and Sky … deep, eternal darkness. No sound could I make, no thought could I hold, as if I was swallowed in the belly of a great beast out of the Bourne. I was gone to nothing, and in keeping what I swore to, had nearly lost all that I am.”

Braethen cast a scathing glance at Mira. “Is it so with all who first draw a weapon of war? Or perhaps it is me, and I am a small, foolish scholar who belongs in the Hollows instead of carrying the scrolls of a dead reader into the east.” He raised the sword. “Or is it this weapon? And should I crack its shaft across the nearest stone because of the well it cast me into when I took it up?”

Mira stared back at him, her face stony. Vaguely, Braethen was aware that the Sheason stood nearby, listening, watching. The Far shared a look with Vendanj, then stepped closer to Braethen, her steady gaze at once strangely reassuring and frightening.

“Listen closely, sodalist, and remember these words.” She placed a hand on his shoulder. “The darkness is all these things. Taking up a weapon to end life is a black business. Better it would be if all those who lifted the sword fell into the place you found yourself. There is more than a little comfort in knowing that the potential in your arm and weapon causes you disquiet. If it were otherwise, I should have left you in the Hollows.” The Far looked at Braethen’s hands, which shook as he held the sword Vendanj had given him.

“But it is much to do with the sword you carry. It is not mere steel. Much of what it is will occur to you in its use, and more will the Sheason teach you. But I will show you how to hold the weapon, how to keep another from tearing it from your grip, and how to use only what energy is necessary to meet an attack. In time you will hold it steady, and see its edge and end without looking at it.”

Braethen tried to stop his trembling fingers. But as he considered her words, his shaking would not be stilled. “I do not want to grow familiar with such a thing,” he finally said.

“I spoke nothing of familiarity, sodalist,” Mira answered. “You should never make yourself a cousin to death. But now more responsibility is yours, so more is expected of you. To help you meet that expectation, I will teach you things you must know. Now lift your blade and we will begin.”

Braethen stole a glance over his shoulder. Vendanj still watched, his eyes sober in the light of sunrise. What will he show me about this thing? Braethen wondered as he began lifting the sword in his quivering hands.

For an hour, he repeated movements and grips, his and the Far’s swords glinting almost playfully in the rays of another day.

But when they’d finished, Braethen still felt dejected for having unwittingly called the sword’s power in his sleep.

The Sheason appeared next to him and pulled his wooden case from beneath his cloak. “Don’t waste your energy with guilt and regret for what is done, sodalist.” Vendanj took a leaf from the case and held it toward him.

Braethen looked at it with reluctance.

Vendanj raised it higher in offering. “Take it.”

Trying to peer within the Sheason’s hood, Braethen leaned forward and accepted the leaf.

“What is it?” He turned the thin, dark green leaf over in his palm, studying it closely.

“It was harvested from the Cloudwood two summers ago.”

“But it is fresh,” Braethen said, unbelieving.

“It is a resilient tree, sodalist.” Braethen thought he saw a look of deep sadness within Vendanj’s cowl. “Do you know it?”

“It is written of in the histories. Some pages call it the Eternal Grove, saying its roots have woven the land itself. Others say it is the wood to harvest for our gallows, where the last trial will be held and punishment swift.” Braethen looked up from the small leaf. “But these accounts were compiled from diaries and the oral tradition of reader’s tales stretching over ages we cannot even name. Some of them were written in the hand of my father himself.”

Vendanj nodded. “The oldest stories come with interpretation. It is the price we pay to preserve them. Put the leaf upon your tongue. I will tell you of its origin.” Vendanj exhaled and looked skyward. Braethen caught a clearer look of the Sheason’s pale cheeks and brow. The man was aggrieved, yet indignation flamed in his eyes.

“The name is right,” he began. “It is the Eternal Grove. Its leaf and stem and branch were among the first in creation, drawn from the purest and most enduring elements. Its height is magnificent. Poets have had to test the limits of their craft to describe its grandeur. Its strength is unmatched even by iron and steel, and it takes a hundred years for its trunk to increase by just one growth ring.

“The Cloudwood stands at the end of the Saeculorum Mountains, at the edge of creation, its roots growing into the abyss, claiming form and substance from the mists there, creating earth where none existed, forcing the land to expand.”

“Would it not have overcome all the world then?” Braethen asked.

Vendanj smiled dryly. “The weave of the root is slow. It adds, and in time some of our world passes away. The process occurs too gradually for us to mark, but as the earth is made new, so, too, is it eroded and washed to silt in distant places, in the west near Mal’Sent and on a hundred other shores across the oceans.”

