“̾ from silver the weapon comes. Without her sight, mankind is done. With it, all will again be one.”
“Make them stop, Ryn Gylles. I will not stay here, I will not!”
“Serra, please, you must consider this carefully. You must choose between staying here and becoming what Lansera needs, or going back to Callyn to marry our prince and imperil our world more than it already is. It is not a fair choice, but still, you must make it. You must choose what feels right to you—you must follow your heart.”
Her heart belonged to a man with short-cropped, strawberry-blond hair, who brought her wreaths of balac vines every year when they bloomed by Lady Ginla’s statue.
“… Without her sight, mankind is done …”
“I have made my choice. I am going to Callyn. I am going home.”
The blue light and the cave vanished with a flash that darkened the Brothers’ outlines before they too were gone. It faded into mist, and she found herself clutching a handful of dirt and moss, jocal flies pricking her skin. Ryn Gylles was there, regarding her, crestfallen.
“I’m sorry,” she said, hugging her knees. “I cannot leave Janto. He’s my life.”
He helped her up. “Your life is your own, child. And so are your choices. I will not try to sway you otherwise. You were brought here for this moment, and you will return, the moment passed. Now, let an old man walk his someday ruler back to her hut. The swamp is no place to spend the night.” The color returned to his cheeks, a chemist’s bloom of fire.
“Thank you for understanding.” She took his arm. They made their way through the muddy trail, the ground mucking up their sandals. Serra felt at peace, until another fly landed on her arm. She crushed it without a thought.
CHAPTER 22
JANTO
Another hour and Janto could not deny his tiredness. The stag’s bolts were haphazard, its hesitation protracted, the bushes it trampled more damaged than before. It had fallen over a few times in its exhaustion. Janto nearly followed. He redoubled his concentration, but could hear only other forest sounds and see only the moonslight illuminating the beast. Had it finally worn down? Was this his chance?
A bulky, dark mass behind the stag caught Janto’s attention. It was a perfectly camouflaged cabin. Sielban’s home? It had to be. No one else lived on the island. How far had the stag led him from the others? He had to be close to the northern shore by now, but the woods had grown denser, like he had been led deeper into the island rather than crossed a distance.
The animal staggered to the side of the cabin as Janto took in the building. His distraction must have been obvious to the stag—he had been removed from its threat category. Janto groaned. He had wasted multiple opportunities to get his shot. Had this been a training drill, Ser Allyn would have lectured him on priorities. There were always mysteries to solve, secrets to unearth, but what good were they if he could not focus during a hunt like this? How would he ever learn the single-mindedness needed for a crisis, if he could not keep up the hunt of his life for half a night?
He crouched at eye level with the stag and lined up his arrow. As he went to loose the thread, the creature leapt to the right, realizing its mistake. Janto went faster, adjusting his aim in concert with the movement. A rush of air sped past his ear with the release. The arrow hit broadside, about a hand’s length from the stag’s shoulder and right into the lung. He quickly loosed another into its other side. The stag ran in a frenzy around the cabin, but it fell fast, no reserves left for a death dance.
Janto whooped once, but he quieted as he approached the shuddering animal. Its gray fur was slick with sweat. Blood poured from its wounds. Janto placed one hand over its snout, stroking the scratchy fur between its eyes to give it some peace as its breathing calmed. This close, the antlers were breathtaking in their intricacy, covered in scales that shimmered with a light of their own as the granfaylon’s had. The antlers had more tines than he could count, some as fine as a writing quill and others as thick as his wrist. They all pointed forward, like seed heads of a dandelion directing Janto’s gaze. He traced their aim, and a strong lightning bolt hit the wall to the left of the cabin’s door. Beneath his hand, the stag took its last breath and grew still.
Sudden grief surprised Janto. A feeling of accomplishment came as well, but the loss was stronger. He leaned the stag’s stiffening body against a sizeable, sturdy bush so the blood would drain from the wound. He wondered, briefly, if his grandfather Turyn had felt a similar sadness when he signed the peace accords with the Meduans. Turyn’s Peace had never been a victory, but Janto had imagined his grandfather taking some satisfaction from sparing his people further violence. Did defeating a foe feel more like this?
