by J M D Reid
The Recorder sat there, the strange and massive jewelchine that Dualayn had found in the Red Heart of the Forest, the center of the Upfing Forest. Every tree there, along with all the grass, had been stained red. It appeared centered around ruins that predated the Shattering, when Niszeh had destroyed the Harmony of the Tone, creating the Seven Good and the one Black.
To the Lothonians, they believed it was when Elohm’s perfect people were ruined by the Black.
Either way, it had devastated lands far to the east, creating the Shattered Islands, and ended the legendary civilization that used to dominate the world. The Recorder, an amethyst and emerald gem somehow grown together in a spiraling helix around the wiring, held ancient knowledge.
Dualayn was studying it with a primer he’d received from the Brotherhood and their mysterious benefactor, the White Lady.
“You can go now,” Dualayn said. “I have her, Ōbhin.”
“What?” Ōbhin whirled around to stare at the older man. “No, no, what if you need more of my help?”
“I am fine on my own,” he said. He was pulling down jars from a cabinet. “Now it’s just a matter of keeping her alive to heal. I can do that on my own. This might take days. Even a week or longer. I’ll take care of her. I don’t need to be distracted by your worrying and pacing and muttering.”
“You sure?”
“No one loves her more than I do,” Dualayn said. “If Bravine and I had a daughter, I’d imagined she’d be like Avena. After my son died . . .” The old man drew a deep breath. “She almost was my daughter. If I hadn’t failed with Chames, she would be. I won’t fail her, Ōbhin. I promise you.”
Chapter Five
Ōbhin scrubbed Avena’s blood off his glove with a fistful of grass, staining the green red. He spat on the leather and buffed more away. His eyes were distant, seeing past them to that moment in time. One little decision had irrevocably changed Avena’s life.
For the last Lothonian month, two of his own people’s lunar months, he’d spent most days in her company. When she wasn’t working with Dualayn in the lab or tinkering with her own jewelchines, she was practicing and drilling with his guards. She was his confidant, the only one he could confide in when his loathing for the thing masquerading as Smiles grew too much. They were united in protecting Dualayn from his deal with the Brotherhood. When Dualayn uncovered the secret Grey and the White Lady needed from the Recorder, Ōbhin was certain it would end badly.
They had to protect him. His skills were remarkable. If he could heal her brain injury . . . No one recovered from injuries like that.
The creak of wheels drew his eyes to Joayne pushing Dualayn’s invalid wife across the grounds. She did that whenever it was sunny, giving the woman fresh air. Bravine never seemed to notice. She just drooled, her mind destroyed by an inept physician after a fall broke her neck.
One simple decision. Choose the wrong doctor. Dodge the wrong piece of metal.
The front door creaked open. Ōbhin glanced behind, for a moment hoping it was Dualayn with good news before foolishness rippled through him. It was too soon. It’ll be days. Maybe even a week before she’s up and about.
She will recover. She’s a fighter.
It was Fingers. The older guard, nicknamed for his swollen knuckles and his habit of popping them, stumbled out. He wore a gambeson, his binder hanging from a leather belt. He had a backsword on the other hip. His bulbous nose had lost its usual redness. His eyes were distant. He ran a hand through graying hair.
“How is she?” he asked Ōbhin, stumbling, almost drunk.
“Dualayn’s trying something he learned from the Recorder.”
“She can’t die,” Fingers croaked. “She’s so young. Twenty . . . She should be married. Have her first babe sucklin’ at her teat, not . . .” His eyes flicked to Ōbhin. “What were you two doin’? You rushed outta here like you were marchin’ to battle. Now she’s got a length of sword stuck in her head.”
“Looking up an old friend,” said Ōbhin. “Trying to figure out what happened to Carstin’s body.”
“Thought that damned sorcerer got it. The one who turned your ol’ bandit leader into a monster.”
Ōbhin shuddered at the memory of Dje’awsa. A foreign sorcerer with strange tattoos like jagged lightning bolts wrapped around his shaved head. He served the White Lady, as dark as she was bright. He used jewels in a way that could only be called magic. Right out of campfire tales. He’d turned the dead into shambling corpses and transformed Ust into a brute with inhuman strength and speed.
