by John Marco
There was no answer. The spirit voices in her head went on and on, refusing to talk directly to her in their grief and anguish. They were a fickle lot, the dead Akari, and when they were sad or angry they tortured Minikin.
“Trog,” she gasped, “open the door.”
Trog didn’t bother trying the knob himself. Instead he slammed his shoulder into the door, splintering the jamb. The door burst open with an explosive bang. The noise would have frightened anyone else, but the only occupant of the chamber didn’t stir. Insight sat in her lonely chair by the light of a candle, staring at the wall in her silent stupor. Her mother, Alena, was nowhere to be found. Minikin supposed she was somewhere doing chores.
“Wait here,” Minikin told Trog, then went into the room and quickly knelt down before Insight. The girl didn’t acknowledge her, even when Minikin took her hand. “Insight, child, listen to me,” Minikin pleaded. “I need you to help me. I need you to tell me what’s happened in Jador.”
As always, it took a few moments for the girl’s consciousness to stir. She did not blink or turn her head, but slowly her mouth began to move with the unseen aid of her Akari spirit.
“Minikin. . . .”
“Yes, child, it’s me. Can you summon Lacaron? Is he with you?”
“Lacaron is here,” said the voice. Minikin couldn’t tell if it was the girl or the spirit talking.
“Lacaron? Can you hear me?”
This time the voice was solidly male. “Lacaron can hear.”
Minikin knew the Akari spirit had seen the trouble, whatever it was. She braced herself as she asked, “Which one is it, Lacaron? Kadar or the Liirian?”
“They have battled,” said the voice. “They are defeated.”
“Who?” Minikin demanded. “Who’s defeated?”
For the first time that Minikin could remember, Insight’s face actually flinched. Her voice shook as she said, “Kadar.”
Minikin fell back on her heels. Though she had known it in her heart, it was unbearable to have her last flame of hope extinguished. “No. . . .” She closed her eyes. “Please don’t say so.”
“The kahan is dead,” said Lacaron through Insight. “The man with one arm comes to tell you.”
Minikin knelt, unable to speak. There seemed nothing else to ask the spirit. She did not want Lacaron to continue, but the spirit did so.
“Many men, many dead. On the field and in the city.” Insight’s young face fell as she gave the terrible news. “Kadar is gone.”
For long minutes Minikin remained on the floor beside Insight, unable to lift herself from the spot. She didn’t know what she would do without her old friend. And she couldn’t imagine telling White-Eye the news. Outside the chamber, Trog peeked his head over the threshold. She could feel his concerned eyes watching her.
“I . . .” Her words choked off. “I need some time, Trog,” she managed. “I need to be alone.”
Reluctantly, Trog turned and left his mistress in the dim chamber. When he was gone and she was sure he would not hear her, Minikin wept.
The sun was off their backs as Gilwyn and White-Eye rode in the protective shadows of Grimhold. Emerald, Gilwyn’s kreel, moved across the sands at a gentle trot. It was a good day, clear and pleasant despite their many worries, and they had been riding for almost an hour without rest. In his short time with Emerald, Gilwyn had easily bonded with the beast, and now could command her almost completely with his mind, a strange and wonderful sensation that the boy had quickly found addicting. When he rode, he was not a cripple or an object of ridicule—he was like the grand horsemen of Liiria’s past, and as good as any other boy. More, Emerald had become a true companion, like Teku or even Figgis, a creature he could really call a friend. Since coming to Grimhold, he had not busied himself with the keep’s defense as Lukien did, but instead had indulged himself with things he never thought possible. Like riding. Or being with a girl.
White-Eye had been remarkably kind to him, and Gilwyn adored her. He supposed she felt much the same, or at least a bit so, for she spent great amounts of time with him and had been the first to show him the “real” Grimhold. With Minikin’s permission, they had come out to explore the village from a safe distance, in the daytime when the risk to White-Eye was greatest. At first Minikin had refused, saying it would be dangerous for the girl, but White-Eye had desperately wanted to ride with Gilwyn, and so they had fashioned a blinder for her, a thick strip of dark cloth that covered her eyes, shielding them from the relentless sun. It was odd looking but functional, and Gilwyn didn’t mind. How could he, when she didn’t even see his own oddities? He didn’t know if the spirit that guided her had described his clubbed foot and hand to her; he had never asked her. White-Eye simply didn’t seem to care, and that was good enough for Gilwyn.