Braethen put the leaf on his tongue, letting it rest there. He did not know what to expect, and for several moments nothing happened. It was simply a leaf after all. Then sweet nectar flooded his mouth. The leaf dissolved and Braethen swallowed hungrily. In an instant his aches subsided and whatever self-doubt remained in him faded to nothing. A quietude and calm came over him, and he felt as though he’d rested for a week.

A curious smile crossed Vendanj’s face as the sensations made their way into Braethen’s body. The sodalist imagined that he must look like a child tasting his first molasses stick.

As the taste lingered on his tongue, Braethen marveled at the effects of one small leaf. “Why do you share this with me now?”

“Do you think me selfish, sodalist?”

“That is not what I meant. I—”

Vendanj held up a hand and led Braethen to the small rise he’d been standing on moments before. Cresting the rise, Braethen found himself staring out over a blackened plain.

“The Scarred Lands,” Vendanj said.

This was why the Sheason had shared the life-giving leaf. Looking out upon it, Braethen felt hopeless.

*   *   *

Vendanj rode ahead, descending into the vast plain. Braethen followed him onto the dark soil, which reminded him of soot.

A smell like dead candlewick assailed him, and all around an empty stillness surrounded them, more desolate than the despair of Widows Village. The land was nearly devoid of all life. Only the hardiest sage grew, and that sparsely. Fissures yawned like sores in the arid expanse of sand and hard-baked stone.

Small wind dervishes licked at the earth, tugging at brown grass that bristled with their passage. The sun pounded down as though drawn to the land, which cracked like a vast dry seabed.

“What caused this?” Braethen asked, hearing the consternation in his own voice.

Vendanj waved Braethen to his side. “The War of the First Promise lasted close to four hundred years. It was not constant battle. Years of peace would pass with little threat from the Bourne. But then the Quiet would surge again. And so generation after generation watched their fathers go to war. The activities in schoolrooms focused on combat strategy, whatever knowledge could be had of the Quiet, and the production of clothing and arms. For nearly twenty generations, literacy belonged only to those children whose mothers sang the teaching songs and read to their young. Women created the implements of war and bore the men that would wield them. Before the war was over, they were known as the Wombs of War. On the fields, the fruits of those wombs lay unrecorded, unremembered as the procession of war marched on.”

Braethen lifted his face to the sun, wanting to both honor the dead and clear his mind of the images the Sheason’s words created.

Vendanj took a drink from his waterskin and continued.

“Despite all the people could do, the Quiet came, driving families from their homes. Refugees flooded every safe town and city. Food shortages caused riots. As people strove to survive, the streets filled with every kind of unsavory practice: prostitution, slavery, gambling. City arbors began to reek of the unbathed, granaries were ravaged, livestock purloined to feed hungry mouths.

“It went on like that for nearly the entire span of the First Promise. So it was that at the end of the fourth century of war, when the largest legions out of the Bourne were reported to be marching on the world, one of the Wombs of War ascended the palace stair at Recityv with a newborn babe.”

Braethen mouthed her name: Anais Layosah. They had seen Penit play this rhea’fol not a week ago.

“For three days Anais Layosah called for the formation of a council of nations to answer this threat. King Baellor heard her, dispatching birds and riders to the other remaining independent nations. And by sunset on that fourth day, a proclamation was read calling for appointments to a convocation.”

Braethen’s heart quickened at the tale of Layosah holding her child aloft and decrying a king and the noble elite to which he pandered. He had read a different ending to that tale, though, one of pity for the infant.

“Appointments were made from every quarter of society. Dethroned kings, leaders of cities under attack, all took a seat. These rulers committed every last man and weapon to the amassing of an army to march against those cutting a swath into the nations of the south, a force numbering two hundred thousand. But it became clear that steel alone could not put down the Quiet or drive them back to the Bourne. Scouts reported the presence of renderers and other creatures of nightmare from beyond the veil. When King Baellor heard that dire news, he went to Maral Praig, randeur of the Order of Sheason, asking him to violate the oath of the order and commit his followers to the use of force, to war. Baellor convinced Praig, and the army that marched west from Recityv to the blare of brass horns grew by four hundred Sheason.”

Vendanj pointed to the land around them. “Into this place they came, sodalist. It was here they met the Quiet, here that the War of the First Promise was decided. Baellor’s army was outnumbered four to one. Wave upon wave of the Quiet descended into the plain. Baellor knew he could not fight a war on many fronts, so he commanded his line to form a great circle, leaving no flank.