Dje’awsa used obsidian. The eighth gem. The one different from the others, brittle and birthed in violence. The gem associated with Niszeh and disharmony. They were forbidden to be used in civilized lands.
“Maybe,” Ōbhin said. “I don’t know. I wanted answers and now . . .” Now he stood motionless. His Avena was lying in there, maybe dying, and all he did was nothing. He had sworn to protect Dualayn and his people.
Protect her? He’d led her right into the fray.
“She wouldn’t have stayed back,” Fingers said. “Too stubborn by half.”
Nearby, the skinny Bran lurked. He was the youngest of the guards, the youngest son of Joayne. He was gangly and his face pale. He was off-duty, wearing the red jacket he’d won while gambling at the Plucked Rooster. “She gonna be fine?”
“She’s strong,” grunted Fingers. “You go tell everyone that. Dualayn’s got her in hand. Nothin’ to worry ‘bout.”
Bran nodded and darted off.
“What are her chances?” Fingers asked, voice lower. This hopelessness filled his eyes once more.
“I don’t know.” The ground beneath his feet felt like loose sand. He remembered the earthquake that rocked Gunya, the Capital of Qoth. He had been on the Sands of Truth, facing Taim, when it struck. The ground had flowed beneath him. Became untrustworthy. Now he felt like he could plummet into darkness at any moment. “She might never be the same even if she wakes up.”
“Elohm’s bright Colours,” breathed Fingers. He formed the prism before him, drawing it with his pointer digit.
“I didn’t know you were so close with her,” Ōbhin said. “You hardly say a word to her.”
“She reminds me of my wife, you know. That same headstrong stubbornness.” For a moment, a smile crossed Fingers’s lips. “What I like ‘bout Avena.”
“Does she ever write you back?” Ōbhin asked. “Your wife?”
Fingers shook his head. “Why should she?”
He was estranged from his wife. He blustered that she’d cheated on him with the miller, or sometimes the baker, but the older man had confessed he’d hurt her and fled, ashamed and afraid he’d do worse. He sent her money and wrote to her every payday.
“I loved her the moment I saw her, you know,” said Fingers. “It was a strikin’ moment. She weren’t from my village but from two over. Took a day’s walk to reach it. Don’t remember why I was even there, to be honest. It was the Feast of Auburn, and she were dancin’ ’round the Plenty Pillar with the other unmarried girls. I saw her, and she stole all the color from the world. They all flowed into her. The only bit of vibrancy left.”
Ōbhin shifted. He remembered the day he’d fallen in love with Foonauri. He’d been a boy of ten or so, playing when he’d spied on her wearing her maiden’s mask, hiding her face for the first time as she began the transition from child to adult. Realizing he’d never see her face again unless she loved him had struck Otsar’s passionate tone to resonate through his heart.
It had started Ōbhin down a road that led to murdering his rival for her and breaking his soul.
The first time he’d seen Avena, she’d been holding a knife in both hands, scared and yet standing up to the bandits—including Ōbhin—who’d been attacking her and Dualayn.
“You know what that’s like,” Fingers said.
“Yeah,” Ōbhin admitted. “I know.” He hated just standing here. There had to be something he could do.
I nev
er should have taught her to fight.
Another voice whispered, That wouldn’t have stopped her from fighting.
“I courted her and married her,” Fingers continued. “I loved her more than life itself, but there were times when she just aggravated me. Made me angry.” Pain choked his voice. “I tried so blessed hard. I did. I never wanted to hurt her even when she infuriated me. And then one day, I couldn’t hold back. I hit her. Hard.” His eyes grew raw. “I fled. What else could I do? You know what it’s like to hurt someone you love? Not just emotionally, with words and shouts, but to physically do it? I couldn’t believe I was capable of it. I hope she’s happy. I know I complain ‘bout her, but sometimes I imagine she’s happy with the baker or the miller. With a man who don’t knock her to the ground. I’m a horrible man, Ōbhin. It festers in me. I keep sayin’ such terrible things ‘bout her. She made me so angry that day, but when I pretend it was her fault and not mine, I don’t drown. It’s hard with Avena bein’ ’round. I keep seein’ Usrella in her face. And now . . .”