He needed to circle around the cabin to find signs of a path back. But his legs did not move to the woods. Instead, he shuffled to where the lightning had struck. There was barely any light—all four moons shrouded—so Janto pressed his hand against the wood where he thought it had hit. The resin was sticky. It smelled of tar, must, and damp soil. He felt a dip in the wood that could not be the space between logs and traced the shape—one, two, three ovals with triangular notches off the sides of each. The ovals were connected to a sizable circle with two much grander triangles coming from its sides. A greasy substance smeared on his finger, and he raised it to his tongue. Ash. This was not a carving. It had been burnt into the wood.
Another bolt of lightning lit up the sky, revealing the image in front of him for a split second: Madel’s three-headed bird, wings outstretched and ready to take flight. The depiction of their earliest myth sent a charge through him and focused his mind from the grief he had felt at the stag’s slaying. As he walked back toward the animal, a familiar rustling sounded and a gap in the bushes took shape. Two rows of trees shifted into focus, their branches lacing together and a trail of brushed dirt running beneath them. Spreading his cloak on the ground, Janto heaved the stag onto it with a shout of exertion and secured it with the feather-studded rope at his belt. With his quiver and the Old Girl slung over his shoulders, Janto gave the rope a tug, glad the path back would not be a lengthy one.
As he dragged the stag behind him, a snatch of song skimmed through his head, a melody from his old religious lessons he could not quite place. Every bone in his body ached. His legs trembled as he lifted them, as though weighted down by bags of sand. Hearing the far echoes of voices surprised him; it had to be well after midnight. The thought that his friends had waited for him to return, had faith that he would, buoyed Janto forward.
It took him a few minutes to reach the others in their lamp-lighted glen. Each second felt excruciating—until they quieted and eight pairs of eyes locked onto him and the prize he dragged. The Muraters erupted in cheers. His back was slapped repeatedly, his body hugged, and they laughed in amazement at what the cloak held.
“When the silver stag runs free, blessed will he who binds it be.
Rise up, ye treasured bird of three. Wing him what boons ye foresee.”
Jerusho’s deep bass sang the common maxim, and Janto’s jaw dropped. The melody! He knew, of course, that the stag he hunted was the one in the verse, but there was more to the song than those two lines, if only he could remember them. The first stanza had been repeated so many times over the centuries, an encouragement to chase after the impossible and seek the reward, that it may as well have been cleaved from the rest of the ritual chant. If his head would just stop swimming …
His stomach lurched. Janto hadn’t eaten since before the archery Feat. He put all thoughts of songs and sayings aside as he realized how faint he felt. Peeling his stiff fingers from the rope took effort, but he clasped Jerusho’s hand. “You don’t have any of that granfaylon flesh left, do you?”
Jerusho laughed, shaking his head. “We stuffed ourselves on it.”
“It was delicious!” said Hamsyn. “The cheek meat—I will be dreaming of that the rest of my days. But steak of silver stag might rival it. Should we dress it? If we begin roasting it now,
it should be ready in time for tomorrow’s dinner.”
“I—I suppose.” Janto stumbled into a chair.
Napeler handed him a sliced roll stuffed with meat and a tanker of potent cider. Janto grabbed them both with the speed of hunger, though the fast movement made his head hurt more. He bit in, salivating over the cold craval meat and the congealed cheese sauce spooned over it. He hoped the thanks in his eyes was clear enough for Nap to read, unwilling to speak again until he had inhaled every last morsel and sucked his fingers of crumbs.
So engrossed in the sandwich, Janto did not notice the hush fall over the group. Not until Rall spoke, his normally jovial voice laced with shock, did he stir.
“What’s happening to it?”