“At first, only flesh and steel clashed on the plain. But soon, Velle lifted their hands to the sky and called terrible fire and wind and lightning to smite Baellor’s army. They drew the great power of life from the world they sought to own, from the earth upon which their enemies stood. Their drain upon the land was massive, stripping it of life and vitality, color and scent, the very marrow of the world, leaving the land an utter waste.”

Vendanj looked about him.

“But the Sheason refused to draw upon the land or others to exercise the Will, so they exhausted their own Forda at an alarming rate. Journals record Sheason giving unto the last, expending their spirit until nothing remained to give.

“The battle raged on for eight days. The Quiet sought a way through Baellor’s line. The army of the First Promise fought a final battle in that great ring. There could be no escape, and Baellor’s circle of defense shrank through attrition.

“It was then that Maral Praig, First Servant, gathered his fellows together at the center of the great round. While the remnants of Baellor’s army held the line, the Sheason stood together, each one joining hands with the Sheason next to him. In an attitude of prayer, the Sheason bowed their heads, and Praig uttered a soul-rending cry that filled the entirety of what would become the Scar. A light flared with the magnitude of a thousand suns, and with it, every man with the stewardship to direct the Will, Sheason and Velle alike, fell.

“In three days, those Quiet that were still alive retreated. And across the dry, dusty land lay the stain of blood like an artist’s spillage. Ten thousand men still stood when the Quiet vanished into the north. Here”—Vendanj swept his arm across the horizon—“the stench of the dying filled the air, and the heap of Sheason forms in their long, dark robes lay like a benediction on the Battle of the Scar.”

Vendanj cast his gaze from left to right, finally looking back at Braethen. “It is an ugly wound, sodalist, but one that reminds us of the cost of freedom from the Quiet.”

Braethen gazed across the barren landscape. Beneath the smells of dry sage and grass lingered a smell like dirt from a burial cave. But there was something more. Ever since they had come into the Scar, the quality of light, of movement, seemed strained. A lethargy permeated the place, like the broken spirit of a man. And as the sun rose over the vast inhospitable waste, it grew hot and oppressive.

When Braethen sensed that the Sheason had finished his recounting, he asked, “All this time, and still so little grows here?”

Vendanj took a deep breath of the dry air. “Some have tried to cultivate crops in the Scar. They’ve given up. The Forda is gone, drawn into the bodies of Quietgiven to replenish their life’s breath ages ago. It is a mark upon the land, a reminder, a remnant of violent thoughts and deeds. This place will yield none of the promise inherent in the world beyond it.”

“A promise forgotten by most of those who trod upon it,” Mira said, loud enough to be heard but not so loud as to become part of the conversation.

Braethen took Vendanj’s silence as agreement with the Far’s comment.

“If it cannot be healed or changed,” Braethen asked, “then why do we ride directly into it?”

Vendanj regarded him, and first asked a question. “Your books, sodalist, they did not prepare you for this, did they?”

Braethen looked again into the bleak land around him. “No,” he finally answered, “they did not prepare me to see the scale on which life might be snuffed out by the actions of those who render the Will.” He gave a furtive glance at the Sheason. “The dark soil is stronger testimony than that written on the pages of my books.”

Vendanj seemed satisfied by this answer. But Braethen’s mind churned with the horror that what he saw around him could be the fate of the world beyond the Scar.

Then the Sheason finally answered Braethen’s question. “We seek out the man Grant, who lives in the Scar.”

Someone lives here? Braethen shuddered at the thought.

“You mean for this man to join us.” Braethen wasn’t asking.

“What if he says no?” Mira said.

“He mustn’t decline,” Vendanj replied. “This place he lives in has no doubt gotten inside him, so it will not be easy. But he must be convinced. He was the first to challenge the Exigents and the Sheason and the Recityv council. I deeply fear what will happen if he refuses us.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

The Wages of a Kiss

A thousand tales of caution and distrust and hatred resounded in Tahn’s mind. Inveterae were creatures of the Bourne. Some stories spoke of them as synonymous with Quietgiven. Others related a malevolence and stain so terrible that the gods had deemed them unfit to live among men. The very word—Inveterae—that described these races sent into the Bourne ages ago with the Quiet meant literally unredeemed.

Yet something in the Inveterae’s unperturbed stillness belied all Tahn had heard. As Balatin had always taught him when greeting someone strange in peace and friendship, Tahn put his hand out with his palm up and thumb out. “I am Tahn Junell,” Tahn replied in a whisper. “And I need your help.”

The Lul’Masi did not respond. The two stared at one another in the dim light of the cage. Then the creature spoke, but low so that only Tahn could hear. “No man has ever helped my kind; the Lul’Masi have no friends in the land of men.”

