“Uncle Guarn might have had a friend in this town,” Yenia said. “One of his contacts who could help us.”
“Let me know if you see him,” Theel muttered.
In that moment, Theel placed his foot on a specific spot of earth and a burst of freezing wind passed through him. He gasped at the sensation, clutching at his chest. It felt like a giant fist had squeezed the breath from his body.
Yenia stopped walking and turned. “Theel? What is it?”
Theel didn’t respond. He just stood still in the middle of the road, panting. He placed his foot back on the same spot, pushing the sole of his boot into the dirt and into the Craft weaves that swirled there. The Craft spoke to him, spoke of someone who’d recently set foot on that very spot.
The banner of a noble house flashed in Theel’s brain—golden diamonds and oak leaves on a field of green. A quick flash and the image was gone, but it was there just long enough to see the colorful sigil— and the equally colorful spray of blood splashed across the cloth of the banner.
House Overlie.
Terrible emotions crashed over him; not his own, but those of a person who had walked this ground only recently. The emotions lived within the Craft and were fed to Theel by the magic forced upon him against his will.
Fear. Pain. Despair. Oh, the children!
“Theel?” he heard his sister saying. “Are you all right?”
Theel’s juy sprang to life, responding to those emotions and the fear and uncertainty that filled his own heart. He didn’t want this. Not now. He fought it, and immediately his body fought back. His stomach sickened; his head throbbed. He feared he might pass out.
He tried to work with the signals that were pounding his brain, to bend them to something he could understand. The attempt was futile. He might as well attempt to sculpt the clouds with his hands.
You can’t listen by talking, the Keeper had told him countless times. You can’t listen by talking.
So, Theel tried to listen. He stopped fighting, and the juy stopped fighting back. With no war to wage, he quickly felt better. He took another step, placed his foot in the dirt, and another cold breeze chilled his bones. This time, he did not fight it.
“No!” he shouted. “The children!”
It was his voice, but not his words.
“Theel, what is it?” Yenia asked.
Another step.
“We must save them,” Theel said. “They are in danger.”
“Who is in danger?” Yenia asked.
He allowed the juy to fill him up, flowing through him like the blood in his veins. He began to walk as if following a trail. With each step his juy spoke more to him. And he listened to every word.
“The Overlie children,” Theel said, walking, looking around like a bloodhound searching for a scent. “The two little ones who fled from Calfborn.” He began to walk briskly. “They survived. They came here.”
“The Overlie children? Here?” Yenia asked, following along.
“A boy and a girl,” Theel answered. “They came here from Calfborn, fleeing from the battle. It’s as clear to my mind as you are to my eyes.”
“How do you know this?” Yenia asked.
“I touched the heart of the Overlie boy,” Theel explained. “I wetted my fingers with the blood of his family. And now that blood speaks to me.”
“What can you see?” Yenia asked. “Where did they go? Were they alone?”
“No,” Theel said. “An elderly woman accompanied them.” He stopped in the middle of the street, looking around. The crows were thick here, darkening the sky with their wings. The symphony of their shrieking absorbed and destroyed all other sound.
Theel, Theel, Theel! the crows called, Theel, Theel, Theel!
“What did you say?” Yenia asked.
“An elderly woman accompanied them,” Theel repeated. “But she was hurt.”
The birds were gathered around a particular house. They covered its roof with a carpet of black feathers and noise. A dozen of them fluttered through its windows and doors as the siblings watched.
Theel, Theel, Theel!
“An elderly woman?” Yenia asked. “Where?”
Theel pointed at the house. “In there.”
Neither of them moved, they just stood and looked at the building. The crows looked back, as if daring them to enter. But they didn’t need to enter. They already knew the fate of the old woman because the crows told them.
Theel, Theel, Theel!
Theel tore his eyes away from the house, looking up the street. “The children continued on without her,” he said. “This way.”
He walked as quickly as he could, following the trail of emotions left in the Craft at his feet. He could taste the residue left by the children who walked there, could feel their fear as if it was his own.
They were hurriedly taken west from Calfborn for reasons they couldn’t understand. But they knew there was danger. They could see it in the eyes of their uncle as he sent them away. They could hear it in the voice of their guardian as she tried to reassure them during the flight. They were supposed to seek protection from House Soril in Ravenwater, but they became lost in the forest. Then their horse, already lamed by a zoth spear, died on the road, forcing them to walk. The old woman’s heart wasn’t up to the task. She made it to Widow Hatch, only to collapse.
Now the children were alone, and terrified, walking aimlessly, looking for an adult who would tell them what to do. Theel followed their trail down the main road and through the center of the town. All along the way, the children had tried every door, had peered into every window, looking for help, disappointed every time. Their confusion and fear continued to grow. These were privileged children, walking on soil ruled by their family. They should have been welcomed, should have received help. But there was no help. And no one welcomed them but the crows.
“No!” Theel cried out as he realized what had happened.
The children didn’t know what town they were in, where Ravenwater was, or how to get there. They were sent away from Calfborn to flee from the zoths. But they were walking the wrong way. The little girl was exhausted and falling behind, pulled along by the boy. She was very young, and had only lived through six harvests. Her pink baby cheeks were covered with tears. She was crying because she’d lost her earring.
