Borne Rising

by Matthew Callahan

  None had come.

  They fell back to their auxiliary camp, a small, sad thing in the trees at the top of the cliff where his grandfather had given him the key and noctori. They’d battled flames and smoke, and more than once Madigan suggested that they simply abandon it altogether.

  Ileta refused. She barked commands and protected them against the flames with her Shade. She’d nearly seemed a stranger to him, then, a feral warrior battling nature itself. But there was something about her demeanor that made him truly believe that if Valmont came, she would fight the man until her last breath.

  Madigan believed her. He believed in her. And that meant he refused to believe he could have been fooled by her for so long. Whatever the hell it was that Will thought he knew about her, he was wrong. There was something more at stake here, something Ileta still hadn’t shared with him.

  They’d no sooner regrouped at the camp than she’d ordered them to move out, abandoning his home and the corrupted land beyond, still awash in flames and decay. When he’d told her of Will and Morella’s return to Aeril, she’d scoffed and nodded. She had even agreed with Mad (something he still couldn’t believe) about Valmont having waited for them to be together.

  That being said, she’d still insisted that they also return. And, given that everything he’d known had been destroyed (again) by that goddam beast Senraks (again), Mad didn’t feel much like arguing.

  At least Will killed the goddam bastard.

  And so, here they were. It was a strange feeling, being back in Undermyre after so long. The last time he’d been in this city, he’d come as a prisoner and left as quickly and quietly as possible on a damned foolish mission for the Crow. This time the Crow seemed to have thrown open the city gates for him. He didn’t trust it. What’s that goddam crafty bastard got up his sleeves this time?

  Crowds dispersed before him while he walked with the retainer sent by the Crow. The people knew what he was, now—his injured hand and wrist were still bound in his Shade. He trekked the cobblestone streets of Undermyre, Shade flowing about him like a cloak made of shadows. He could hear the whispers from those he passed and couldn’t help but smile. Despite the books he’d read in the Nordoth, the horrible stories of the Unborn, he felt no need to hide, no fear of displaying his power. He was Shadowborne, and he and Ileta were going to save Undermyre from that insane bastard Valmont.

  Assuming Will doesn’t screw it up somehow. And assuming Ileta comes back.

  They had hardly passed through the Aerillian Waygate when she’d abandoned him. He’d long since learned not to ask after her comings and goings, but that had been back in Cascania. Will’s words of treachery and deception had again pricked at his consciousness, but he’d pushed them down. Mad had always known that Ileta served someone greater than herself; he’d just never worried about it before. Now, with Valmont trapped back in Cascania, it seemed like a foolish time to stop believing in her.

  “Wait for me. Don’t do anything stupid,” was all she said before taking off deep into the Ways faster than Mad could follow even if he tried. He hadn’t tried, though. He went his own way and before long had found soldiers guarding the passages. They were far less surprised to see him than he’d anticipated—probably thanks to Will for that—and they’d immediately surrounded him. Explaining their purpose of taking him to Undermyre had been strange, but stranger still had been their formation. Like some kind of damn honor guard. Ileta would have laughed her ass off if she’d seen it.

  She hadn’t, though. She hadn’t been there any more than she had been waiting for him when the wide doors of the Nordoth broke open.

  Taking a deep breath, he entered the Crow’s audience chamber. The room was awash in brilliant light that dazzled from crystalline lights and burst upon prisms floating in the air. The chamber was lined with guards at attention, forming a wide path that led toward the back of the room and the Crow’s seat. Madigan hesitated only briefly, the memory of his last visit a stark contrast to the sight before his eyes, then he held his chin high and strode into the room.

  The chamber was more crowded than he realized. His eyes, shocked by the transition from dim to light, had missed the scores of people standing along the walls and in the balcony that overlooked the chamber. He suddenly grew very self-conscious. What the hell is this?

  Then, realization dawned on him: Ileta, of course. A smile broke across his face as he approached the Crow’s seat. The hidden master, the hidden agenda, the brutal training, it had all been a convoluted plot from the Crow’s ever-twisting mind. Of course she’d run off. Their plan, whatever it had been, had finally come to fruition. That’s why the soldiers had been prepared for him; she’d alerted them, somehow. She knows the Ways better than I do. She knew a shortcut.

