The Broken Realm

by Sarah M. Cradit

  “And then?” Christian prodded.

  “And then…” Alric closed his eyes, inhaling a breath of icy air. “And then I crawled back the direction I’d come from, and the desert was replaced by the familiar pierce of the icy snow. I turned and could no longer see the white sand or the tree with fruit like oranges. There was nothing at all, except the shock of cold and the smell of my blood, which had settled into the snow nearby. The bear was gone, as was my horse, but the pony who’d traveled with me, carrying my supplies, he’d waited for me.” Alric smiled at the old beast. “Imagine he doesn’t have too many years left. He deserves a hero’s send off, when his time comes.”

  “You said you returned later and couldn’t find where you’d crossed over.”

  Alric ran his hands down the mule’s mangy pelt. “I walked all over that area by the tree. I camped beneath it. I begged the Guardians to show me once more what they’d shown me before, but I could never do it again. And so no one believed me.” He pointed at his foot. “But that bear would’ve killed me dead, spent my promise in the next few seconds, had I not crawled into the desert of another world, Christian. That I know. Maybe the Guardians sensed Pieter would die if he remained where he was and did the same for him. It would all be a guess, with so little I know. How many other men have been lost in the pass, never to be recovered? Is it coincidence? Who could know? But I know what happened to me. And I’m all but certain it happened to your brother.”

  Christian nodded, letting his thoughts wander as he absorbed all his uncle had said. He’d keep this conversation to himself, for now. It was probably nothing. It might be something.

  But if he could keep his mother from losing yet another son, he’d not dismiss the possibility that Alric Dereham had, once upon a time, stepped into another world and returned to tell the tale.

  23

  Half-Truths

  Kian led Lisbet through the forest, taking a path that was now so recognizable that she didn’t need an escort, despite that she’d never be allowed without one. She’d come to think of this place as home, in a way. The vivid emeralds and sapphires of the forest, that once reminded her she was far from where she should be, had become familiar and welcome, a relief from her tempestuous emotions. Even these daily jaunts through the trees and undergrowth gave her a sense of routine, something she hadn’t realized she’d missed until she had it again.

  She was happy she hadn’t been escorted by Kael since the early days. Despite the terrible dressing down she’d witnessed Kian give Eavan when they arrived, she thought of Kian as light, and Kael as darkness. It wasn’t that simple. She knew that. Nothing was. But where she was intrigued by Kian, she was afraid of Kael, and her mother had taught her to always trust in her senses when it came to others, for they were given these warnings for a reason.

  But even Kian hadn’t come for her for almost a fortnight. Not since Yseult had pulled something new and strange from Lisbet.

  Until today.

  They entered the same hut where they’d taken Lisbet after she’d passed out, but Yseult wasn’t inside, and neither was Kael. Kian gestured for Lisbet to sit. She pulled herself atop the platform they’d laid her on that day, that now, with fresh eyes, resembled an altar more than a table. Kian eased himself into his mother’s seat across the small room.

  “Where is Yseult?”

  “Have you considered what you saw in here?”

  “Is she coming?”

  “Have there been further visions?”

  “I want to talk to your mother.”

  “She has sent me to continue your instruction.”

  “My instruction.” Lisbet frowned. “Where is she? Did something happen?”

  A small crack appeared in Kian’s resolve, and she could see he would answer her questions, if she kept at him. He was not his mother. Not yet. “She is unwell. Tell me about the past few days, Lisbet.”

  “Unwell? She’s sick?” Lisbet’s heart sank. Yseult had seemed off, but Lisbet assumed this to be weariness born of the current circumstances facing the Medvedev, of knowing she must prepare to lead her people to war to help the Saleen.

  Kian stared forward. He looked past her. “You knew better than to ask questions of my mother. Yet you ask them of me.”

  “She’s not here, or I would be asking her questions, too. After the last time you brought me here, I deserve answers. What happened to me then? When you brought me here?”

  “You are awakening, with the rest of the kingdom, as my mother told you.”

  “You say this to me, knowing it confuses me, knowing I will not understand.”

  Kian drew his lips in a tight line. His familiar peeked into the hut and then returned to flight. “My mother’s wellness is linked to our people. She has been fading since the sorcerer enslaved the Saleen. Her recovery is tied to the resolution of this matter.”

  “And how will the matter be resolved, Kian? My brother speaks of going to war. Valen says the Medvedev must unite now, in spite of their differences. Is that your plan? To fight? Is that why you brought us here? To join you?”

  “I will be taking over your instruction,” Kian said again. His voice dropped an octave, an attempt at authority. “And the only questions now will be mine. Have you experienced further visions?”

  Lisbet watched him closely. He was very serious, but there was a kindness beneath the surface that he couldn’t completely shield. She wondered how much he’d changed since Eavan had loved him, years before, whether he was the same Kian or someone new. He was the eldest, so it seemed reasonable he was trained to be his mother’s replacement one day, something further supported by him being here now with her, but she didn’t know how long they lived, and how they passed the mantle of power down through their people. And if Yseult truly was sick, did that mean she was dying? “No,” she said. “I have not.” She folded her hands over her lap, wringing them until her fingers were a pale white. “The truth is, I’m afraid to be alone when it happens.”