They’d passed through the center of town, where the main road began to slope downward. Theel knew the road continued this descent all the way to the south edge of town where it finally disappeared into the mouth of the Narrows. He looked in this direction, and knew immediately this was where the children went.
Diamonds and oak leaves flashed in Theel’s mind. He saw the Overlie family, the Lord of Norrester, the Lady Mother, and three children, two of them quite young, the third…dead. He was dead because of Theel; alive when they found him, but killed when Theel touched his heart.
Theel’s steps quickened to a full run, his strides fueled by desperation. It was terrible enough that the two children unwittingly walked upon ground ruled by zoths. But there was no hope if they went into the Narrows.
Into the lair of the Crowlord.
“God, if you are real and care to listen to my prayer, I beg you. Do not allow those children to enter the Narrows,” Theel said between heavy breaths. “Keep these children from the Narrows. Keep them from the Crowlord.”
The siblings rounded a corner in the road and saw a huge, black hole gaping like a wound in the earth. It was fifty feet wide, a rectangular shape stabbed into the side of a rocky hill. Several feet into the darkness, a thick, white wall could be seen running down its center, cutting the tunnel into two separate shafts.
It was the first time Theel had looked upon the entrance to the Narrows in months. The sight of it evoked chilling memories—thoughts of his father, of traveling south together but coming back alone. And with the sight of those tunnels came the blackness, the hard ball of ice he’d been carrying around inside his heart. But he refused to acknowledge it. He thought of
the Overlie children and their needs, the needs of the living. He thought of the boy in Calfborn, the boy he tried to save, of how he felt the boy’s heart stop at his touch. And he used all this as a shield against the blackness. No more children would die. Theel would die first, before any harm befell them.
The opening to the Narrows was guarded by tall, wooden scaffolding on both sides. These were normally manned by a dozen swordsmen and archers, Embriss soldiers, or Overlie men-at-arms, but now every post was bare. Theel remembered much more impressive buildings standing on this spot; guardhouses and barracks built of heavy logs with a foundation of stone. The foundations remained but showed signs of fire, scorched and speckled with soot. Undoubtedly, those buildings had been torched by the Crowlord, and the scaffolding that replaced them seemed hastily constructed. They were a shoddy framework of planks and slats, hammered together at odd angles by someone with little or no carpentry experience.
To the left of the scaffolding, a half-dozen gibbets rose from the ground, supporting human-sized birdcages. All of them were occupied by the bodies of criminals captured in the Narrows. Some of them were alive when they were placed there, some of them were not. In either case, their rotting bodies bespoke a warning to any bandits and thieves considering plying their dark trades in the tunnels.
On the east side of the road stood the Cask and Loaves, the inn that had played host to Theel and his father some months before. It once was a beautiful building, and at four stories, the largest structure in Widow Hatch. Now, most of it was gone, consumed by fire, just like the guard houses. All that remained were a few chimneys and four charred pillars reaching up to support levels that no longer existed.
The children’s emotions pulled him in the direction of the inn, a thick cord that tremored like a harp string, playing music only Theel could hear. He followed the notes of sadness, listened to the tearful sobs of the little girl who’d lost her earring. And he listened as those notes sprang from sadness to hope as the children walked past the front stepstones of the inn. They’d found someone, an adult who might help. It was a man who called out to them.
“Hail, friends!” a voice shouted, jerking Theel back to reality. The voice echoed among the rocks, giving little indication as to its source.
“Did you hear that?” Yenia asked.
“Yes,” Theel answered, his eyes searching. But there was no one there. Nothing but empty scaffolding and dead criminals.
“Hail!” the voice repeated.
One of the lowest-hanging cages rocked gently, catching Theel’s attention. There was a man sitting inside with his legs hanging through the bars. He waved at them, kicking his feet like a child.
The siblings made the short walk to the left of the scaffolding where the gibbets had been erected. The man’s prison dangled only feet from the ground, allowing them a full view of his accommodations.
His time in the cage had not been long, but neither had it been forgiving. He was little more than skin and bones; starved, shriveled, and sunburned. His tunic had once been fine, covered with colorful embroidery and tailored to fit his body. But now the colors were dull, the cloth riddled with holes and ripped seams. It appeared he’d been wearing the same clothing for weeks or more without washing. His shirt might have been held together by nothing more than mud and sweat stains.
The only things bright and clean about the man were his teeth, and the shining smile he showed them.
“Welcome to Widow Hatch, travelers,” he said. “My name is Pitchford Wicker, born of the noble House of Wicker, sworn to the greater clan of Aramorun, though you might choose to call me Pitch, as most do.”
He extended his hand through the bars.
Theel looked at the man’s dirty hand and his white teeth, and in that moment, his mind again flashed to the past. He could see the same man, sitting in the same cage, but now it was from a different perspective. In his vision, Theel was much shorter, looking up at the cage through the eyes of a child.
“My name is Pitchford Alister, born of the noble House of Alister, sworn to the greater clan of Embriss,” the man said to the little girl, smiling with his white teeth. “Though you might choose to call me Pitch, as most do.”