Tahn spared a look at Sutter lying in the straw. Returning his attention to Col’Wrent, he raised his hand higher. “Then let me be the first.”

A strange look passed across the Lul’Masi’s thick features. And with some hesitation, it raised its massive arm and locked hands with Tahn, whose fingers were lost in the massive palm. When they joined hands, the Lul’Masi’s face softened. “Quillescent,” it said. The word disconcerted Tahn a little, but he had no time to ask about it.

Sutter could be dying. He suddenly had a new bargain to strike.

He leaned closer, the sharp smell of the creature strong in his nose. “The tenendra girl threatened you to force your help. I will make you a different promise. Help my friend and I will free you from your cage.”

The Lul’Masi’s grip on Tahn’s hand tightened uncomfortably—reflexively, Tahn thought. The creature closed its eyes for a moment, the way Tahn did when he thought of the sunrise. The Lul’Masi breathed deeply, its belly expanding, the air it drew producing a deep rumble in its chest as it exhaled.

Finally, the Lul’Masi nodded, its face as unreadable as the moment before. But Tahn thought he saw gratitude pass across its eyes. “What is wrong with your friend?”

“He was struck with a spiked ball thrown by a Bar’dyn. He lost his balance, his speech, and now he’s unconscious. I think he’s been poisoned. The healer in town said you may know what to do.”

Panic filled Tahn’s chest again as Col’Wrent did nothing more than stare at him for several long moments. Perhaps there was nothing he could do, and Sutter would die in the straw of the low one’s cage.

“Bring him to me.”

Tahn dragged Sutter to the back of the cage, the straw heaped around him.

Col’Wrent knelt over Sutter like a mass of boulders. “Your friend will not die. The poison in him is meant to slow, not kill. But without a cure, he could sleep for days.” Col’Wrent put a massive finger in its mouth and drew out a thick stream of saliva and mucus. It gently pried Sutter’s mouth open and wiped the viscous fluid on his tongue.

Then together they waited several long minutes in the hiss of the lantern and stink of the tent. Sutter lay unmoving for some time. At length, his eyes opened. He began to writhe in the straw and spit foulness from his lips. “What the Sky did you put in my mouth?”

“You don’t want to know.” Tahn put his hand on Col’Wrent’s shoulder in appreciation, feeling the strong, rough skin of the Lul’Masi.

Suddenly Sutter realized where he was, and looked up into the massive face of his healer. He scrambled back against the side of the cage, trying to free his sword but fumbling with the weapon.

“Easy, Sutter. There’s no need of that.” Tahn pointed at Sutter’s blade. “You were poisoned by the Bourne, and you’ve been healed by the Bourne. Maybe a thank-you is in order.”

Sutter stared, incredulous. “Thank you?”

“Good enough,” Tahn said.

From behind them, Alisandra called, “Looks like you’re finished. I’ll take my second half now.”

With his back shielding their exchange, Tahn spoke in low tones. “The girl is quick and wary; she won’t allow you to approach the door. I will go out and get the key from her—”

“No,” Col’Wrent said in a deep whisper. “Her mistrust will guard against your task. Tent folk thrive because they are greedy and assume all others are like themselves. You won’t succeed without feeling her blade.”

“Then how?” Tahn asked.

“What’s going on?” Alisandra asked, impatience edging her tone.

“Yeah, what is going on?” Sutter echoed.

“Not now, Sutter. Be quiet for once.”

Alisandra called again. “Your friend looks fine. Get out here.”

“What bribe bought your entrance to my prison?” Col’Wrent asked with a hint of distaste.

“Three and six,” Tahn replied.

“You were wise enough to hold back full payment?”

“Yes. Half before, half after.”

The Lul’Masi looked over Tahn’s shoulder. Its patient eyes surveyed the cage door, then returned to Tahn. “Tell her how low and stupid I am. Tell her you believe you’ve already trained me to perform simple tricks, like a dog. That you got me to lift my hand, and that you are going to have me hold out the balance of her payment in my servile palm for her to take. The tent folk are wary, but infected with greed and pride beyond their caution. I will play my part, until her hand is close enough to grasp.”

There was no murder in Col’Wrent’s eyes, but Tahn had not yet seen any real emotion in them, either. Caging the Lul’Masi was wrong, but he didn’t want Alisandra slain.

“I can’t help you if you intend to kill her,” Tahn said.

Col’Wrent’s brow tightened. The Lul’Masi hovered over him. Tahn craned his neck back to look up at the towering creature. Slowly, Col’Wrent extended both arms toward the roof of the tent, then lowered them while bringing them slowly together. When its hands touched, they were at Tahn’s chest. The Lul’Masi interlocked its thumbs and pressed its palms against him. Tahn peered up in confusion. Col’Wrent removed its hands, and spoke earnestly. “I vow, from the sky to one, to do as you ask.”

