by J. E. Holmes
“On the fourth darkened day, fear came. The people spoke of omens, of a terrible plague, of a curse that came for them in the night. The Masters of Attenia denied these rumors, none more fiercely than Cadex, who cut the tongues of anyone who predicted his downfall. Even with cut tongues, the people murmured and whispered one word: Desolation.”
—The Chronicle of Tyrants, ed. vii
The wind came first in sharp gusts that swirled through the trees. It blew Ediline’s cloak sideways and tossed the hood off her head more than once. Her nose was cold, and her new haircut left her ears bare to the wind. The jungle was darker, quieter, and wetter, but she kept from tripping on snagroot and kept going.
Kuo and Wulfgar trailed behind her, but she didn’t catch Wien or Javras. Their tracks were fresh in the mud and easy to follow. It was sickening to thank Straad for the jungler training after what he’d done. After what she’d done to him. When she closed her eyes sometimes she still saw him dying on top of her, that look of approval on his face instead of a grimace of death.
But she gritted her teeth and pushed it behind her. That atrocity and all others were the reasons she was doing this. Killing Straad might have stalled the march, but if she didn’t get to Sladt, this wouldn’t stop. More people would die. Too many.
The clear-rain came next. Heavy drops falling, pounding leaves and branches. Ediline’s cloak kept her mostly dry, except for her face and the arm holding down her hood.
Wien was right—even before sunset the wind and the rain made visibility low. Yet her heart still pounded with the thought of the dark-rain. What would happen when it fell? Would Isbeil hide away, or would she venture out to collect samples? Would Remer sneak out into it? And would the shadow-creature show itself again? Despite the fact that she had killed it, somehow Ediline felt it would. It was as if it was prowling beside her at this moment, but she couldn’t see it because of the light, couldn’t hear it because of the sound.
Despite everything else, Ediline knew where she would go first if she got to Sladt.
No, not if. When.
Before the lights came into view ahead, just at sunset, she saw Wien and Javras lurk at the edge of the jungle. Her heart squirmed and lurched. She could hear the roar of the Rodiv over the pound of the rain, and she could see the tangletree at the edge of the road, past the last bridge.
“Keep your hand on the sword,” Javras told her.
“I’m not going to be taken by surprise,” she said, “and I’m not going to be tricked. I’m not going to be ambushed, and I’m not going to be overpowered. Don’t tell me what to do.” But she didn’t want to touch it. Resting at her hip was much better. That was its proper place. If she needed to, could she draw it? Could she wield it again? Maybe her hand would go to Wulfgar’s knife first, and she would be dead before she could regret the decision.
“Ediline,” Javras said.
“Sorry,” she said. “That was rude.”
“You’re nervous.”
“Nothing like a homecoming. Do you think they missed me?”
“Now is not the time for humor.”
“Always is the time for humor,” Wulfgar said, coming up behind her.“What was joke?”
“I was being dry and sarcastic,” Ediline said.
“Ah,” Wulfgar said. “I like wet and obvious humor.” He chuckled, though there was a lacking to it. Maybe he was nervous, too. If seasoned fighters like Wulfgar still got nervous, then maybe Ediline could do this. Lords, she just hoped she wouldn’t have to fight anyone.
“They will kill her if they see her—any of us,” Javras snapped. “Humor is—”
“Humor keeps nerves loose and muscles relaxed, young Javras,” Wulfgar said. “I am knowing what I am doing. In this, I do not need orders, either.”
Javras scowled but said nothing.
“How long should we wait?” Ediline asked Wien. Part of her wanted to go now. The other part of her wanted another moment of waiting, and another more, before diving into this.
Wien looked skyward, then out over the trees to the west, at the oncoming storm. The sky was an endless stretch of black darkness. Out there, Ediline could almost hear the Everquiet, the hum of that wall of silence, distant yet close.
“We should go now, Princess,” Wien said. “Sladt is at the center. Our going will be slow, if things go well. Will people stay inside?”
