“Momma?” she called out in a confused voice. And then, “Momma!”
The girl leaped off the porch and began to run. Arla broke into a sprint. “Lael! My Lael!”
They met each other and instantly gathered each other into a tight embrace filled with laughter and smiles and kisses. Brommel almost felt as if he should look away, as if this moment was too private for his eyes.
But then a second figure appeared on the porch, a wiry man with uncombed hair and an unshaven chin. Silas Sotherby, Arla’s husband. Gone were the dark circles from his eyes and the gaunt look of illness. He was thicker now, healthier, stronger.
When he saw his wife and daughter, darkness swept over his face. He started down the porch steps and strode toward them.
“Get away from her!” he shouted. “Get away!”
Arla looked up. “Silas,” she said. “It’s me. Arla. I’m back from the mine. Our debt is paid.”
But Silas seemed not to hear her. He scowled as he grabbed Lael by the arm, yanking her out of her mother’s embrace.
Arla reach for her again, confused by Silas’ actions. But Silas whipped out a knife with a long, deadly-looking blade.
Brommel reached for his own dagger, prepared to use it if he had to.
“What are you doing?” asked Arla. “Silas, I’ve come home.”
“This isn’t your home,” spat Silas. “You haven’t got any home. Not here.”
Lael began to cry, her arm wedged in her father’s grip. “Papa, please let me go. Please.”
Silas shook the girl. “Shut up!” he shouted. The girl’s cries silenced to a whimper.
“You gave up your rights to your child, to this farm, when you left—with him!”
Silas pointed the knife in Brommel’s direction.
“What?” said Arla in disbelief.
“I petitioned the council for full custody. I told them how you left me, how you abandoned the girl.”
“What are you talking about, Silas? I took your place in the mine. That’s why I left, because you were ill. I took your place.”
“You left of your own accord, and the council struck your name from the village scrolls. You no longer exist here, woman. You haven’t a name. You haven’t a farm or a husband. And you haven’t got a child.”
Silas turned his back to her and began dragging Lael back toward the house. The girl resisted and managed to pull free, but as she began to run back to her mother, the man grabbed her around the waist.
The girl wailed. “Momma! Momma!”
Arla sprung forward and took hold of Lael’s arms. “Put her down!” she screamed. “I want my daughter!”
It was a horrible sight, but Brommel’s gut told him not to interfere. Not yet.
Silas spun around. The girl, still clutched in one of his arms, wriggled and kicked and cried. But then in a swift motion, Silas laid the tip of the dagger against the girl’s throat. The girl instantly went still.
Arla froze.
“Go to the council,” said Silas. “If they agree to hear you out, to put your name back on their scrolls, then you can come and take the girl. But until then, the child stays here with me.”
“No. No!” Arla cried, beating her fists against her thighs.
Brommel took hold of one of her arms, and she instantly curled into him, weeping. He kept his own dagger poised, in case Silas tried something stupid, but there was no point threatening the man. He didn’t want to risk Lael being injured.
“Come on,” Brommel told Arla. “We’ll go to the council. We’ll explain what happened.”
“No,” Arla cried furiously. “No, I can’t leave again.”
“You have no choice, Arla. Do you want Lael to get hurt?”
Arla, her face wet with tears, shook her head.
“That’s right,” said Silas, the dagger still at his daughter’s throat. “Listen to the man. You listened to him before. Go talk to the council. Plead with them. Beg them to give your daughter back to you. But don’t get your hopes up too high. I’m a big man in the village these days, you know. And who will they believe? Me, or the woman who disappeared with some stranger months ago?”
Silas laughed, and as Arla and Brommel turned away and began what would prove the most arduous stretch of their journey, his voice followed after them like a predator.
Brommel dared not look back, gently urging Arla forward. She felt so frail in his arms now, as if her legs might give way. He had to keep her moving. They had to reach the council. Little did either of them know how futile the journey would be.