  And all this time, Will was convinced that she was some goddam traitor.

  The Crow slumped in his seat, smiling humorlessly down at Mad while he approached. Ileta though, was nowhere to be seen. Mad didn’t know why that bothered him, but it did.

  “Ah, Madigan Davis. I see you have returned to our hospitality.”

  “That depends, Crow.” Madigan inclined his head in a small acknowledgment. “If this greeting acts as any indication of a change in attitude toward outsiders since my last visit, I could very much be interested in your hospitality.”

  The harsh barking laughter that Madigan remembered from his last audience with the man returned and echoed through the hall. Snickers emerged from the many watching figures, but Madigan kept his attention fixed firmly on the Crow. The dark, hunched man bobbed his head. “Cavalier. To be expected, yes.”

  Madigan’s Shade billowed silently along the ground. He strode toward the stairs that led to the Crow’s seat. “It has been some time, Crow, certainly longer than the thirteen months we agreed upon.”

  The Crow’s mouth fell into a thin line. “Indeed, it has.”

  “And while I feel ever so much more comfortable now than I did during our last meeting,” Madigan said while he spun in a slow circle, gesturing to the crowd, “I do not believe I would be remiss in ensuring my safety within these walls. Under the eyes of all those here and the Hesperawn who see beyond all things.”

  He had no idea if that was something believed about the Aerillian gods, but he figured it better to project a casual confidence.

  “Cavalier, indeed.” The Crow leaned back and steepled his hands. “Much has changed since your last visit, Shadowborne”—he nearly hissed the word—“but your etiquette and diplomacy remain ever the same, it seems.”

  The man’s tone suddenly seemed far less inviting. Dammit, he couldn’t have sent Ileta. He didn’t know I was Shadowborne. Madigan scanned the room quickly. He saw no familiar faces. Alright, think fast, idiot. “Well, we have to maintain some consistency, Crow.” Gotta keep control on my side. “Otherwise the whole world would spin in reverse, no doubt.”

  A low chuckle spanned the crowd but was quickly silenced. The Crow did not look amused in the slightest. I wonder . . . Madigan forced a smile. Fine then, Crow, we’ll do this the fun way.

  Madigan’s Shade swarmed beneath his feet in a pool of blackness. He held the Crow’s eyes and never let his sardonic smile waver. Madigan pulled and the countless threads appeared. The room was far, far larger than the cellar and he was met with immediate resistance. Quickly splitting his focus and mentally reaching at the cool key that hung against his chest, he pulled harder. Peaceful floodgates of power opened. The infinite webs of darkness wavered and spun in his mind’s eye.

  It goes both directions, Ileta said. Madigan focused on spreading the shadows, on pulling the light. He gave one quick, sharp tug and the room immediately descended into darkness. Frantic murmurs began to race through the crowd. Soldiers grew lively. In a flash, only the lights of a few torches gave off any hint of light.

  Now, time to add some finesse.

  He focused on the torches and pulled even harder than he had in the cellar. The key’s focusing power filled him with seemingly unendi
ng strength. He drew the torches’ light into him, replacing the space with cold darkness. The strain was overwhelming, nothing he had ever experienced in his training with Ileta, but he did not allow himself to falter. He gritted his teeth and grimaced. Just have to last long enough to make an impression.

  “Enough!” The Crow barked through the utter darkness. Madigan released the tension—the whole ordeal couldn’t have lasted more than a few seconds—but the sight that greeted him nearly sent him into the same shock that seemed to have overtaken every other person in the room.

  The ground was layered in a thin crystalline frost. The light that returned to the windows fractured along spiderweb circles of ice on the glass. As for the torches, their flames did not return. Instead, dark blue crystalline towers of ice took their place, the flickers frozen.

  I can’t believe that worked. Madigan exhaled and saw his breath cloud before him. His hand no longer hurt. He tentatively rolled his broken wrist and felt no pain, no restriction. Fascinating.