“A potential dark-storm?” Ediline said with a humorless laugh. “There will still be a guard on patrol, but I doubt they’ll be very mobile. Only the reckless or stupid would be out on the bridges tonight.”
“It is lucky we are both!” Wulfgar exclaimed. He stepped forward from the line of trees. In the pink-orange light of the setting sun, Ediline saw the glint of his sheathed knives. His hands hovering near his sides, ready to draw them.
“Excuse me,” Kuo said. He’d been so silent, she’d forgotten to notice him. “What is the plan?”
“Get the Princess to the manor,” Wien said. “Carve a path to the King.”
Ediline shivered at the way Wien said carve.
“And then?”
“Diplomacy first,” Javras said. He stretched his arms over his head. “If that fails, we will proceed to less favorable means of persuasion.”
Lords, could she threaten her brother? Could she even stand by while someone else did? And, though she had forced herself not to realize it yet, she had to confront the fact that Ancil might be killed tonight. It wasn’t just the five of them that might die—many other lives were at risk as well. She didn’t want to be on the side that killed. It wasn’t the right way to do this.
“Wien, Wulfgar, Javras,” she said. She had to tell them. They had to understand. “If it is at all possible, do not kill anyone.”
Wulfgar, ahead, half-turned. “I am good at wounding.”
“I understand, Princess,” Wien said.
“Ediline,” Javras said, “you cannot let your affections persuade you.”
“I can’t not.”
“These people have mistreated you all your life.” His tone was harsh.
“Not . . . not all of them. Not all the time.” Not just Ancil and Isbeil, but Thule and Geltir and the guard who had given her the necklace, and many many others who didn’t deserve to die. Her eyes dropped to the gold and black scabbard at her side, to the hilt darker than the night. Using the sword was the last thing she wanted to do. “I am not against using force. I understand that we will do what we must in order to survive . . . .”
The fight continued to run in her mind. In Tailiet, she’d been so consumed by rage she had done something she regretted. Not just the accidental deaths of the dozen of Straad’s soldiers—she tried and failed to simply blame that on the bloodsword—but the death of Straad as well. In the moment, she had so badly wanted to kill him. Wanted to do it. And it made her hate herself now. There was no undoing that action. Straad had made her ruthless. But maybe she could unmake that part of herself.
“But?” Javras prompted, his arms folded.
“But when we succeed, if we are going to convince anyone else in Lanen that Tithelk regrets its violence and does not want to conquer, it will be a boon that we stopped this war without bloodshed.” Her eyes fell again to the sword. “I want this sword to go thirsty.”
Javras followed Wulfgar. He had to see the validity of her point. She’d rooted it in a political advantage, in terms of longterm peacekeeping. But he could still just stubbornly say nothing and walk away, and she couldn’t stop him.
“Besides,” she said, even though she knew he couldn’t hear her, “we don’t want our doctor here to have no one to mend.”
Wulfgar let out a laugh, hearing her even at a distance.
Wien waved her along. “Princess, Doctor, we should go.”
“I know the best paths to Sladt,” Ediline said. Her feet fell on familiar ground for the first time in weeks. Yet everything was different. It felt like seasons ago that she and Javras had fallen off that tree. “I should lead.”
Wulfgar bowed. “I follow the princess.”
Ediline’s stomach was a jumble until her boot touched the slick boards of the first Korv bridge. At that contact, at the sole of her boot slipping predictably, when she knew just how to pivot, where to reach for the rope at the side of the bridge, her nervousness snapped away from her. She fell deep into focus. This city was hers. Like an emblem, she felt its pull on her, the tug of familiarity, of two like things.
The bridge swayed in the wind, but she strode without need for a handhold. In the distance, she saw the glow that was greater than the rest, and she headed toward it.
Toward her home.
