As if they’re being summoned.
Sparrow assesses the situation as she ignores the fear that’s prickling along her skin. She’s used to weighing terrible, heartbreaking options. All the Urisk are.
No. Tonight can’t be the night.
It’s too dangerous for a journey across turbulent waters in a flimsy boat with kraken close. She’s going to call this off. She and Effrey will have to wait.
“Plotting your escape?”
Sparrow gives a small jolt and spins around, her sandaled heels digging into the cold, wet sand, her heartbeat drumming against her chest.
Tilor is watching her with his beady eyes from the shadows of the knotty Sea Pines, just a few paces away. Revulsion floods Sparrow.
The cruel, arrogant bastard.
He’s so pathetic, standing there leering at her in his well-pressed Gardnerian military tunic with its single stripe on the edging, a weak, magic-free Mage barely older than Sparrow’s nineteen years. Yet you’d think he had the power of one of their Great Mages, the way he struts about, ordering the Urisk around.
Sparrow takes a deep, steadying breath. Normally, she wouldn’t allow herself to even think these mutinous thoughts. Even a trace of defiance in the inflection of one’s tone is enough to bring down the wrath of these vicious Crows.
Square-jawed Tilor strides forward, smirking, and Sparrow keeps her face carefully neutral, even though she’s suddenly keenly aware of the stolen knife that’s sheathed and hidden in the side of her boot, just under the hem of her long skirt.
She dips her head with deferential grace. “I like to walk by the ocean’s side, Mage Bannock.”
Tilor puffs up, as if visibly mollified by her submissive stance.
If I could get away with it, I’d pull this blade and slice you clean through, Sparrow internally rages. But there’s no getting away with it, trapped as she is on this cursed island.
It’s a dangerous game, to feign pleasantries with Tilor, but what choice does she have? He’s the assigned Mage warden of her labor group and knows full well that she has no good options. He is increasingly taking advantage of it.
The vile bastard.
His gaze skims over her. “Well, I’m glad to hear you’re just out for a stroll,” he purrs as he comes too close. Always, lately, he’s coming too close. He reaches up and slides a tendril of Sparrow’s long hair behind one ear, then fondles her ear’s point as Sparrow grits her teeth and fights the urge to flinch back from his repellent touch.
“You’re really quite lovely,” he murmurs, but then his brow knots as if he’s both surprised and abashed by his own sentiment. His hand falls away. Sparrow keeps her gaze carefully averted from his as nausea wells inside her along with the fierce urge to claw at his hated face.
The foghorn sounds, and they both glance toward the lighthouse just northeast of them, perched at the end of a long, rocky causeway. The impossibly high structure appears small and thin from this distance, like a pale finger pointing accusingly at the sky.
“I was stationed up there last night.” Tilor turns back and smiles coldly at Sparrow. “Bunch of rockbats thought they’d make a try for the continent.” He shakes his head, as if discussing naughty children.
Two emotions hit Sparrow at once, lightning hard. Outrage over his use of the slur that mocks both the Urisk’s ears and their latent geomancy powers. And glass-sharp worry. Because she knows the Urisk he’s speaking of, their whereabouts carefully concealed by Sparrow and other Urisk to buy them a day or two for their escape.
“They got about halfway to the mainland,” Tilor continues, “and the kraken devoured them.” He says this last part with a heavy sigh.
Shock slams into Sparrow, and it’s all she can do to remain upright.
No. No, it can’t be. Enna’lys. And Marrillya. And small Silla’nil, bundled up and loaded onto the crowded boat, clutching a cloth doll Sparrow had lovingly sewn for her. Sweet Silla’nil, with her secret collection of shells. Her rose-splotched cheeks and pale pink curls. The child singing, always singing, like a tiny bird. Even the cruel Gardnerians were unable to destroy her gentle, bubbly soul.
Tilor sniffs, frowning. “I had a good view from my scope. Watched the beast take them down. It was truly awful. Tore a child’s head clear off.” He makes a jaded sound. “Their own fault, really. Honestly, what were they thinking? Did they not notice the kraken out there that are visible right from the shore?” He shrugs, pursing his lips, and lets out a long breath. “Provided an evening’s diversion, at least. Gruesome as it was.” He glances over his shoulder at the factories, greenhouses, and farms located past the bluff and rolls his eyes. “Anything to break up the tedium of this godforsaken place.”