The cooling shadows of Grimhold shielded them as they rode. Gilwyn did his best always to keep the sun off them. He could tell by the way White-Eye sometimes winced that even this was painful for her, but then she would smile as if nothing in the world was wrong. She knew that her father was back in Jador, worrying about her and waiting for Akeela’s army to come. Yet even that couldn’t spoil the joy of the ride, and as Emerald trotted quickly through the valley Gilwyn could feel her breath on his neck as she laughed. It was good that they were enjoying themselves, he supposed. Tomorrow or the next day might bring tragedy, but for now they were safe and happy, happier than Gilwyn had ever been in his life. He had seen very little of Lukien lately, and though he felt some guilt over that, he convinced himself that he was not really needed. Lukien was the military man, after all, and was already doing an excellent job making the Inhumans into an army.
Today is mine, he told himself happily.
And maybe, if he was lucky, so was White-Eye.
Emerald quickened a bit beneath them, sensing Gilwyn’s happiness. The boy had one hand on the reins and both legs strapped to the saddle so that he couldn’t fall—there were no stirrups on a kreel’s saddle and no reason for a clubbed foot to hinder him. White-Eye kept her arms wrapped tightly about his waist. Silently he told Emerald to slow down, worried about the girl. In her strange reptilian language, Emerald seemed to tell him not to fret.
Deciding to take a break, Gilwyn brought the kreel to a stop at the top of a swale. They were in the shade of one of the fortress’ tall turrets, with Grimhold’s town clearly visible in the distance. As Emerald came to a halt, White-Eye took her arms from Gilwyn’s waist.
“Why are you stopping?” she asked.
Gilwyn carefully slid down from the kreel’s back. “I thought you might be tired.”
“No,” said White-Eye.
“Well, I am,” said Gilwyn. He took White-Eye’s hand and helped her down. “There’s a great view here and. . . .” He stopped himself, shocked by what he’d said, but White-Eye only laughed.
“Don’t worry,” she told him. “You can’t offend me. Faralok shows me all I need to see.”
Faralok was White-Eye’s Akari guide. She had rarely spoken his name, and it intrigued Gilwyn. He led her away from Emerald toward the edge of the tor. It was dim and cooler in the shadow of the keep, yet she still squinted beneath her black blinder.
“How are your eyes?” he asked. “We can go back now if you like.”
“No, I don’t want to go back. It’s good to be outside.” White-Eye took a deep, soulful breath. “I’m glad Minikin let us go. It’s been ages since I rode a kreel. My father took me once, a long time ago.”
Gilwyn guided her down and together they sat on the sands overlooking the town. He stared at her, entranced by her dark beauty. Lukien had once confided in him during the long ride south that he had loved Queen Cassandra the moment he’d set eyes on her. It had been that way for Gilwyn, too; instant love. He wondered if White-Eye knew he was staring, and if Faralok made her aware of such things. He had so many questions for the girl. In the few days he had spent in Grimhold, he had already learned a great deal. But the Inhumans were full of mysteries.
“Tomorrow, maybe,” replied White-Eye. Then she smiled. “If Minikin lets me out again.”
“Hmm, I doubt it,” said Gilwyn. Convincing the mistress to let them go had been difficult enough. “You’re very close to Minikin, aren’t you? She acts like your mother.”
White-Eye thought for a moment. “Yes, she is, in a way. She’s protected me since I came here. She’s taught me everything I know, especially how to use Faralok.”
“Is it hard?” asked Gilwyn. “Controlling the Akari, I mean? Is it like controlling the kreel?”
“I don’t know what it’s like to bond with a kreel, Gilwyn. But no, it isn’t hard to control Faralok. And control isn’t a good word, really. He speaks to me. With his help, it’s like I can really see.”
The answer intrigued Gilwyn. “So you’re always talking with him? Even now?” he asked. “And he just tells you what’s around you, just like that?”