Tahn took out his money pouch and dropped the coins in Col’Wrent’s large hand. He then immediately whirled, fixing a self-congratulatory grin on his face, and strode confidently to the door.

“He is indeed low,” Tahn said to Alisandra as he came close to her. “But hardly the monster you described. He has the mind of a child.”

“But the body of a Slope Nyne,” Alisandra put in.

“I’ve never seen such a thing,” Tahn answered. He leaned casually against the inner bars of the cage. “A dog bites when it is threatened or beaten into a corner,” he explained. “But let the dog smell you, show no fear, and it welcomes you into its home. Will even perform tricks for you.”

“Tricks?” Alisandra said suspiciously.

“Nothing as fancy as the feats in your larger tents, but I have given the beast the rest of your money, and some extra besides, and asked him to bring it to you.”

Alisandra took up a dagger.

“There is no need of that,” Tahn said. “The creature wants to serve. A kind word and second meal bowl will earn you his trust. Think of the money to be made by bringing people to this cage and letting them inside to pet its hoary skin. You could train it to do small tricks; your mastery over it will make you rich.” Tahn leaned in conspiratorially.

Alisandra’s eyes danced with the prospect. She appraised the Lul’Masi, greed written large upon her face. Then her lust for lucre gave way to the guarded look she usually wore. “What gain is in it for you? Why tell me such things? Do you intend to petition for partnership in the tenendra?”

Sutter laughed, causing Alisandra to frown. “No partnership,” Tahn said. “A kiss.”

The request startled the girl for a moment, and she drew her head back in obvious suspicion, a grin teasing at one corner of her mouth.

“I don’t care for the beast, and I don’t seek my fortune,” Tahn said confidentially. “My friend is healed, I have what I want … mostly.”

“Mostly?” Alisandra’s beautiful, dangerous smile returned.

“I’ll have a kiss from you without price, and then I’ll carry the memory of winning your favor without lightening my purse. It will warm me when my fires grow cold.”

Sutter laughed from behind him, but this time Alisandra regarded Tahn with appreciation.

“Well, boy,” Alisandra said, “you may have your kiss, and that will put paid to all future claims you might make.” She inclined toward him, stopping short. “And you will take this information with you when you leave Squim. Should another come to understand the gentle nature of the beast, I will find you and show you your earth.”

Tahn shook his head and puckered clownishly. Alisandra put her soft lips to his own, and Tahn’s pucker melted beneath the heat of her mouth. She moved her lips across his for several moments, taking, he thought, some pleasure in the kiss. The touch and taste of her lips, the danger and mystery of her, the striking beauty, all of it raced through Tahn. It was part of the ruse, and part of his own fledgling desires—together they made it a kiss he would never forget. Alisandra gave a soft, submissive sound before pulling away. Tahn’s mouth hung open as she called the beast toward her.

The Lul’Masi walked sheepishly, cowering, but advancing at her call.

Tahn could see Alisandra had bought his story; a wild light shone in her eyes like that of a child waiting to be given gifts. Hesitantly, Col’Wrent approached until he was within arm’s reach. He turned his head, looking away as he proffered his palm filled with coins as though he were afraid. His fingers trembled as the girl reached to take the money. In her confidence, she made no haste, gathering the coins with arrogance.

In an instant, the Lul’Masi took Alisandra by the wrist, its grip stopping the flow of blood into her hand. It yanked the girl toward itself and wrapped its mighty arms around her. It squeezed until her face reddened to the hue of summer apples. She lost all her breath before she could utter a cry and moments later she slipped to the floor.

Tahn dove to his knees to check her breathing. She was alive, merely unconscious.

“We should hurry,” Sutter slurred, still woozy. “The town will not be safe once they find out what we’ve done.”

Tahn stood, dwarfed beneath the Lul’Masi. “Thank you.”

“The debt is mine,” Col’Wrent answered. “Now go. Your friend is right. I will free the others.”

Tahn and Sutter raced to the end of the tent. Sutter ducked outside, but Tahn looked back to see the Lul’Masi take the key from Alisandra’s hand and begin to open the other cages. The Inveterae looked up and caught Tahn’s eye. A look of gratitude passed between them, and it made Tahn wonder about the nature of the Inveterae.

Then Sutter pulled Tahn through the tent flap and they ran back past the tenendra toward town.