Rage digs its claws into Sparrow, cold and condemning, along with a terrible, heart-shattering grief. She tries to fight it. Tries to punch it back down, but she can’t this time. The outrage is too great, and it rises like a burgeoning tide.
“It’s wrong.” Her voice is as unforgiving as the ocean’s black depths. “The way you treat us. It’s wrong.”
Tilor’s head snaps toward her, and he looks as if she’s slapped him.
Stupid, stupid! A remnant of sense shrilly blares a warning in the back of Sparrow’s mind. But at this moment, she doesn’t care. Her fingers twitch with the urge to pull her knife and take him down, even though he’s too muscular for her to overpower.
Tilor’s stunned expression melts away, a confrontational grin forming on his face.
“You’ve no souls,” he declares. “It says so, right in the Book. You’re like empty shells.” His gaze flicks over her as he sighs ruefully. “A lovely shell, in your case, but an empty one. Someday, after you die, it will be like you never existed at all.” His mouth twists into a bitter sneer. “So, it doesn’t matter how we treat you, now, does it?”
Sparrow’s fierce anger is ratcheted up by the ball of hot grief that’s forming deep in her core.
Silla’nil. The child was supposed to be on her way to Valgard. And from there to Verpacia, and then through the Pass to the East. And, someday, to safety in Noi lands. A scream rises in Sparrow’s throat, threatening to loosen.
Tilor reaches up to play with her hair again, and Sparrow digs her nails into her palms to keep from attacking him.
“I know you hate it here,” he murmurs, stroking her cheek, as if sympathetic to her plight. “But you need to accept your lot. It’s ordained by the Ancient One that you serve us. It says it right in the Book. There’s no escaping us or our power. Especially now that we’ve got our Black Witch.”
His words are like another debilitating punch to the gut. First Vogel takes power, and now...now they have their Black Witch too?
Sparrow knows exactly who that Black Witch is likely to be.
“Fallon Bane,” Tilor breathes out reverentially, a slightly besotted look in his eyes. “The Ishkart tried to kill her, but they failed. She’s recuperating. And her power is growing.”
Dread courses through Sparrow. It’s too awful to comprehend. Fallon Bane is the reason she and Effrey are in this nightmarish place. All because of that one day, so many months ago, when Mage Elloren Gardner chose the same fabric for her dress that Fallon had chosen for her own.
Mage Florel, the kindest Mage Sparrow and Effrey had ever known, refused to be cowed by Fallon’s bullying, even after Fallon returned to the shop and forbade Heloise Florel from making the dress. Incensed, Mage Florel quietly defied her, sorely underestimating Fallon Bane’s capacity for vengeance.
Soon after, Fallon spread the word that no one was to do business with Mage Florel. Ever again.
And so, Heloise Florel was driven out of business and into the poorhouse. Sparrow stiffens at the memory of how both she and Effrey were purchased by the Banes in retribution for working on the forbidden dress, then shipped to this labor camp on the Fae Islands, where all the Urisk lef
t on the Gardnerian mainland will soon be, as well.
“Finish your walk.” Tilor’s coldly indulgent voice snaps Sparrow from her inner storm. “Then come to my room.”
Surprise flashes through Sparrow. “Your room?”
Tilor’s expression sharpens. “Yes, my room,” he spits out, as if he has a genuine grievance here. “You’ve put me off long enough. I brought you extra food this past winter. Extra blankets and warmer clothing.” He straightens, his gaze sweeping over her, as if appraising something he’s about to fully own. “I’ve been patient, Sparrow. More patient than any other Mage here would ever be. So, finish your walk. And get yourself to my room. I’m done waiting.” There’s a flash of cruelty in his expression that nearly freezes her heartbeat, as if he can sense her inner mutiny and is ready to punish her for it.
Tilor walks off in a huff, pauses just before his path disappears into the pine grove, then turns to her once more, his wretched face smug.