The going was deliberate and careful. Ediline led them on the lowest, least-used bridges, which pitched and creaked less in the wind. Wulfgar kept an eye out for guards on patrol. So far, they hadn’t been spotted, and the dark-rain that threatened from the utterly black clouds above did not yet fall. Ediline could feel it, though, and the Everquiet with it.
It was hours after sunset when they came to the gate of Sladt. The wind howled, and the rain fell in dense sheets. The patrol was predictably light, but still Ediline couldn’t believe her luck. Maybe Kuo and Javras had been right about her—she did have a lucky streak following her.
Ediline felt so small standing before the gate, beyond it the grand door to the main hall—her favorite door and her favorite part of the manor. She had always felt insignificant in this place. Less. Weak. To be pitied at the very most. All that feeling came rushing back to her, standing here.
But she had to ignore it. She had somewhere she needed to be.
“Why are there no guards at the gate?” Kuo said. “That seems foolish.”
“It is odd,” Wien said. “In all my times here, even at night, there were guards.”
Ediline didn’t care to make sense of it, but she couldn’t get inside without assuaging the worries of the others. “They are probably just inside. No need to guard a door when you can guard the halls.”
“I do not see any,” Wulfgar said, squinting in the rain. “But you sound right.”
“I’ll put that in my journal,” she said. “’Wulfgar said I sound right today.’”
She strode up to the gate and touched the ironwood. The bars, flat slats with tiny gaps, carved with whirling vines, did not give her much to work with, but she could manage. This was not her first time sneaking back into her house. It was, however, the first time she was truly convinced she would be killed if she were caught doing it.
The slats were also too wide for her to get a whole hand around, so she had to be especially clever. With a carefully measured kick, she wedged the toe of her boot in the gap between two of the wooden bars. Tipping forward, she put her weight on it. Normally the tightness of the gap would have held her, but the wood was wet. She slipped and her boot came back out.
She groaned and turned. “Wulfgar, can you give me a boost?”
“Boost? I can hurl you over this gate. Come, I will show you.”
Wulfgar bent low near the gate and cupped his hands together. Ediline raised her foot and set it in the web of his hands. Then she relaxed every muscle in her body.
“You are ready?” he said. “I will not hold back. You will soar.”
“I’ve always wanted to soar.” Her nervousness crept back in. “Will I be majestic?”
“Like dove.”
With tremendous force, Wulfgar heaved, and he hurled Ediline skyward. She shoved off his hands at the same time. The rain pelted her, and the wind ripped the hood from her head and tossed her cloak in a whirl. She heard nothing. She could barely see. The sensation of rushing upward was followed by weightlessness—falling was next.
She reached, leaning toward the gate. Her hands grasped the rounded top of the gate just above her head. Not quite, Wulfgar. She hadn’t cleared it, but she’d managed to reach the top. Fingers grasping, shoulders wrenching, she pulled herself up and over the gate.
The falling came next, but it was over fast.
Her feet hit the soft ground. She slipped and rolled through the pain shooting up her body. Before she could be seen by guards within the manor, she rushed back to the gate and lifted the lock. Then she shoved her shoulder into the wood and pushed it open. Wulfgar, Wien, and Javras slipped through. Then, more hesitantly, Kuo approached.
“I think I should remain outside,” he said. “I do not want to be useless to you, but . . . .”
“No,” Ediline said. “I don’t want you to be hurt. If I’m still alive, I’ll find you. If I die—”
“Ediline.”
“If I die,” she said again. “Go back to Saiyoe. Get to Taibenai, no matter what happens. Protect your people.”
He nodded. “I will.”
“Thank you,” she said in Saiyoen, and she said it again in the language that had been spoken in Tailiet. Then he turned and disappeared behind the curtains of rain.
“Princess,” Wien urged.
“This way,” Ediline said.
She led them to the right, avoiding moving in front of the lightpoles. There was an abrupt drop to a walkway below. She showed it to the three of them and helped them drop down to it quietly. They were in a little alcove, secluded from the main walkways of the manor.
“Wait here,” she said. There was a lump in her throat the size of her two fists together. She was dreading this. “There’s something I need to do.”