28
The storm had begun with little warning. Lightning burst in the distance, momentarily illuminating the sky. Through the forest’s branches overhead, Erland thought the brief fragments of light looked like the candles that once burned in the church of his childhood. As he urged his horse faster, cold daggers of rain sliced into his skin, soaking his clothes. When he was a boy, his mother and father had taken him to the meager chapel in his village to worship. He would kneel between them as his mother lit a candle alongside so many others.
“Ask the Gods to protect your brother,” she would say. “Ask them to bring him home.”
His older brother was a soldier in the early days of the Vatéz, when they were at war with the borderlands. The Gods, however, had not heard Erland’s prayers. For many years, Erland refused to pray again. When he himself became a soldier, he thought only of his brother, of the sacrifice he had made for the Vatéz, and he vowed to do the same. But the Gods seemed to smile upon Erland. Unlike his brother, he lived. How was that fair?
It wasn’t until he’d transferred to Auseret and found the abandoned chapel that the teachings of his childhood came back to him. Not that he prayed there. He didn’t. He simply preferred the solitude. But now, his horse galloping through the cold, wet night, Erland turned to the Gods of his childhood for help.
“Please,” he begged over and over. “Please let her live through this.”
Despite the rain, Erland saw the orange glow of fire ahead and smelled the sharp tang of destruction in the air. By the time he reached the road to the latest village on Arik’s list, the deed had been done. The Vatéz soldiers moved wearily homeward, their uniforms drenched in blood. It should have been him leading the men here tonight, but Arik, who had taken a liking to such things, had wanted to go himself. He’d left Erland in charge at Auseret.
Erland dismounted and ran down the line of exhausted soldiers. In the distance behind them, the horizon glowed a deep orange.
He found Arik near the rear of the company staring at the fire. Erland approached, trying to catch his breath, and noted how Arik’s eyes mirrored the flames as if were burning inside him. The image made Erland shudder.
“My Lord,” said Erland.
Arik’s gaze remained fixed on the burning faraway blaze. “It’s astounding, isn’t it?” he replied in an awed whisper. “How life struggles to hold on. They beg for mercy, some of them, plead to be spared. Then when the blade cuts them, their expressions are always surprised, as if death has played a trick on them they never expected.”
Erland glanced down and noted the sword in Arik’s hand. It was red with blood.
Arik continued. “And the fire. Fire is life, Erland,” said Arik, his voice getting louder. “See how it dances? Fire is the souls of the dead, I’m sure of it. Those people, those traitors to the Vatéz, their souls have not ceased to exist. They have simply transformed into that.” He raised his hand and pointed a finger in the direction of the flames, which were now shrinking from the storm. Soon, Erland realized, it would burn itself out.
“My Lord,” Erland said again. “You need to hurry. You must come with me.”
Arik finally broke his gaze and turned his eyes upon Erland as if noticing him for the first time. “What is it?” he said, frowning.
Fear swelled in Erland’s chest. For half a second, he considered making up some excuse for his sudden appearance. He could return to Auseret without Arik. He could retu
rn and—
Erland shook the thought out of his mind. He was loyal to the Vatéz. He would not dishonor his brother’s memory with such treasonous thoughts.
Arik, narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “You rode all the way here to find me,” he barked angrily. “What do you want?”
“It’s your sister,” said Erland finally. “Ivanore is having her baby.”
29
Thunder shook Auseret castle and rain hammered into it as if the storm were an army beating against its walls. Except for the occasional flash of lightening, the only light in Ivanore’s room was an oil lamp held aloft by a young kitchen maid with fearful eyes.
“Higher!” hissed the midwife, a fleshy woman of advancing years, her sleeves rolled to her elbows as she leaned forward between Ivanore’s knees.
“It’s nearly here,” she said, matter-of-factly. She had birthed dozens of babies in the neighboring villages, and this one wasn’t anything special in her mind, except that the child being born might very well be the heir to all of Hestoria. Ivanore was Minister Arik’s sister, after all, and Arik had no wife. No child of his own.
