by Ford, Shae
“One ought to do it, thank you,” Jake said, taking the minceworm from him. He held it up to Kyleigh. “Fascinating, isn’t it?”
She leaned away. “It’s certainly … something.”
“The smoke knocks them out — this one won’t wake for hours. It’s like coaxing bees from a hive.” The worm flopped wetly as he shook it. “There’s actually an awful lot about the minceworms’ behavior that remind me of bees. For example: they line their nests with silk, but there aren’t any eggs inside! It makes me wonder if the entire desert might be some sort of gigantic hive …”
Jake’s prattling went on, but Kyleigh wasn’t listening. She never actually planned any of her mischief out: the ideas simply came to her, showing up suddenly in the oddest of places. She never knew what sorts of things were going to inspire her. But as she looked around at the silk farm, an idea suddenly struck her.
She had to fight very hard to keep from grinning as she followed Jake out of the tunnel.
*******
When Kyleigh woke the next morning, it was to the force of a spear butt jabbing her side. Nadine’s face came sharply into focus — and she didn’t look happy. “What have you done, a’calla?” she hissed.
“Done about what?”
Nadine pointed to the window — where Silas was already crouched. He clapped his hands together gleefully. “Oooo, look at the guards running around! They’re like worried little ants.”
“This is nothing to laugh about!” Nadine snapped at him. Then she spun on Kyleigh, grabbing a fistful of her hair when she tried to hide her face. “Every last one of the Grandmot’s goats has been eaten. Minceworms have found their way into her lands!”
“Well, then I suppose they’re hers to keep, aren’t they?” Kyleigh said with a grin.
Chapter 25
A Flock of Crows
When Kael returned to the stall that night, he was surprised to find Eveningwing waiting for him. The boy stood beside Kael’s pallet, his hands clamped behind his back. He was obviously up to something, because he kept digging his toes into the ground.
Well, that — and he looked about as guilty as a thief caught in broad daylight.
“What did you do?” Kael said. He had to fight not to smile when Eveningwing’s face reddened.
He bit his lip and stared very pointedly at the far wall. “I stole the book.”
“What book?”
Eveningwing brought his hands out from behind his back and Kael’s stomach flipped when he saw The Dreadful Journeys of Ben Deathtreader clutched in his hands. “I know most of the words. But I don’t know them all,” Eveningwing admitted. “My memory of them is … fuzzy. I still think you should read it.” He held the book out. “They’re stories of your people.”
“My …?” Then he suddenly remembered what Ludwig had written, about Deathtreader being the literature of the enemy. And it struck him: “It’s a book about whisperers?” he said, so quietly that Eveningwing had to lean in to hear him.
“Yes yes —!”
“Shhh!”
Eveningwing clamped a hand over his mouth. “I mean … yes,” he whispered, glancing out the stall door. Fortunately, the giants were still at dinner. He thrust Deathtreader into Kael’s hands and silently urged him to read it.
He didn’t need much encouragement.
Even in Lysander’s monstrous library, there had been very few books about whisperers. The King had ordered them all burned at the end of the War — and had made it a crime to own anything at all related to whispering.
Kael flipped past the slashing words of Deathtreader’s title and came to the first page. The whole book appeared to have been written in the same sinister hand, but the writing was uneven: sometimes the words were smaller, more concentrated. Sometimes the sharp loops of the letters dipped well into those beneath it. And in some places, it appeared to have been scrawled in a different color of ink — almost more like a journal than a book.
The reading started out more slowly than usual for Kael. It took him a moment to get used to Deathtreader’s peculiar style, but soon he no longer noticed the change in rhythm or ink. The words rose out of the book and seemed to take on a life of their own; the things they described filled his mind, as if he could reach out and touch them.
It wasn’t long before he left the barn and the plains far behind him, and found himself lost — journeying alongside Deathtreader:
I am not your average adventurer. I’m not interested in rocks or trees or even treasures. No, reader — what interests me are mysteries: answers to questions so complicated, that few even think to ask them. And those who do are usually not brave enough, or skilled enough, to seek them out.
I am both.