“Sparrow,” he calls, “if you make me wait too long, I’ll inform our commander of your nighttime ramblings.” He shakes his head. “Don’t make me do that, Sparrow.”
“I won’t, Mage,” she promises, picturing slicing his head in two with a sharp ax.
His gaze rakes over her form once more before he turns again and walks off.
Sparrow waits for the sound of his steps to disappear as a prickling rain starts to fall. When she’s finally sure that the loathsome fool is gone, she turns on her heels and runs down through another pine grove, fleet as a deer as she makes for the shore’s edge.
* * *
Little Effrey looks up when Sparrow emerges from the shrubbery, the child wide-eyed and bundled into their small, hidden boat. His sizable pointed ears stick out from the cloak and blanket he’s wrapped in, his violet hue darkened to a deep purple in the dim light, his purple eyes wide and watchful as a harder rain begins to pelt them both. A few supplies for their journey have already been loaded on board.
The evening’s fourth horn sounds, signaling the imminent change of the guard and a temporary relaxing of the watch. Sparrow cuts a glare toward the water.
No sign of any kraken boiling through the waves. The kraken she spotted before is probably quite a ways north by now. The beasts swim in swarms, usually keeping to one direction, so that kraken was likely part of a larger group that’s cleared off.
“We leave now!” Sparrow hisses in an urgent whisper. She rushes toward Effrey in a crouch. She will not stay and be forced into Tilor’s bed, and it’s only a matter of time before the Gardnerians find out what Effrey really is. Then they’ll both be dead.
Sparrow throws one last look over her shoulder at the island’s interior, watching for movement and listening for any sounds past the restless swoosh of the waves and the patter of the rain. Finding none, she hikes up her skirt and secures it under her tunic’s belt. Then she pushes the boat free of the land, walking it out until cool ocean water is lapping against her upper thighs. Effrey leans away from Sparrow for balance as she heaves herself inside the boat, grabs the oars, and makes for the continent.
* * *
Sparrow doesn’t pause to rest until they’re halfway to the Gardnerian mainland.
There’s a momentary, blessed lull in the fierce winds and the driving rain as the boat is gently jostled by the waves beneath them. Sparrow is panting heavily, raindrops coating her lips, her shoulders and arms on fire from rowing against the ocean’s stiff currents—currents that want to pull them south and way off course toward the dangerous whirlpool vortexes of the Southern Voltic Sea.
She shivers, drenched in chilling rain. She glances worriedly at Effrey, the child’s blanket soaked from the rain and ocean spray, his teeth chattering. He’s already sporting a vicious cold.
“Will I get to be myself in the Noi lands?” Effrey asks, a question he never tires of hearing the answer to.
“Yes,” Sparrow affirms, forcing optimism in her tone. “You can be your true self there.”
But not here. Here, Effrey has to dress like an Urisk girl, because being an Urisk male—a male who might harbor geomancy power—brings certain death in the Western Realm.
Sparrow glances behind them at the Fae Islands as their boat bobs in the unpredictable water and flashes of lightning periodically illuminate the world. The islands are like the back of a monster, hunching in the sea. She returns her gaze to the continent, at the huge mass of malignant land that lies between them and the longed-for East.
Sparrow imagines a larger boat with a well-appointed cabin, floating somewhere on the waters of the Eastern Realm. With a comfy bed to tuck Effrey into. Soft blankets. Abundant food. Books. And all the tools of her trade—a sewing machine, threads and fabrics, and everything else a seamstress could ever need, neatly stowed away.
It’s all she’s ever wanted in the whole world. Paid work as a seamstress, and a home of their own, even on a small boat. Where they can be safe and warm and dry on the waters of the Eastern Realm.
She might as well wish for a palace on a mountaintop, in this unforgiving world.
Still, in this blessed, brief instant, suspended between the yawning jaws of the prison that is Gardneria, Sparrow savors a small moment of safety. No Tilor. No menacing Mage soldiers. No threats of abuse.
Freedom.
A small, reptilian head pops out from under Effrey’s blankets, slender and bone white. The small creature sets its slitted, ruby-flaming eyes on Sparrow, and her illusion of safety shatters.