Sielban moved to the stag’s body, and so did Janto, swallowing his last bite. He ignored the instant rush in his head as he stumbled toward the beast. A fog with a silver sheen hung over the stag and cloak. Through it, the body flickered as the granfaylon’s had before Jerusho killed it. The stag’s eyes remained closed, its body lifeless, but the air around it was different, charged with … Janto had no word for the energy, but the lightning by the cabin had brought the same sensation. He went to his knees, clutching at the clumped fur to assure himself the stag was there.
It was and it wasn’t. One moment, bristly hairs rubbed against his fingers, and the next, only air was clasped between them. The creature flickered in again, and Janto felt relief that was replaced with panic when it disappeared for a third time.
“It’s not right.” Frustration finally overtook him. “I slayed it. It cannot escape me now.”
Sielban grasped his hands in his own, moving them away from the stag. “Do you need the spoils to know you have succeeded? This creature served its purpose. It goes to its rest in Madel’s realm.”
His words rang true, though they gave Janto little comfort. Hamsyn stood behind him, and Janto leaned back against his legs, watching as the stag wavered a few more times between here and wherever there was. When its form did not return, the fog evaporated, spilling droplets of silver fluid all over the abandoned cloak. They pooled together in a wrinkle of the fabric and seeped through it into the ground below.
None of them knew what they had just witnessed. But that did not stop Flivio from declaring, “Bloody shame. I just recovered my appetite from all that granfaylon flesh.”
The others laughed, including Sielban. “An interesting group of men you are,” their teacher said. “And with the catches of today, I think you have learned a thing or two of children’s tales. There is nothing more for you on Braven. Congratulations, you have completed your Murat.”
“You mean we’re done, like that?” The disbelief in Nap’s voice echoed in Janto’s overwhelmed brain.
Sielban made a noise of assent. “You will find your trainings have been worthwhile soon enough. In the meantime, men of Lansera, sweet dreaming.” With that characteristic twinkle in his eye, Sielban blinked out of sight.
And they were done. They had finished the Murat. Some of them had conquered mountains, caught unimaginable beasts, or simply made it through the weeks without family or friends in sight. Pride and satisfaction sunk in, then Nap and Tonim flanked Janto, pulling him up between them. They walked together to seek the path to the cave and whatever lay farther afield.
CHAPTER 23
VESPERI
Vesperi cursed her short-sightedness at not having grabbed so much as a mallet from the arms room before she ran. Four days had passed since she left Sellwyn Manor, and she had eaten the last of the hard Yarowen cheese that morning. Knowing such an immense round had cost her father at least three hundred souzers was little comfort for her hunger. The previous night, she killed a hare with a rock and ate it barely cooked. All attempts at fires fizzled at a few sparse licks of flame, which was ironic considering what she could do. But she was afraid her talent would leave a trail wizards could track, and she was unsure she could control it beyond rifling through a horse’s mane. Her stomach would have to be content with rodents and bugs for now.
She spit on a nest of barools, earthen-colored worms covered with thin spikes she’d stepped on at least five times already. Her boots had good soles, but nothing resisted their pricks. Except for the relief of knowing each stride took her farther from the threat of Thokketh, Vesperi headed west with no real direction. She hoped the Lanserim were all as pathetic as Agler, too busy tending sheep or wooing women with poetry to sell a Meduan back to her manor. Maybe she could seduce one of their men and take over his land, prey on their notions of manners and chivalry. As long as she gave a good tumble, he would never realize she was in charge. Men were so easy to control.
At that thought, her father’s laughter echoed in her mind. She kicked a pile of thatch, groaning with frustration. Why did he not recognize a woman with her ambition was worth twenty of her sniveling brother?
A branch broke behind her, and Vesperi jumped off the deer path. The culprit was a flying squirrel hustling up a tree. She restrained from obliterating it with a finger point. Her talent was such brutal temptation. Other than the occasional brush with unwanted beasts, however, she did not mind the forest. Her legs minded the constant uphill climbing since yesterday morn, when she had reached a steeper elevation in earnest, but she did have the foresight to bring an extra set of boots, so the going was not as rough as it might have been. The woods gave her respite from her constant alertness. The motives of chattering snavelin as they hunted with their elongated snouts and sticky paws required little consideration.