Follow me to strange new lands, reader. Come face the monsters I have faced: beasts so terrifying that Fate herself dares not let them into this world, but keeps them trapped within our nightmares. Come walk in a realm void of sky, where even the most unassuming trinket might cause the whole world to collapse. And you will come to understand that doubt is the only death worth fearing.
What follows is an account of me — Ben Deathtreader — and the tales of my most dreadful journeys.
The mind is a house with many rooms …
Kael pulled himself out of the book so suddenly that he nearly tipped backwards. He’d heard that phrase spoken before.
It seemed like ages ago, but Kael remembered it clearly: Morris had said the exact same thing, once. He’d been explaining the skill of mind-walking — a branch of healing so powerful, that allowed a whisperer to transport himself into the mind of another person. It was supposedly such a dangerous trick that Morris made him swear to never try it. And he fully intended to keep his word.
Kael looked up, but the stall was empty. Eveningwing had vanished. He’d likely set out to visit Jonathan, or perhaps he’d gone in search of a snack. Before Kael could wonder too much about it, the torches fluttered and dimmed. He had no choice but to stuff Deathtreader under his pallet and try to act as if nothing had happened.
A moment later, the giants flooded into the stall and began to settle down for the night. Brend had spent the whole evening telling the others about the joke he’d pulled on Finks. They chortled about it all through dinner — and had even come up with a plan to spread the tale amongst the other mages.
Everyone agreed that it would be a mightily grand thing if they could get all of the mages to think that Scalybones was after them.
Before long, the giants’ excited whispers faded into grunts and snores, and Kael was left with little to distract him. He was exhausted; he knew he ought to get some rest. But Deathtreader’s words raced unchecked through his head. Their dark mystery drove off his sleep, and he found himself longing to know more about mind-walking. His fingers itched to turn the next page.
After a few moments, a mischievous little voice rose up in his head: You aren’t really trying it, the voice whispered. And you promised only that you wouldn’t try it, not that you wouldn’t read about it. What harm could there be in reading?
That was all it took to convince him.
Kael snuck Deathtreader out from the corner of his pallet and opened it carefully, so that the pages wouldn’t crackle. His eyes flicked hungrily across the next lines:
The mind is a house with many rooms. Whether a man is rich or poor, it makes no difference. I have discovered a mansion hidden inside a hermit’s skull: a beautiful, glowing world of warm fires, vaulted ceilings, and chambers grand enough to shame a King.
But inside noblemen’s heads, I’ve often found the world to be disappointingly drab and simple — no more complicated than a hermit’s hovel. I suppose if a man wants for nothing, he will dream of nothing. Though I can’t prove it.
Regardless of the circumstances of our births, hidden within each of us is a world of our own devising: our minds. Every thought, desire, and even our unconscious dreams serve in its construction. It is a living thing. The pathways are ever-changing, new wings form the moment
the old ones have crumbled, and the secrets — oh, the secrets scream out from the walls, trying to snare the unwary adventurer.
Do not follow their voices, reader. They mean to send you down a dark path … a path from which you will not likely return.
Though the way be dreadful, I’ve walked the hallways of the heart. I’ve survived the maze of fear and discovered the Inner Sanctum. The steepest stairs I’ve ever climbed were not made of brick and mortar, but of belief. And if a man isn’t firm in his morals, the climb can be most treacherous, indeed. There is no help for you, once you have entered. Even the owner will not know all of the dangers that await you.
For the mind is a house with many rooms — and we are merely its caretakers …
Kael didn’t know how many times he read Deathtreader — though when he woke the next morning, his face was plastered to its pages.
The stories were so complicated, so shrouded in mystery, that he couldn’t quite piece them all together. Even if he’d read it a dozen times, he still didn’t think he would have understood everything.
As Kael followed the giants out to their allotted field, Deathtreader consumed his thoughts. He was so wrapped up in his wonderings that he very nearly lost his head.
“Watch it!”
Kael ducked just in time: Brend’s scythe hissed through the air above him, clipping off the top of his wildest curl. “Sorry,” he muttered. He ran a hand through his hair, and the loose bits showered out.