“At first it was like that,” said White-Eye. She leaned back on her palms so that her dark hair fell back. “But now it’s easy. It’s not even like talking.” She shrugged. “I just know what’s around me.”
Gilwyn slumped down to one elbow, leaning and studying the girl. “I wish I knew what it was like to talk to my Akari,” he sighed. “Minikin told me she would teach me, but she’s been too busy. All that I know is that her name is Ruana. But I don’t know what she’s for or anything.”
“If Minikin granted you a spirit, there must be a reason, Gilwyn. You should trust her. When the time is right, she’ll teach you about Ruana.”
Gilwyn’s mind reeled with the possibilities. “I don’t think she’ll be able to help me walk any better,” he mused. “But maybe she’ll help me to see in the dark like you, or do magic like Minikin. I saw her summon the Akari once in Koth. They were like pillars of fire! I’d like to do that someday.”
White-Eye chuckled at the idea. “The Akari are to help us, Gilwyn, not to entertain us.”
“I know,” said Gilwyn. “But it would be nice to have some power for once, to not feel so helpless.” He grimaced as he looked at his clubbed hand, so useless and deformed. His sudden silence caught White-Eye’s attention.
“What are you thinking about?” she asked.
“Oh, nothing,” Gilwyn lied.
“I don’t believe you,” said White-Eye, grinning. “You’re wondering if I know what you look like.”
Her deduction made Gilwyn flush. “Well, yes,” he admitted. “I have wondered that a little.” He glanced away. “Do you know what I look like?”
White-Eye nodded. “As much as I can, yes.”
“And you don’t mind?”
“Gilwyn, I live with people with far worse deformities than yours. How could you ask me such a question? Do you mind that my eyes are so ugly?”
“They’re not!” said Gilwyn. “I think they’re beautiful.”
White-Eye laughed, but he could tell she loved the compliment. “You’re a very polite liar,” she said.
“I’m not lying, White-Eye,” said Gilwyn. He slid a little closer to her. “I think you’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.”
White-Eye didn’t move. She merely stared ahead. Her lips pursed. Gilwyn could tell she was nervous. A fluttering sensation went through his stomach. Should he kiss her? Would she stop him? He leaned closer, his lips barely brushing her cheek. . . .
. . . then was startled by a sudden cry.
“White-Eye?”
Gilwyn jerked back and looked around. White-Eye sprang to her feet. Up the tor walked Minikin, accompanied by Trog. Gilwyn felt a stab of terror when he saw her, sure that she’d somehow read his intentions. But when he saw her distressed expression he knew something far worse had happened.
“Minikin?” White-Eye called to her. “What is it?”
Minikin climbed the tor without speaking, facing the girl. She swallowed hard. Gilwyn had never seen her this way, and it frightened him. She was obviously bracing herself. White-Eye began to tremble.
“Minikin?” she asked. “Has something happened?”
The tiny woman’s voice shook as she answered, “Baron Glass, the Liirian. He’s on his way to Grimhold.”
White-Eye was deathly still. She whispered, “My father?”
Minikin took the girl’s hand. “I’m sorry, child. He’s gone.”
Gilwyn couldn’t move. His grief for White-Eye overwhelmed him. White-Eyed bitterly stripped the blinder from her face and tossed it to the ground. It was strange to see her peculiar eyes crying, but the tears came fast.
It was nearly nightfall when Thorin Glass finally reached Grimhold. He was exhausted from the ride, a nearly nonstop sprint across the desert, and when at last they reached the mountains Glass thought he would faint from hunger and thirst. Benik, his guide, drove their kreel into a wide canyon with high, red peaks rising around them. Shadows grew in the crevices between hills. Benik said nothing as he concentrated, spying the scraggy hills for the right direction and always deciding quickly. Thorin held tight to the reins as they rode. His one good arm ached from the effort.
“Is it near?” he asked hoarsely.
Benik slowed their mount and nodded. “Very near.”
A moment later, they turned a corner in the canyon and saw torchlight in the distance. Thorin fought to focus his eyes. They were in the shadow of a gigantic mountain. A wide iron gate opened into it, revealing an interior of orange light. There were figures in the light. They shouted when they noticed the newcomers.