She made her way through an overgrown patch of thistle that snagged the draping sleeves of her gown. A rock overhang appeared in the distance, a patch of darkness looming beneath it. A few steps closer, and Vesperi recognized the vast mouth of a cave … a cave with a man stepping out of it, struggling to lace his breeches while shielding his eyes from the sun’s glare. She ducked behind a bush and peeked through its leaves. The man peered in her direction and took a few steps.
She could expose herself, perhaps flirt until Esye poked out from beneath the cloud cover. The man was attractive, darker skinned than she with a head of pale, reddish hair, though he was skinnier than she usually liked. Maybe a mountain man with no idea what lord and his daughter lived nearby. Even so, going to him would be a grave mistake—she was a woman alone. He would take her for his own or tie her up until he could sell her at market in Durn.
The clouds did not break, but she had to risk her talent, had to try to pull out the energy somehow lest she be discovered. She raised her finger and nearly squealed when she felt the talent gather in her palm. It swirled in a slow, steady trickle rather than cresting in a tidal wave, but it was there.
The man came closer, examining broken twigs near another deer path, his back to her. He started down it, inspecting shrubs as he went and stopping to wipe his boots on the underbrush.
Now. She pointed and released a ball of silver no bigger than the ones she had teased the horses with. But her aim was off and it flew past him.
His eyes widened as it flashed and disappeared down the path. He ran off after it, and she released a second to keep him running.
He had made her escape from Sellwyn a million times more difficult, but at least he was searching the other path now. She would avoid it and all deer trails she had been taking.
Another branch broke, and fear that the man had thought better of chasing after silver sparks ran through her. She shifted toward the sound, but what caught her eye shocked her more than his return would have. There was no cave mouth where it had stood moments ago. The overhang met a sheer wall of rock, not an opening. Was he a wizard? Had he cast a façade over the exposure?
The enormity of such a trick moved her legs forward to investigate despite the risk. She ran her hand over the rock, cool to the touch, its coloring a mix of pinks and whites. She scrutinized it, watching for cracks or a chisel mark but it was solid. There were no signs someone had made camp, either. Dainty blossoms covered the ground beside
the rock face, not a petal trod.
The rabbit last night addled my mind. Or maybe the barools had a touch of poison on their spikes. It was possible, more likely than a wizard taking the time to play with her when her father would want her caged in a return caravan.
She slung her pack over her shoulder and picked up a considerable rock. Carrying it would slow her down, but she had a feeling she might need it. The delusion was easily explained away, but she still felt as though something had its eye on her. If there was, the cold of a higher altitude might scare it off. Vesperi set off determined to reach the highlands by evening.
CHAPTER 24
JANTO
Janto is exhausted by the time he makes it back to his inviting pile of pine needles and cobwebs. He cannot muster the energy to curse Rall’s snoring, merely tumbles to the ground. Something crunches beneath him, a bug that failed to scurry away fast enough. That he slayed the silver stag—a creature of legend!—is still so unreal. His eyelids roll closed, but starlight wavers inside of them. He wills his head to stop swimming. The cider Nap gave him must have been potent, or his tolerance was weakened after such a tiring day of running and adrenaline rushing. The ache of his bow arm and feet demand sleep, but hours after he pulled the stag through the path on his cloak, Janto is too amazed to rest.
He cannot wait to tell Serra. She will laugh at his excitement then pull him in for a kiss, her green eyes sparkling like the waters of the River Call. He misses her, so much does he miss her. He can picture her now, wearing the purple dress from his last birthday, the one with green lace where the neckline plunges low. There are purple feathers sewn into it. Her hair tumbles over her shoulders, glinting almost gold as it blows in the breeze like the sun peeking between its strands. She wears the same necklace she always does, a gift from her mother before the accident. Its ribbon is the yellow of an overripe lemon and dotted with brown specks of clove buds her grandmother threaded through it decades ago. Serra told him it signified the spice trade and how it had brought Gavenstone back from the brink of famine when their vines failed for a decade. To Janto, it calls to mind only her scent and the warmth of her skin.
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