He looked on the edge of tears, about to spill his emotion. Ōbhin wanted to do something. He ached for some measure of control. For something he could do. He hadn’t even found out the information they’d been looking for. He’d left Creg . . .
“Come on,” Ōbhin said, resting his hand on Fingers’s shoulder. He squeezed through the jerkin. “I need your help.”
“With?”
A darkness surged through Ōbhin. “Talking with the man who did this. I left him with a severed leg. He can’t have gotten far if he hasn’t bled to death.”
Savagery filled Fingers’s eyes.
“I can come, too.”
Ōbhin stiffened. He hadn’t heard Smiles’s approach. He turned around to see the friendly-looking man. He was a respectable distance away, wearing a padded gambeson. He had no sword but a binder on his hip. A smile grew on his face. Vicious.
“I would love to say a few things to the pus-filled roach that hurt her.” The anger that came from Smiles felt so genuine. For more than fifty days, Ōbhin had yet to find a single slip-up in the thing’s impression of Smiles. No one, not even Jilly, suspected him.
But Ōbhin and Avena had seen Smiles take wounds he shouldn’t have been able to walk away from unscathed. They’d seen his flesh turn white and flow like potter’s clay being molded by unseen hands.
“I need someone I can trust staying here,” Ōbhin said, the lie coming easily. “Fingers is going with me, so who am I going to trust?”
“Cerdyn,” said Smiles. “Even Dajouth might be trustworthy. He adores Avena.”
“Pissant pants after her like a runt wantin’ his turn to suckle at her teat,” muttered Fingers.
“True,” Smiles said, eyes sliding to Ōbhin. “Avena is like my Jilly. She inspires a man to rise and defend her.”
“Please, Smiles, I need to know that she’ll be safe,” Ōbhin said, his stomach curdling. The real Smiles—Phelep, reminded Ōbhin, that was his real name—had been an easy-going and affable man. The sort of person with a ready joke or an ear that listened. Ōbhin hadn’t known him long, and it galled him that he had to pretend with this thing.
But if Ōbhin was correct, the thing worked for Grey and was probably another of Dje’awsa’s creations. It was placed here to protect Dualayn. For now, it was best to watch and not force the Brotherhood to act.
“I’ll stay,” Smiles said. He extended his hand.
Ōbhin gave a firm shake, nodding. “Thank you.” You’re going to pay one day for murdering my friend. “We’ll be back soon.”
*
The march to the house in the Greenlet passed in silence. The two men stalked with a fury that melted the locals out of their path. They were eyed suspiciously by a few of the guards, but many knew them by sight. Guard-Captain Thoph, who commanded the city guard in the nearby neighborhood, had even become friendly, coming around with pies his wife made.
On the porch of a nearby tenement, the Green-Faced Boys nursed broken limbs and sullen looks. None of them said a word. Ōbhin almost wished they did. The darkness inside of him itched for a release. His resonance blade would . . .
He battered down those thoughts. He couldn’t give in to despair just yet. Avena still lived. Lausi’s Hope still harmonized in his soul.
The first floor showed signs of Avena’s battle. Broken cudgels and dropped saps littered it. The disturbance in the dust showed the battle raging through the room. He smiled, a moment of pride resonating within him.
He’d taught her to protect herself. With her earthen gauntlet and binder, she had incapacitated the street thugs.
“Where’d you leave the Black-damned bastard?” Fingers growled.
“Upstairs,” Ōbhin said. He led the way, chainmail rattling. He took the steps two at a time. He passed a crossbow bolt embedded in the wall. He marched down the hallway to the open door. Avena’s binder had come to rest against the wall. Her blood had dried to a small patch of brown.
Ōbhin picked up her rod, turning it in his gloved hand. Then he glanced into the room. A large pool of blood coated the floor, the surface covered in a coagulating film. A browning smear dragged off towards the right and then stopped.
“No,” Ōbhin growled, stepping through the blood to where the trail ended.
“Sword scabbard’s thrown to the side,” Fingers noted, moving in behind him. “He must have used his belt as a tourniquet.”