In the present, the man was still speaking. “It is an honor to make your acquaintances, my good and decent fellow children of the old clans.” His hand continued to hover in the air, unshaken. “Might I inquire as to your names?”
“I didn’t hear you,” Theel said. “To which noble house are you born?”
“I am honored to call the House of Wicker of Clan Aramorun my birthplace and home,” the man said, smiling.
“I am born of House Alister of Embriss, my sweetling,” the man said to the little girl. “Only one earring you wear, but it is a truly beautiful treasure for a truly beautiful girl. What are those gems? Diamonds and garnets? Oh, oak leaves! Tell me, are you a child of the Overlie family?”
“Your name is Pitch?” Theel asked.
“Yes, sir, Pitch Wicker,” the man repeated. “Of the noble House of Wicker.”
“…of the noble House of Alister,” the man said. “As an Overlie, you must know of the Alisters. We are called the Valley Lords because we rule all the lands of the Toden, which includes Norrester and Widow Hatch. We are the masters of House Overlie. I am your father’s liege lord.”
“Very well, Pitch of House Wicker,” Theel said. “Have you seen two children walking this road recently?”
“I’ve seen no one on this road, though I’ve prayed to see someone, anyone,” the man said. “I’ve begged my Lord to send salvation from this cruel injustice, and now my prayers are answered in the form of you two kind-hearted travelers.”
“... in the form of you two wonderful sweetlings,” the man said to the children. “Now quickly, you must find the key to this lock and free me so I can take you to your mother. You are so wonderfully smart. I know you can do it. Your father will be so proud that you gave aid to his master.”
“Why are you in that cage?” Yenia asked. “What crimes put you there?”
“I’ve committed no crime, my dear lady, but do confess to one great weakness.”
“What is that?” Theel asked.
“The love I have for my brother the welsher,” the man answered. “Curse my trusting heart. I agreed to be imprisoned to serve his sentence as he went south to the Sister Cities. He swore on the soil under which our dear mother rests that he would return with the coin to pay his debts and free me from this cage, and I believed him. I am such a fool. Oh, curse my trusting heart.”
“They asked me to join in the plot to hurt your father,” the man said. “I refused them so they locked me in this cage. You must free me so we can warn your father. You must bring me the key!”
“You’re lying,” Theel said. “Tell me the truth.”
“Lying?” The man’s smile was as bright as ever. “Certainly not. On my honor as a Wicker.”
“On my honor as an Alister,” the man said. “But first you must bring me the key to this cage.”
“You asked them for the key,” Theel stated. “What became of them?”
“Who do you speak of?” the man asked.
“The children.”
“Which children do you mean?”
“The two Overlie children,” Theel said sternly, angrily. “You spoke with them. You asked them to find the key to your prison.”
“The key? It will be found in that tunnel,” the man said. “The Narrows, you call it? Well, you must enter the Narrows and find the key. You must do it immediately!”
“You have me perplexed, my liege.” The man smiled again. “I know not of which you speak.”
“Yes you do. You know precisely,” Theel said. “You begged them to free you from your cage.”
“I’ve seen no one.”
“You saw two children,” Theel said. “You told them to enter the Narrows to find the key to your prison. Did they do as you bade them? Did they enter the Narrows?”
“My humble
st apologies, my liege,” the man said. “But I don’t know of what you speak, on my honor as a Wicker.”
“Liar! Do not speak of honor,” Theel spat. “Where did they go? Did they enter the Narrows?”
“My humblest apologies, my liege—”
“Don’t call me that,” Theel growled. “I am no one’s liege. Where did the children go?”
“I do not know.”
“Yes you do.” Theel drew his sword. “Tell me or I’ll kill you.”
“It is clear we have some sort of misunderstanding.”
“No, there is no misunderstanding,” Theel said, and banged the blade of his sword against the cage bars. “I believe I am being perfectly clear.” He hit the bars again. “Tell me where the children are.”
“But I don’t—”
Theel hit the cage a final time, now taking aim at the spot where the man’s hand gripped the bars. A loud cracking of knuckles was heard, followed by a yelp of pain as the man jerked back, clutching his hand and grimacing.
“Tell me now or you die!” Theel roared. “Now!”
The man was quiet, rubbing his fingers with a wounded look on his face.
“Now!” Theel jabbed his blade between the bars and the man screamed, trying to squirm out of the way.
“Mercy! Mercy!” the man shrieked. “Oh, God, help me. Mercy!”
“God won’t help you,” Theel growled, pushing the point of the blade toward the man’s throat.
“I know where they went!” he shouted. “Don’t hurt me. Oh, God, don’t hurt me.”
“Tell me,” Theel asked, his sword blade hovering. “Where did they go?”
“Free me from this cage,” the man demanded.
“Where?”
“Free me and I’ll tell you.”
“Tell me or I’ll kill you.”
“Kill me and it’s over,” the man said. “Kill me and you’ll never know what became of those children.”
With those words came a roaring in Theel’s ears and another flash to the past. And once again he knew he was seeing through the eyes of another person.
Warrior Baptism Chapter 3 Page 14