  He turned his attention back to the Crow. The man had hardly moved, but the way his fingers gripped the armrests of his chair spoke volumes. Mad had made an impression. He smiled. “You were saying?”

  The Crow released his grip on the chair and leaned forward. “Impressive.”

  He gestured absently to the guard at his side. The man stepped forward and Mad thought he recognized him. The commander that captured us, of course. The Crow whispered something that Mad couldn’t hear and then the commander—Changer? Something like that—beckoned to the soldiers. Those surrounding Mad visibly relaxed, or at least returned to their formal guard stance. The commander himself spun and passed from sight quickly.

  “Madigan Davis,” the Crow said, snapping Madigan’s attention back to him. “The terms of our previous arrangement are still valid in the eyes of the Hesperawn.” The hunched man smiled and cocked his head to the side. “Although I do think that you and I shall have some words to, ah, negotiate that agreement further. To our mutual benefit, of course.”

  Mad nodded. “Of course.”

  “You understand, of course, that additional steps of protection must be guaranteed within these walls. The same for any Borne who chooses to reside within Undermyre under the protection of the Nordoth.”

  Mad smiled. “Of course. One can never be too cautious.”

  “No, one cannot.”

  Something at the corner of his eye caught Mad’s eye. He glanced over and something foreign and long forgotten lurched within his chest. Ynarra.

  Her pale face was half hidden, covered by her hands. Her eyes were wide and seemed to be brimming with tears, but they were fixed firmly on him. Mad tore his eyes away from her and back to the Crow, but for the life of him he could not remember what he’d been about to say.

  “Yes,” he began, rapidly searching his mind for whatever it was they’d been talking about. “Naturally it would”—it came to him and he snapped back into focus—“it would be only natural to take additional precautions.” The Crow’s smile held a sinister note and Mad’s eyes nervously flicked back to Ynarra. “What would be required?”

  “Fealty,” the Crow said without hesitation. “Your unwavering fealty pledged to the Thirteen for the protection of Undermyre and the Nordoth.”

  The Thirteen? Who in the goddam hell are they? He risked a glance back at Ynarra and saw the commander standing behind her, his hands resting on her shoulders. Whatever had lurched inside him knotted into fear as Madigan realized the implications of what might happen should he refuse. No. No, no, no. “Fealty.”

  The crowd was silent when the Crow spoke. “It is not too much to ask, I would think, of one who claims to oppose Dorian Valmont and the Necrothanians. Our paths are in alignment and the Nordoth makes for a powerful ally.” He peered down at Madigan. “Particularly for the Borne.”

  Mad’s gaze returned to Ynarra. He could have sworn that he saw her shake her head slightly, but he couldn’t be sure. Dammit.

  Madigan slowly lowered to a knee. He barely registered the act. He clapped his hands together and formed his signature bastard sword from the noctori. Placing the tip of the shadowblade on the ground, he lowered his head and touched the pommel. He had no idea if what he was doing was correct or proper within this world. He was simply going from what he’d seen in movies growing up back home. It better be goddam good enough for this bastard.

  “To Undermyre. To the Nordoth. To the Thirteen.”

  Mad felt the nauseating wave of pleasure, of victory, pouring from the Crow. When he raised his eyes, the dark man was smiling down at him with the first look of genuine satisfaction that Mad could ever remember seeing from him. You goddam bastard.

  “Well then, Madigan Davis.” The Crow leaned back in his chair and steepled his hands, smiling eerily. “Welcome home.”

  28

  The Seekers

  Will’s head spun. Rift hopping, it seemed, did not get any easier. Cephora estimated that they’d saved at least two weeks of travel, crossing the great expanse to the Middle Reach in only a matter of days. But as far as Will was concerned, he’d take the slow roads any day. If I never have to follow Cephora into another one of those horrible things, it’ll be just fine with me.

  He huddled his arms against himself and blew warm air onto his chilled hands. Between so much time in the warm halls of the Sapholux and the temperate climate of Undermyre, the brief trip into a Portland winter had been the most exposure to cold he’d had in some time. This, though, this cold dwarfed Portland’s. He shuffled his feet in the snow and muttered under his breath. He Flared briefly, hoping that the influx of warmth would help. It didn’t.