Ivanore didn’t care about any of that. As her body seized against yet another onslaught of pain, the midwife gently rubbed the mother-to-be’s belly.
“It’s time to push,” said the woman. “Come on now, dearie. You can do this.”
Ivanore pushed. And grunted. And at last the strong, angry wail of a baby broke through the night.
“There she is now, love,” said the midwife, wiping the newborn clean with a warm, damp cloth. “She’s come a bit early, but she seems healthy enough.”
The cry of her baby prompted Ivanore to open her eyes, which she had kept determinedly closed against the pain for hours now. She was weak and soaked with perspiration, but now that it was over, a sense of relief, of pleasure, consumed her completely.
“Let me see her, please,” said Ivanore, reaching for the child, now swaddled in a blanket and resting peacefully in the midwife’s arms.
The midwife raised her eyes to Ivanore’s, their expression one of apology.
“Give her to me,” Ivanore asked again. She longed to hold her new daughter in her arms. It had been so long since she’d held a baby of her own. Her boys, whom she had left behind on Imaness, would be five and six years old now.
The midwife glanced at the baby with tenderness and sorrow. Seeing the woman gaze at her child this way sent a terrible fear through Ivanore.
“I’m sorry, love,” said the midwife at last. “You’ll hold her soon, I promise. But I’ve got my orders. You are not to be the first.”
“Not the first? To see my own baby? What are you talking about?”
The door to the room opened then. Ivanore, the midwife, the kitchen maid—all eyes turned to see who had entered.
Erland stepped through the door, his hair and clothes drenched with rain. The moment his eyes fell on Ivanore, he breathed out heavily in relief. He’d been worried about her, Ivanore realized, but she didn’t care. With the pains of the afterbirth still burning in her belly, all she wanted was her child—and to be left alone. But this was not to be.
Arik strode in behind Erland wearing a black ankle-length cloak beaded with myriad droplets of water. His red hair was wet and plastered against his head.
“I returned the moment I received word,” he said not to Ivanore but to the midwife. “Have you followed the instructions I left for you?”
The midwife glanced to Ivanore and then lowered her gaze. “Yes, my Lord. Here is the child. It is a girl, my Lord.”
As the midwife gently laid the baby into Arik’s waiting arms, Ivanore understood. Arik had demanded he be the first to hold her child. He had specifically requested that Ivanore not be allowed to take her before he arrived. It was yet another attempt to control her, to remind her that she was bound to his care. Watching her brother, the Minister of all Hestoria, Ivanore felt a heavy weight descend on her.
“You will find your payment waiting for you at the door,” Arik instructed the woman. “You may go. All of you,” he added, cutting a telling glance at Erland. “Leave the lantern.”
The midwife and her assistant scurried out the door. Erland lingered a moment longer. He looked at the child in Arik’s arms and then at Ivanore.
He could say something, thought Ivanore. Arik would listen to him.
But Erland remained silent. Finally, he turned away from her and left the room.
Once Ivanore and Arik were alone, Arik began to pace the room, gently rocking the child and cooing to her. “I am your uncle,” he told her. “No one in all the world loves you more than I do, little one. You will be the princess of Hestoria and the heir to the throne of Imaness, once I have procured it.”
Ivanore bristled. If she had had the strength to do so, she would have gotten out of bed and taken her child from Arik. But giving birth had sapped her strength, and now her brother’s words sapped her will.
“Please, Arik,” Ivanore could barely muster a whisper. “Please let me have her.”
“Have you chosen a name?” asked Arik, ignoring his sister’s request. “I promised you could choose her name.”
“Orissa,” said Ivanore.
Arik nodded in approval. “Our mother’s name. Fitting. The name of a queen for that of a princess.” He shifted the now sleeping baby to one arm and lifted the lantern with the other and started for the door. The shadows slid across the room like ghosts.
Ivanore tried one last time. “Arik, please. I have to feed her. She needs me.”