“Thorin, over here!” cried a voice. A waving man stepped out from the gate.
“Lukien!”
“Grimhold,” pronounced Benik. He let out a weary sigh, then pointed at the shadowed figures. “They await you.”
Thorin dropped eagerly off the kreel’s back and hurried toward the keep. It was an awesome sight, tall and forbidding, but the welcome shouts from Lukien settled his fears. There was a giant outside the gate who Thorin thought was Trog at first, but soon realized was some sort of guardian. The midget woman Minikin was at the gate as well, her diminutive figure cloaked in shadows. Lukien hurried out from the gate toward Thorin, meeting him halfway. A smile of huge relief graced his face.
“Thorin, thank the Fate you’re all right!” cried Lukien. As they met he embraced the baron. The hug squeezed the strength from Thorin’s body.
“Easy, Lukien,” he laughed, “I’m ready to drop from that bloody ride!”
Lukien stood back and inspected him. “You look like death,” he said. His smile waned, becoming sad and crooked. “The battle. Very bad?”
Glass nodded. It was hard to think of how he’d abandoned Kadar. He looked toward the dimly lit gate, realizing that Gilwyn hadn’t come to greet him. “Where’s the boy?” he asked.
Lukien replied, “Comforting Kadar’s daughter.”
Thorin looked at him. “How’d you know about that?”
“There’s a lot to explain to you, Thorin. Minikin was right—some of her people can do amazing things.”
“I don’t understand,” said Thorin, puzzled.
Lukien put an arm around the baron and led him toward the keep. “I’ll explain it to you,” he said. “But first you need to rest.”
“Gods, yes,” groaned Thorin. “Food and drink, if you please.” He gestured toward Benik behind him. “For him as well. We’re both starved and exhausted.”
“We’ve already prepared something for you. Come.”
“Already? But how’d you know—”
“No, no more questions yet,” said Lukien. “We’ll have a hundred from you soon enough.”
He led Thorin into the gate where Minikin was waiting. The little woman’s expression was bleak. Around her stood the strangest people Thorin had ever seen. He stared at them, shocked by their deformities. Minikin stepped forward and took his hand.
“Welcome to Grimhold, Baron Glass,” she said. �
��And thank you for all you’ve done for us.”
Thorin shook his head. “Do not thank me, madam. I left your good kahan to die. Now, if you have food for a coward, I would appreciate it.”
“The food is this way,” she said, gesturing down a hall, “but it’s for a hero, not a coward.”
“If you say so, my lady,” replied Thorin. He let the tiny woman guide him into the miraculous keep, deep into its stone halls. Lukien followed close behind but did not say a word. Somberness infused the air. The Inhumans, as they were called, stood and talked in little huddles, their voices muted. Thorin knew they were worried, and with good reason. He dreaded the news he had to deliver, even though it seemed they already knew it. Soon they reached a large chamber off the hallway. The doors were open, revealing an interior well lit by candles and a wooden table filled with food and drink. The sight of it buoyed Thorin. He sat down without invitation, tore a chunk from a loaf of bread and poured a tall mug of ale as he chewed. Lukien took a chair across from him while Minikin closed the door, obviously shutting out unwanted ears.
“Well?” Thorin asked between bites. “Tell me what you know.”
Lukien did the talking. He told Thorin about Insight, an amazing girl who could see the future, and how she had told them of Kadar’s death. Thorin listened as he ate, skeptically enthralled. But he was distressed to learn that Insight hadn’t told them everything; they still didn’t know what had happened to the rest of Kadar’s men.
“Dead,” said Thorin as he lowered his mug. “I’m sure of it.”
The news struck Minikin hard. “All of them?” She seemed unable to believe it. “How could your king be so ruthless?”
“He’s not our king,” said Lukien darkly. “He’s not the Akeela we served, not anymore.”
“Speak for yourself, Lukien,” said Thorin. “I could have told you the moment I met Akeela what a demented little snake he was.”
“You’re wrong, Thorin,” argued Lukien. “You never really knew him.”
Thorin was incredulous. “How could you defend him? I just told you—he massacred those warriors! Probably the folk in the city, too!”