  The snow fell in a delicate, steady stream, resting lightly upon the nearly invisible camp of Lightborne. No fires illuminated the grey flurries, no smoke or flame that might accidentally signal the enemy. There had been no alert when his small group approached the camp. The Lightborne were within their tents, crowded together and kept warm by their body heat and Flares. A cozy night in. Wouldn’t that be nice?

  Cephora looked unfazed, as usual. Morella was shivering but seemed determined to ignore it. For Will, though, it wasn’t the snow that was doing him in. It was the damn wind with its frigid biting. How did I ever enjoy going to the mountains with Mad and Grandda?

  “Is this everyone?” Morella whispered, barely audible over the wind. There was a chilled tremor in her voice that made Will aware of his own chattering teeth. “I’d expected more.”

  “I’m guessing they’re camped tight for warmth.” Will fought to control the quiver in his own voice. He glanced back at the camp. Whether they were huddled together or not, Morella was right: there were far too few Lightborne. “And no sentries?” Will shook his head in disbelief. “No one standing watch? That hardly seems right.”

  Cephora gave him a sidelong glance and a quiet, disappointed sigh. “They’ve been watching us for the past hour, Will.”

  “What?” Will spun and looked around again. Seeing nothing, he chastised himself. Right, Will. Spinning like an idiot is going to suddenly bring them into focus.

  “Them and the Seekers.” Morella shook her head and laughed quietly. “The Master of Blades trained you for how long, again?”

  Opening his mouth to speak, Will almost missed the suddenly severe inspection that Cephora was giving Morella. He clamped his mouth shut. Morella surprised her, that’s all. He gave Morella a half-hearted smile. She giggled and squeezed his hand.

  “I was just testing you,” he offered limply. “Congratulations. You passed.”

  “Oh yes, you certainly are the chosen one of the Sapholux. Blinded by your lights, as usual.”

  “Indeed,” Cephora agreed. But the manner in which she said it seemed off. Something’s got her on edge. “The fact that they haven’t made a move means they know we’re no threat. Come, we should find Jero din’Dael.”

  “They wouldn’t have made a move on me, Cephora,” Will said. “My people know me.”

  Cephora’s f
ace was full of amusement and condescension. “Mine don’t.”

  “Fair point.” A whole group of people like Cephora, everyone from the Sapholux, and the Necrothanians? Will’s shiver had nothing to do with the cold.

  “Will,” Morella interrupted his aimless thoughts. “Someone’s coming.”

  Sure enough, a tall figure was emerging from the swirling cloud of snow—a figure that Will would have recognized anywhere. Jero din’Dael wore an unsecured tight vest of what appeared to be sheep hide. A massive sword was strapped to his back, its harness draped across his chest. His scarred arms were bare, despite the cold, and he wore fingerless gloves on each hand. Will half expected to find the man’s legs bare, but he was wearing heavy travel pants and boots that laced up to his knees.

  Will felt Morella stiffen. His key sprang to life, sending its strange dance of shocks and pulses throughout his body. Ignoring both the key and Morella’s obvious trepidation, Will couldn’t help but smile. For all his faults, Jero din’Dael brought Will some strange measure of comfort. Morella’s lack of it was understandable. As for the key, Will still had to figure out why it behaved the way it did half the time. He inclined his head to his mentor. “Jero din’Dael.”

  “Noctis Thorne.” Din’Dael’s hard, chiseled face split into a wide grin. “Where in the blazes have you been?”

  “There was a slight detour.” Will shrugged and gestured to his entourage. “I’m sure you understand.”

  Din’Dael threw back his head and laughed far more than the comment deserved. “Of course,” he said, wiping a tear from his eye when his laughter subsided. Without warning, din’Dael’s face fell and he turned stony eyes toward Will. The severity and rapidity of the change was unnerving. Will’s mouth went dry. “Oh, my young burner. Of course I understand.” The tall man spat on the ground, approached Will, and made as if to backhand him across the face.