*   *   *

They rode most of the night north out of Squim. They didn’t speak, pushing to put leagues between themselves and the tenendra. In the waning hours of night, Tahn turned his attention east and thought about the coming of dawn, about another day of life. He imagined the rays of sunrise striking a more peaceful world, one where Wendra hummed over morning pig steak. The thought of his sister ended his ritual predawn reverie. Skies, he missed her. There seemed a hole inside him. He couldn’t remember a time without her in his life. Not where he couldn’t go to her if he needed to. Or if she needed him.

And again he recalled the moment when he hesitated in releasing his draw on the Bar’dyn hovering over his sister’s birth bed. I’m so sorry, Wendra. Forgive me. Are you okay? Your child … it’s not your fault.

Those maddening words—I draw with the strength of my arms—Tahn’s frustration returned. Long ago, he’d learned to live with the ritual saying. It flashed in his mind so quickly that it posed no encumbrance to his skill with his bow. But the origin of those words, and now the trouble it had caused Wendra, plagued him anew. Would he ever understand what made him say them?

No, there had been no good reason to let his sister’s child be carried into the night by one of the Quiet. He would not forgive or explain that away.

All he could do was let the wind and rhythm of Jole’s hooves lull him toward less troubling thoughts, and hope he would find her in Recityv with the others.

Some time later, full day lit the sky.

Sutter reined in. “We’ve got to get off this road.” His words were no longer slurred, and his friend looked more like himself.

Tahn pulled up beside him and wheeled around. There was no sign that anyone was following them, but he nodded. With Quiet on their trail as well, and tent folk they’d be best off avoiding, getting off the road made sense. Having forgotten his tender foot, he winced as he jumped to the ground.

“Watch those delicate toes,” Sutter jested as he dismounted. “I have it on good authority that they intend to dance a turn with a quick-footed Far. You’d better stay on the mend.”

Tahn grinned through his pain. “Perhaps I ought to fix you with the bit and bridle and ride you a distance. I could do with the rest and quiet, and so could the horses.”

Favoring his left foot, he ducked into the dense trees on the east side of the road, and pushed himself and the horses as quickly as he could. Blue shadows clung to the ground in the early light of dawn, the smell of dew thick over fallen leaves and low rocks.

When the road had been left far behind and the trees thinned, Sutter pulled abreast of Tahn. “Explain something to me. How does a melura, who rubs the reproductive scents of animals across his boots and shoulders to attract game while hunting, fetch the smiles of so many women?” Sutter grinned wickedly.

“Those gamey smells have gotten me a few friends, too.” Tahn smiled back.

“I hope you’re not talking about me,” Sutter said. “I’d just like to know why you got to kiss Alisandra.”

“These women you talk of are all deft with a blade. Isn’t that somehow unwise?” Tahn furrowed his brow in mockery of reason.

“You looked plenty wise receiving Alisandra’s lips. And don’t play coy with me about the Far. You may as well have branded your intentions on your forehead.”

“And what about you, root-digger,” Tahn put back. “You’ve declared your intentions for my sister. Do you esteem her less than a tenendra girl?”

“How did we end up talking about me?” Sutter asked. “You’re the one flapping your lips all over the place. And while we’re at it, for one who wanted to live out his life isolated in the Hollows, you’ve taken a keen interest in poking your nose into the private affairs of others.”

“You mean like taking a square stance against a ranking member of the Sedagin?”

“Just defending your sister’s honor,” Sutter said, bowing as he walked.

They laughed together and wound their way through leaf-shadow.

Tahn found a comfortable rhythm. “You know what we forgot?”

“Yeah, directions,” Sutter replied.

“The ravine runs east there,” Tahn pointed, “but turns north before reaching that range.” He indicated a mountain ridge visible through the trees. “I think we should leave the road alone. You can dig—”

Sutter put his hand on Tahn’s arm, his smile fading. He turned to face Tahn. “Thank you.”

“What?”

“Don’t get me wrong. It’s no treat to taste the snot of a brute from the Bourne. Thing gave me the crawls.” He paused. “But you went into that cage and could have been that thing’s next meal. You didn’t know any better than the girl who sold you admission what it might have done.”

Tahn tried to dismiss it. “It was nothing. You’d have done the same—”

“Yeah, I would have,” Sutter cut in. “But … it’s just that I think often about the people who put something at risk for me. There’s precious few who ever have.”

Tahn understood that Sutter was thinking about the man and woman who raised him as their son, and about his actual birth parents who had given him away before he was old enough to know them. In hindsight, Tahn thought maybe a lot of who his friend had become had to do with trying to reconcile himself with—or maybe leave behind—the decisions those people had made. He thought maybe his friend felt dispensible, and needed to get past that. And suddenly some of the jokes they’d shared all their lives echoed back a touch darker.