“No,” Sparrow gasps as she recoils. “Oh, no. Tell me that is not a stolen dragon.”
The dragon’s eyes narrow, its gleaming ivory horns sharp on its head. There are bloody gashes across its face and a metallic collar around its neck marked with glowing deep-green Gardnerian runes. Runes that cost a large number of guilders to procure.
Which means this dragon is the property of one of the wealthier Mages.
Effrey’s trembling mouth turns into a dejected frown. “I had to save him. They were using him as pit bait! He had no one. No one but me.”
The dragon sinks down below the blanket, those two defiant, fiery-red eyes peering out at Sparrow.
“He’s probably a full-grown dragon without that collar!” Sparrow cries, recognizing the runic collar that suppresses pit-dragon growth. “Effrey...that thing is dangerous. And the Mages pay a pretty guilder for even their bait dragons.” A heightened fear slides into her. “If they catch us and find we’ve taken him...”
“They won’t find him,” Effrey insists, hugging the beast tight. “I’ll hide him. And soon his wing will heal, and he’ll be able to fly.”
“He’s a moonskin,” Sparrow notes, feeling increasingly light-headed. “They’re considered bad luck, you know. That’s why the Crows are using him for bait.”
Effrey hugs the ivory-hued dragon protectively to his chest as thunder cracks and the rain picks up. “Anything that’s bad luck for them has to be good luck for us.” Both the dragon and Effrey stare at Sparrow like they’re making all the sense in the world.
Sparrow’s mouth tightens into a thin, frustrated line. Foolish child and foolish dragon.
Their boat gives a sudden, violent pitch to the side.
Sparrow cries out from the unexpected force, scrabbling to grab on to the boat’s side with one hand, grabbing tight hold of Effrey with the other as a giant fist of a head blasts up from the ocean in an explosion of white spray, huge jaws, inky eyes, and lashing tentacles.
Terror, like a hot iron, spears through Sparrow’s chest.
Kraken!
She lunges forward and pushes Effrey and the dragon down to the boat’s floor, then grasps desperate hold of the boat’s edging to keep them all from being cast overboard along with their supplies, the painfully cold waves sloshing over their bodies as the boat casts wildly about.
Another hard, punching tilt. Effrey shrieks as the
boat almost upends, and Sparrow whips her head over her shoulder, fear slicing through her.
Drenching water clouds the image of the kraken’s gaping mouth as it opens before them, a nightmare cave of teeth large as swords, the beast like some unholy union between a giant squid, a snake, and a fanged spider. Fetid, briny breath blows a blast of chill air toward them as its head curves down, down, down. Taloned claws at the end of multiple tentacles latch on to the sides of their boat, crunching into the wood.
The kraken lets loose a multitone, ratcheting snarl that reverberates through Sparrow’s entire body.
She reaches below her sodden skirts with a shaking hand and pulls her knife in a useless attempt to protect them as she hugs Effrey tight and the child whimpers, clinging to her as the great kraken beast snarls and gurgles, jostling the boat with its barbed tentacles.
Tears sheen over Sparrow’s vision.
This is how it ends.
I’m sorry, Effrey. I’m so sorry.
The small dragon forces itself out of Effrey’s grip and scuttles toward the mammoth beast.
The kraken spots the dragon and rears back, its oily neck undulating, then striking forward only to come to a shuddering stop just before the small beast.
Sparrow freezes.
The dragon’s silvery form is silhouetted against one of the kraken’s enormous eyes as it stares the sea beast down and lets loose a torrent of tiny shrieks and hisses and clicks.
Effrey is sobbing hysterically, hiding his face in Sparrow’s chest as Sparrow peers into the huge, membranous kraken eye.
The kraken’s serpentine neck jerks back, as if with surprise.Then its head flows back down toward the dragon’s. Effrey whimpers as the enormous beast touches its head to the small dragon’s.
The boat bobs as waves slosh around them and Sparrow dazedly glances at the black talon closest to her, large as a mountain ram’s horn, its point impaling the wood.
The Shadow Wand Page 5