Javras clenched his jaw. “Ediline—”
“If I don’t come back, Javras, I’m sure you remember the way to my rooms.”
His expression softened, then twisted again. His lip was curled. She didn’t want to look at it, the obvious sympathy in his face as he put together where she was going. And why.
“I understand,” he said. “Be quick.”
“I hope . . . yes, I will be quick,” she said.
She turned and rushed down the slick ramp, then dropped down a ladder, another ladder, then another. She didn’t bother climbing down. They would be slick anyway.
Finally, she came to her cornered-off, shadowy little walkway. It was almost completely dark here, just Ediline and the Everquiet. Even the pound of the rain and the roar of the gale, the whisper of the river below, were muffled behind the Everquiet, a buzzing nothingness.
A thousand what-ifs poured through her head. A hundred dreads and eighty and eight hopes.
The broken planks and missteps were still etched into her memory. She avoided every one and came to the door. It was dim through her window, just the glowing oak in her ceiling. Her hand trembled above the door handle. Tears were already welling behind her eyes. No matter what she found on the other side, she would be crying soon.
There was no need to delay this further. She pushed open the door.
Her house smelled as it always did. After all this time, it still smelled like her, like the clothes she wore, like the soap she used, like the wood of her walls and like the small animal that lived there.
She took her first step inside, gently closed the door, then took another.
It hadn’t been touched. Her desk was exactly as she had left it. Even her clothes hadn’t been picked up by the servants. The light of the glowing oak had faded some, but everything was the same.
The frantic clack-scratch of claws brought on the tears, as Marv hustled around the corner from her bedroom and barreled into her shins. He rubbed his head against her legs then turned and came back the other way for another pass. She crouched and scooped him up and nuzzled him. She brought him to her face and kissed his little head.
“How are you, Marv?” she whispered past her tears. “I missed you so much.”
He made a chittering noise in reply.
He was alive and hadn’t eaten her furniture. He hadn’t eaten his way through her walls. And he was kind of fat, just like he’d been when she’d left. Weeks ago. No, everything seemed exactly the same, which meant . . . what
exactly?
There was a sound from the washroom. The door was shut. She put Marv down and scooted him away. With her sleeve she wiped at her tears. Then she moved across the living room in two smooth steps. The door opened.
She drew the hunting knife as someone stepped out. She shoved him into the wall with her elbow at his throat then raised the knife, the point at the slender neck.
“Edi?”
“Ancil.”
— Chapter 26 —
“On the fifth darkened day, the healthy fell to sickness. Those with no wounds bled, those who could see were struck blind, those without a sin to their lips could not speak. Sons and daughters died in their beds, and by the hundreds their mothers and fathers prayed for answers, for healing, for resilience from their Lords.”
—The Words of the Lords, ed. xi
Ancil stared back at her with terrified, disbelieving eyes. Those light brown eyes, the white-silver hair—it was Ancil, unchanged by the passage of time. At every turn she was reminded that it hadn’t actually been that long.
But this was the last place she had expected to find him.
“What are you doing here?” she snapped.
“What am I—? Edi, you—”
She brought the point of the knife closer, and he stopped talking. It felt good to be able to stop him from talking, to be able to have this kind of control over someone else. Despite the rush of control, she drew the knife back. Something wasn’t right here.
“You’ve been looking after Marv?” she said.
“I came here after you . . . left. When I found him, he seemed sad.”
She stole a glance to Marv. He was currently on his back, limbs in the air, head cocked but fixed right on her, oblivious to the situation. Strange as it was, she trusted Marv’s intuition. He didn’t think Ancil was a danger or a bad person. Or maybe he had been won over by food.
“I didn’t expect finding you to be so easy,” she said. Her temper flared. “Walking around with no escort, in the dark—what if I were an assassin, here to kill you?”
He eyed the knife then met her eyes and, with complete calm and utter seriousness, said, “Aren’t you?”