“Well,” Tahn said, “my guess is you’ll get to return the favor. So hold on to your good intentions.”

Tahn tried to continue east, but Sutter held him back. “It’s more than that. I don’t know why the Sheason and Far came for you. I don’t think you know, either. But whatever it is, I think it’s a lot more important than we’ve given them credit for. I mean, they didn’t come to the Hollows for a root-digger. You take my meaning?”

Tahn stared. He understood. Maybe Sutter was right. But he looked back with defiance. “I won’t be caught on the wrong side of the choice to help a friend, Sutter. Not ever again. Anything the Sheason means for me to do will have to be in harmony with that. Or else he’s got the wrong melura. Doesn’t that seem right to you?”

Sutter thought, then slowly nodded. “It does. But then, this whole business is backward, Tahn. Seems like you could do what feels right, and be wrong. Just remember that.”

Tahn nodded. “Or perhaps we are decoys in a larger, more complicated plan.” The dark, cloaked figure spinning rain down upon a bull elk flashed in his mind. “But so you know, I’m not at all sure this is about me. For all we know, it could be about you.” He jabbed a playful finger into Sutter’s chest.

They laughed again, the moment behind them, and headed down the ravine, angling northeast.

They traveled the rest of the day, mostly walking. Near dusk, they descended a low ridge. The distant hum of a river rose into the forest, a soothing, familiar strain. The ravine descended to a river running south. They led their mounts to drink. An orange sun reflected its double in the glossy surface, river flies and other insects darting to and fro over the calm water. The ripples of fish surfacing to feed briefly interrupted the languid smoothness. Near the shore, the river tapered gradually, the water clear enough to see the sands in the shallows.

Tahn looked out over the river with relief; this, at least, was good fortune—rivers meant food and water, and always rejoined a road if you followed them far enough.

“See,” he said. “Just stick with me.” He swelled his chest with a lungful of air and inclined his chin toward the rising moon in a heroic pose.

Sutter caught him off guard while he was striking his pose, shoving him into the river before Tahn could catch his balance. The chill of the water bit at his skin, but not unpleasantly.

Tahn got his feet under him and turned on his friend. “Bad foot or none, Nails, you’re going to gulp your share of river water in a moment.”

“You should take the opportunity to bathe,” Sutter said, laughing. “I’ll cut you some peppermint leaves to perfume your delicate skin.”

Tahn rushed him.

“Now, Woodchuck, you really ought to accept your wetness like a man.” Sutter barked laughter, allowing Tahn to grab him around the waist and hold him up. “This won’t help either,” Sutter sputtered through laughing lips. “I’m not baring my shoulders for you.”

Laughing, Tahn pulled Sutter back into deeper water, both of them submerging for a moment. Tahn let go, welcoming the soothing cold on his foot and slowly floating to the surface. He heard Sutter splashing toward him, no doubt preparing to take up their bout. Just as he was about to surface, a hand grasped the nape of his neck and thrust his head deeper under water.

As he went down again, he smiled at the impetuous, tireless antics of his friend. The same prank had been shared between them endlessly on the banks of the Huber. He waited a moment, determining whether to counter, or simply to wait for Sutter to let him up and continue the contest. The hand did not relent, but grew tighter, pinching savagely around the base of Tahn’s skull and thrusting him deeper.

A dark certainty filled him. This hand did not belong to his friend.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Dust on the Boards

The day after the fire on the riverboat, Jastail and Wendra rode slowly north. Two hours after meridian, Jastail turned off the road toward the east. Flat land stretched into the distance, broken occasionally by undulating hills. Wendra noticed the roll of wagon tracks in the soil, though they trod no established road. Jastail took them into unmarked territory for yet another hour before they crested a knoll, where Wendra looked down upon a makeshift town with no real roads. A sudden feeling of despair stole over her as Jastail walked their mount slowly into Galadell.

Not a single man or woman failed to take note of them as they came. A few nodded to Jastail, but did not verbally greet him. He nodded in return, an air of authority in the angle of his head. Something bothered Wendra about the place. It felt impermanent, as though it could be abandoned at a moment’s notice. She sensed no sort of commitment, or community, or tradition here.

Then it hit her.

The silence.

Merchants did not bark their wares, men did not argue prices, women did not wag their tongues at their husbands, and the few children she saw swept or carried or lifted in the performance of some chore. This accumulation of life did not have the vibrance of towns she’d recently visited: the rapid exchange of insults in jest, or tales of the road, or arguments about overpricing; the raucous play of children under the feet of their parents. None of it lived here. The town itself did not feel like a town so much as a huddling of disparate folks all engaged in some dark, illicit business.