Arik paused and looked at Ivanore. “I’ve hired a wet nurse for the child. No need to exert yourself, Ivy. And be rest assured, Orissa will want for nothing as long as I am living. And you,” his voice took on a pleased edge, “and you, Ivy. The doors are open to you. You may leave whenever you wish.” Arik grinned with satisfied pleasure. “Ivanore, you are finally free.”
With that, Arik carried the baby and the lantern through the door and closed it behind him, leaving Ivanore in darkness.
As she lay there, the wind and storm beating against her window, Ivanore waited for the click of the lock. But it never came. Arik was true to his word. She was free.
Ivanore began to weep like she’d never wept before, for she knew that she would never leave, not without her daughter. She was more fettered now than she ever had been before.
Epilogue
Jayson crouched in the back of Teak’s wagon, careful to keep the top of his head low. With a blanket draped over him, he could peer out over the rail to look up the road. The wagon had been parked horizontally across it. One side of the road sloped steeply up a tree-laden hill. The other side sloped down into a river. The area was dotted with large boulders and thick evergreen trees. Twenty miles south of the wagon lay the seaside city of Nauvet-Carum and the capital of the Vatéz government. Five miles north were a cluster of small farming villages.
It was well known that this road was commonly traveled by merchant, farmer, and soldier alike. But today no local merchants or farmers would be on it. Word had spread to stay clear, and so far there had been no sign of a living soul since Jayson had first taken his place that morning.
Far off in the distance, thunder cracked, heralding the summer storm. It had been a productive spring season. Crops had been planted, and farms looked forward to a plentiful harvest later in the year.
During the months he’d been with Teak, Jayson had spent countless long hours thinking about the Vatéz and those who had died at their hands. Teak and Dianis had spent those same months tracking down as many Guardians and Guardian sympathizers as they could, traveling from village to village with donated supplies and weapons. By early summer Teak’s home had become the central gathering place for anyone interested in joining the resistance.
What was the resistance?
Jayson still wasn’t sure. He only knew that everyone involved had one thing in common: hatred of the Vatéz.
With his highly attuned Agoran senses, Jayson hear
d the approaching garrison long before they appeared on the horizon. Fifty soldiers strong, the men marched behind their commander, who rode horseback. Jayson could tell by the soldiers’ lax postures and how they were out of step with one another that they had likely been marching for hours and were tired. Night was coming on, which meant they would likely stop soon to camp, and Jayson’s men were ready for it.
Where they were heading Jayson could only guess. They might be on a routine scouting mission. The Vatéz armies frequently conducted such maneuvers to keep their power in the hearts and minds of the people at all times. Then again, they might be heading for one of the local villages. Few attacks had occurred since Monte-Valle, but that didn’t matter. Jayson wasn’t interested in simply preventing future attacks. Revenge was enough for him.
When the garrison’s commander spotted the wagon, he called to some of his men to move it. The rest of the soldiers came to a halt. Jayson could see them slouching, some leaning on their swords, their tips in the ground. A few actually sat down.
That was when Jayson pulled off the blanket and stood up.
He had no weapon, and he wore nothing but his trousers so that his chest and arms were fully bare.
The commander gawked at him. “Move your wagon,” he shouted. “You’re blocking the road.”
Jayson did not respond but remained still, his hands clenched into fists at his side. The commander clucked, and his horse trotted closer.
“I said, move this wagon.”
When Jayson failed to do so, the commander shouted at his men. “Take him!”
The men drew their swords and darted forward, but Jayson was ready for them. In a flash, he unclenched his fists and leapt from the wagon, slashing at one soldier with his Agoran claws and then the other. Both men dropped to the ground, their throats hacked open.
Jayson straightened and focused on the commander. “Ashlin,” he said.
When the commander’s eyes met Jayson’s, his expression paled. “It’s you,” he whispered hoarsely. “The one with eyes like a cat. The half-breed!”
The Crystal Keeper BoxSet Page 31