  “Why are you afraid?”

  “Of course you wouldn’t understand. You’ve had these gifts all your life.”

  “You think we do not have to work for our gifts?”

  “I think you don’t keep your truths from each other.”

  Kian stretched his arm out. His familiar soared into the hut, landing in the middle of his forearm. “You want truth. We are all linked. To our familiars. To one another. You want to know about Mother being unwell. She has chosen to sever one of these links so that we do not experience her pain, our pain, the pain of the Saleen. This is the truth of our gifts. My mother is dying to give us life.”

  Lisbet swallowed a gasp. “Is she… will she truly die, Kian? Do you mean that?”

  “Time,” Kian replied. He slipped into a parlance more natural for him. “Cannot know. Time. Runs. Reveals.” He frowned, as if realizing he’d slipped into his natural way of speaking. “That is enough for today.”

  “We only just started!”

  “That is your lack of patience speaking, Lisbet. Nothing more.”

  “You did this to me. And now you leave me dangling in the dark, confused and alone.”

  “There is no blame to be found, only the inevitable outcome you find yourself dangling in, as you say. Did you know Eavan is carrying the child of one of the men who harmed her?”

  Lisbet paled. Her mouth, ready to rebut anything but this, closed. “What?”

  “She keeps this from you. You could know this, if you were not afraid of what you are awakening to. This is not the only secret in your circle.” Kian stood. “Your brother will be gone when you return.”

  Lisbet stumbled as she dropped off the altar. Her mind was still gathering around Eavan’s truth, which put a sharp and terrible end at an already horrific experience. And now he’d dropped another revelation on her? “What do you mean, gone?”

  Kian didn’t answer. He gestured toward the door. “If you had quarrels with him, they will remain so.”

  “Kian! I’m not going any
where until you explain what you mean!”

  He closed his eyes. She felt the air around her change as she was spurred to action, summoned forward.

  “All right!” Lisbet cried. He released her from the magic. “But I don’t understand you, or your mother. I don’t understand why you speak in riddles, and half-truths.”

  “You are still awakening,” Kian said, moving aside so she could exit ahead of him. “Your full truths would destroy you to see them now.”

  * * *

  “Jesse Strong, right? Hamish’s son?”

  Jesse finished tightening the saddle on his horse and turned toward the sound of an unfamiliar voice. The face he recognized, though he didn’t know the man behind it. He’d come in with Khallum and the others from the Southerlands, though was clearly no Southerlander himself.

  The stranger held his hand out and Jesse took it, still sizing him up. “Aye. And you are?”

  “Godfrey,” the man said. He didn’t offer a family name. As he stepped closer, the moonlight illuminating his face, Jesse could see he was not much older than he was.

  “You know my father?”

  “We were recently acquainted. He’s a good man.”

  “Everyone says as much,” Jesse replied. No, not a Southerlander, but he wasn’t a man of the Westerlands, either. He sounded both from everywhere and nowhere. “Where did you meet him?”

  Godfrey hesitated in his answer. He glanced back toward the Mule. “At the bedside of his son, who has recently returned from Camp Atonement.”

  The blood drained away from Jesse’s face and hands. “Ryan? You saw my brother?”

  Godfrey nodded. He again looked behind him. He seemed anxious. “Jesse, Lord Warwick may have told you that Ryan is poorly at the moment. That he’s not expected to make it.” He stepped closer and leaned in to whisper, “But you and I both know he has every reason to live.”

  Jesse searched for a response, but was struck dumb. This man, this stranger, could not have made the implication it seemed he was making.

  “Aye! Godfrey! Horses are ready!” Rutland called from several yards away.

  “Tell me what you mean by that,” Jesse said, afraid to follow, afraid not to. “Who are you?”

  Godfrey tipped an invisible hat, smiled, and went to join the others.

  * * *

  Drystan had waited until Lisbet was gone with Kian and Eavan, off with the younger girls to collect food for their morning meal. He’d already said too much. He never should have told them he was going to fight for Yseult. All that had done was invoke those long, heavy looks of concern, followed by sighs. He knew the sighs well. He’d heard them all his life. Guardians bless the boy, came alongside the sound, more than enough for him to understand what was meant.

  They surely thought they were protecting him. The reactions were born of love. But they didn’t know what it was like to be him, to have been raised with everyone around you knowing you were such a sweet boy, but nothing more. Nothing useful. Possessed of none of the qualities needed for the life of service awaiting him. He heard these things often enough to begin believing them, until they became more than facts. They were facets of his identity.

  His time in the Hinterlands hadn’t felt like prison. Not really. He didn’t say this to the others, not even Valen, but for once he understood what was meant by the word freedom. He thought he’d found it in his dangerous love for Ravenna, but he was beginning to understand what she must have when she left them. He’d simply needed to leave, to be free of the people and ideals tethering, in order to know who he was. It was not who they all thought him to be. He knew that much.