Jastail led Wendra to a ramshackle establishment near the center of town. Beside the door hung a weathered sign nailed to the wall announcing the OVERLAND BED AND CUP. Jastail looked both ways along the street before entering into the dimness beyond the door. Wendra shot a glance over her shoulder at the passersby, catching one of them in a long, appraising gaze; the man continued to unabashedly stare at her. Quickly, she followed Jastail inside.

The room stood weakly lit by a few sparsely placed candles inside glass lanterns, and by a bit of daylight that crept through cracks in the poor carpentry along the outer walls. The smell of stale bitter hung in the air, and that of boiled roots and a meat odor unfamiliar to Wendra. The tables sat empty save for two nearest the back where a set of wine barrels had been fastened to the wall. Drips fell at long intervals from spigots into cups placed on the floor to catch them. A man in a long leather apron sat beside the barrels with a short-brimmed hat drawn low on his brow. His chair stood tilted back against the wall and his chest rose and fell in the slow, steady rhythm of sleep.

Jastail moved soundlessly across the floor and made as though to take up one of the cups catching the spillage. With immediate swiftness, the chair legs came down and the man’s hand latched onto Jastail’s before he could lift the glass.

“You’re slowing down with age, Himney,” Jastail said.

The other laughed. “Of course I am,” Himney replied. “But the land has yet to produce a thief swift enough to take bitter from me without me knowing and stopping him.”

Jastail put the cup back under the drip, and pulled Himney to his feet. They clasped each other by the wrist and shook in two deliberate up and down motions.

“And I don’t suppose there will ever be a thief who can cut your profits.”

“Not till I go to my earth.” Himney let go of Jastail’s hand and nudged the cup the highwayman had attempted to take so that it could receive the drops in its exact center.

Jastail dug into his cloak and pulled out a coin, walking it along his knuckles with deft skill. The coin danced as though flipped, passing back and forth from one finger to the next. When he had apparently satisfied himself, Jastail tossed the coin up. Before it could finish rising, Himney snatched it out of the air. The little man licked the coin, running his tongue over its surface and along its edge, then rolling his eyes up as he concentrated and wagged his tongue just behind his teeth. Seemingly satisfied, he hid the coin so fast that Wendra wasn’t sure where it went. He then picked up two fresh cups from a shelf between the wine barrels and filled them for Jastail and Wendra.

“Still the best nose in open land,” Jastail said with bemusement.

“Can’t run risks with the dreck that scuttles through these parts, my friend.” He led them to a table away from the few patrons and put their cups on one side, positioning himself on the other with a clear view of his wine barrels. Once seated, he eyed Wendra with a long, hard look, making her feel as though she were a coin held between the little man’s sweaty lips. “You’ve been busy lately, friend. The open country is treating you well.”

Jastail took a long drink from his glass. He wiped his mouth and leveled his gaze at Himney. “Must be my honest face.”

The two chuckled over the jest.

When their chuckles had faded to smiles, Jastail said, “Tell me the most recent news. Things have not been”—he looked at Wendra—“easy. Tell me all you’ve heard, Himney, and leave the garnish for the next man. I’ve no patience for tales, and no money for lies or rumors.”

The other man raised his hands before him and waved them to shush Jastail. “I understand. Earth and dust, but you do go on. Drink your bitter and let me do some talking.” Himney leaned forward in his seat and rested his elbows on the table, one eyebrow cocked upward quizzically in preparation to speak. His tongue lashed out in a quick motion, licking the sweat from his lips. He then drew a breath, paused dramatically, and began in a cautious voice.

“Dust is up, dust is up,” he said. “Men come into Galadell two and three a day, north out of Ringstone, south from Chol’Den’Fas, even from the east they come from as far as the coast of Kuren. But you,” Himney said, pointing at Jastail, “you go to the west. What do you know that the others don’t?” He pondered for a moment, then went on. “Some say that the order is aware. Others are not convinced. But less than a handful know what business they trade in, Jastail. Not like you.”

“Know the seasons, do they? When we come to the lowland?” The highwayman waved a hand in a tight circular motion to indicate Galadell.

“We haven’t seen any sign of a three-ring here. But rumors are loose on the tongues of my clients. Some say the dust belongs to the Quiet.” Himney nodded dismissively. “Nothing new there. But most of the newcomers have no sense of what they do, only itchy palms for coin.”

Wendra noted the way this man Himney looked when he used the word dust. Something about it unnerved her. It sounded somehow like something dark that she wasn’t sure she wanted to learn.