“And hopped out of here?” demanded Ōbhin.
Frustration boiled out of him. He whirled around and slammed his foot into the corner of the rickety bed. The frame cracked in a splintered groan, the hay-stuffed mattress sagging. An angry thought pounded in his mind over and over: If I’d just let the piece of sword hit my shoulder!
He fought to control himself. He needed answers. He would tear Kash apart to find Creg.
Chapter Six
Anger simmered in Ōbhin after speaking with the sullen Green-Faced Boys.
After stalking out of the house, he confronted a few lounging on the porch of the rickety tenement they occupied, demanding answers.
“Your quim broke half our bones,” complained the biggest one on the porch, his arm in a sling. “Why should we do more than piss on your boots?”
Fingers cracked his knuckles. “You got another arm and two legs that look fine to me. Pity if something happened.”
“Just tell ‘em, Dirk,” a boy muttered, a large bruise running across his bare chest, the center a dark purple. “Elohm’s Colours, wot do we owe that snot-nosed runt?”
“He’s in with the Rangers, that’s wot we owe,” Dirk said. Ōbhin fought not to snort at the pretentious name. “They’ll like to slit our throats if’n we talk.”
The bruised one snorted. “They hauled him out of ‘ere. He looked as white as grave mold. Doubt he’ll live.” He gave Ōbhin an accusatory look. “You hacked his leg off.”
Ōbhin nodded, his hand resting on his blade’s pommel.
“See, gettin’ your bones broke is comin’ off light,” Fingers growled. “If you fought him, you’d all be lyin’ in pieces instead of takin’ your ease.”
“Don’t know where they took him,” said Dirk. He sank back down to the steps. “Just paid to guard him. He was supposed to do somethin’ for the Rangers. I reckon they’ll want to piss on those who messed up their plans.”
If Creg was with the Rangers, then they already knew about Dualayn. This was why he needed to protect the healer and keep him alive. Why had the Rangers sent Creg into town? What mischief was he supposed to cause? Did it matter now that he had his leg cut off? Had Ōbhin accidentally stopped a plot in motion? Maybe then some good would come if Avena recovered.
If . . .
“So, no idea where they hauled him off to?” Ōbhin demanded.
“Probably the Lair.” The bruised one said.
“Ain’t no Lair,” another said, his leg in a splint. Pale vapor spilled from his mouth. His eyes were glazed. He had the look of someone smoking wh
ite dream, one of the narcotics that came out of Tethyr. He brought a pipe to his mouth and took another puff, a look of almost ecstasy crossing his face for a moment.
“It’s a myth,” another said, his teeth stained brown with Tethyrian weed, a root that was chewed to give energy and make you more alert, but it also made you antsy.
More prone to violence.
“They say the Rangers got them a hideout out in the King’s Preserve,” said the bruised one. “Called the Lair. Where they plot all their war with the Brotherhood. Not that they tell us. We’re just supposed to sell their goods ’n keep the bastard Red Lips from sellin’ here.”
“When the Red Lips find out we’re all banged up . . .” Dirk muttered.
“Well, if they took him anywhere, it’s the Lair. Good luck findin’ it. Them Rangers know those woods, they do.”
Ōbhin hoped the Rangers had to bury the rotten man in the forest to the north of the city. He’d never find them in the King’s Preserve. It galled Ōbhin that he couldn’t find the answers he needed. Now the only other member of Ust’s bandits left was Handsome Baill, and he’d vanished into the murky organization of the Brotherhood. Ōbhin itched to find him, too. He was the man who’d assassinated the last high refractor, the leader of Elohm’s Church, and started off the current plague of riots that broke out every few days.
Ōbhin would scour the city, but he was one man. Kash was the largest city on the Arngelsh Isles, one of the biggest in the world. It dwarfed anything in Ōbhin’s mountainous home of Qoth. Perhaps only the capital of the Democh Empire could rival Kash in size. The slums around it swelled with Tethyrian immigrants, poor factory workers, and farmers looking for work. The last was crushed by the new taxes, forcing them to sell off their land to men in favor with the Crown.