  He also wasn’t who he was when he’d left Wulfsgate. This was not some philosophical transition born of his journey, but something else entirely. It started nearly a fortnight ago, when he’d felt as if something had been birthed within him. Even if he’d wanted to share it, the others would have thought him completely mad!

  He first knew he wasn’t imagining it when his knife fell in the rapids of the river, and he thought he’d lost it forever. But then, he looked to his left, on the riverbank, and there it again was. Not lost. Dry. Ready for use.

  He’d thought maybe he was tired. Valen had him rising with the sun, which he was used to, but he was thrust directly into action upon waking, with no time to adjust to the morning. There was always work to do. Drystan thought Valen was just trying to keep himself busy so his mind didn’t linger too long on what had happened to them, but he did as the older man asked.

  Later that same day, he’d seen Gabi trip over a log. He heard the snap before he saw her ankle, pointing in the complete opposite direction than it should. He dreaded having to ask any of the Medvedev to see to it, and, just for fun, just to see if he could, Drystan laid his hands on the howling girl and in his mind he saw her healed.

  Gabi had stopped howling. Her screams faded to a confused whisper. She pulled her leg away from him, now fully healed, and ran off before he could ask her if she was okay. When he tried to talk to her about it later, she pretended not to know what he meant.

  That had been the catalyst. The moment he knew he’d come here for a reason. It wasn’t to wither away as a prisoner of the Medvedev, but to find within him the power to aid them. His mother always said the Medvedev had no need of men, and Valen had repeated this very same thing, but it was now men who had hurt them, and it was up to men, the good men, to undo this hurt.

  He’d misjudged things. The Medvedev weren’t going to war. They were waiting for him, and perhaps others, men, brave men, awakened men, to solve this.

  Drystan ran deeper into the forest. He wished he had his horse, but he had a strong feeling that if he stopped to ask the Medvedev for anything, the spell would be broken. He had to do this on his own, with his own feet carrying him, and the weapons he was capable of bearing. It wasn’t weapons he’d need when he got to Whitechurch, though. These he brought only for the purpose of securing his meals, so he could keep his strength for the task ahead.

  “Drystan!” Valen called from behind him. How long had he been there? He hadn’t sensed him at all.

  Drystan slowed, but didn’t stop. “Leave me alone, Valen!”

  Valen caught up to him and wrestled his arm until Drystan stopped. He was stronger and faster, despite being twice his age. But Drystan had something he didn’t. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “I’m leaving.”

  Valen laughed. “Leaving.”

  “You can laugh long after I’m gone.”

  Valen reached a hand to check Drystan’s forehead and cheeks. “You know we cannot leave. Nothing has changed. What’s gotten into you?”

  Drystan recoiled at his touch. “Everything has changed.”

  Valen dropped his hands away. He watched him, a dozen thoughts passing over his eyes as he did. “Some days past. That’s what you mean.”

  Drystan’s ire eased. “Do you mean... you noticed the change, too?”

  Valen nodded. “And I believe Lisbet did as well. Remember when she collapsed?”

  “Yeah.”

  “She saw something. A vision. She wouldn’t tell me, of course, you know Lisbet. But then she asked me something, something she had no reason to know.”

  “What did she ask you?”

  “She asked me about the four sorcerers.”

  “The who?”

  Valen shook his head. “It’s as we talked about, the Rhiagain sorcerers... I told her I don’t know much about them, only what’s been rumored. She was angry at me, she thought I was holding back, but I would have told her what she wanted to know if I had the answers.” His gaze grew more intense. “Tell me what changed for you.”

  “You first.”

  “All right, then. Little things, mostly. The air warming when I feel a chill. A fresh energy rippling through me when I’ve noted that I’m tired. Do you remember when it stopped raining abruptly the other day? I had just thought to myself how inconvenient the rain was when we needed to hunt and, though it h
ad been pouring for hours, the rain cleared in an instant, the sun broke through the clouds. There were other things, too. By themselves, I would’ve thought little of them, but together, they’re harder to ignore. Something has changed for me, and it seems for you and Lisbet as well.”

  Drystan shifted his bow to the other arm. He remembered its heft now that his excitement had died away. The pull of his sword at his waist was almost unbearable. He didn’t want to feel this; it was akin to how he’d felt his whole life, as if he wasn’t enough for what was required.

  “I have to go,” Drystan said. “And you’re wrong. We can leave. I know it, and I will prove it when I pass beyond the barrier.”

  Valen slowly nodded. “Very well. Then I’m coming.”

  “I haven’t even told you where I’m going!”

  “It doesn’t matter to me. You’re my son. You could tell me you meant to swim to the Beyond and I’d be right by your side, fools or no.”

  Drystan narrowed his eyes. “You say you’re my father. The trouble is, I’ll never know if you speak true, Valen.”