“Don’t apologize to me,” Brend called over his shoulder. “It wasn’t my head that nearly fell off!”
The giants moved in a perfect line across the winter wheat fields. Their scythes swung out from their middles in wide arcs, and heads of grain fell helplessly in their wake. Golden shafts toppled over onto their sides, falling with a final shiver, and it was Kael’s job to pick them up.
His scythe skills had not improved. The weapon was simply too big around for his grip. His scythe had flown out of his hand on the first swing and wound up nearly maiming the giant next to him. So while the others harvested, Kael had been ordered to follow along behind them and tie the wheat into bundles.
It was an exceptionally dull task, and one that exposed far more of his neck to the sun than necessary. He straightened up for a breath, touching the burnt, red skin gingerly with the tips of his fingers. He’d been hoping that his freckles would eventually grow so numerous that they’d blend together, browning his skin like the sun had the giants’. But unfortunately, he seemed to have only two colors: white and red.
Kael knew he might very well get his head lopped off if he didn’t pay attention. So he forced himself to stop thinking about Deathtreader and instead focused all of his concentration on the task at hand. He tried to keep his mind on the wheat bundles, he really did. But it wasn’t long before he found himself distracted by something else.
He had to find someway to escape the plains. Several disappointing days had gone by, and he was beginning to think that Jonathan would never make it into the women’s tower. It was frustrating, having to wait on him — it was like waiting for the rain to stop, or for a fair wind to blow.
And in the meantime, all of the excitement of the plains had thoroughly worn off. The work became tedious, the giants annoyed him, and his back ached for the comfort of a soft, clean bed. But until Jonathan could get a map of the tower, their plan was completely hobbled …
Even as he thought this, he knew it wasn’t entirely Jonathan’s fault. Though he’d been wracking his brain for days, Kael still hadn’t figured out a way around the mages. If the giants fought, they’d be blasted to smoldering bits. If they tried to sneak out — well, they weren’t exactly light on their feet.
So far, Kael hadn’t been able to come up with a single scenario that didn’t end in a fiery death. It was a horrible, tangled puzzle. And it was beginning to wear on his patience.
He swiped the moisture from his brow and looked up to see how much more of the field they had left to go. That’s when he spotted a lone figure working at the head of the line.
Declan moved through the wheat as if every shaft was his enemy: sparring with his invisible foes, stepping in complicated patterns and slinging his weapon about him with such force that heads of grain went flying in every direction. His movements were tight, practiced. There was little he did that didn’t result in a large clump of wheat falling to the ground.
It gave Kael chills to watch. Now he believed what Morris had said about the giants. He thought he might’ve had a better chance against a shark than Declan.
A lonesome call drew his gaze to the skies. Eveningwing circled above them, watching for any stray rodents the giants might scare out of the field. No matter how many times Kael told him not to, Eveningwing always seemed to find them at some point in the day. He would glide above them, riding the gusts of wind, and try to be useful wherever he could.
Lately, he’d been watching over the cornfields. A flock of crows had taken up residence nearby, and they loved to follow the giants around on planting days: gobbling up the seed almost the moment it struck the ground. So Eveningwing had made it his personal duty to chase them off.
He flew by, tipping his wings to catch Kael’s attention, and then dove towards the cornfields for a surprise attack. Frantic caws rent the air and dirt went flying as the great, black body of crows scattered in every direction. Their spindly legs kicked madly beneath their wings as they pumped themselves into the air. Eveningwing flashed through the crowd like a gray thunderbolt, nipping at their tail feathers.
The crows fled for the barn and huddled en masse on the roof — squawking angrily to one another. Their taunting chatter filled the air as Eveningwing circled overhead, but they didn’t move. They seemed to realize that the halfhawk wasn’t going to risk landing among them: once he left the air, he would lose his advantage. As long as they stayed put, the crows knew they would be safe.
After a moment, Eveningwing finally sailed off in a huff — screeching over the top of the crows’ jeers. He may have been angry that his game was spoiled, but at least now the corn would be able to grow in peace …
Kael stopped suddenly, the knot on his bundle half-finished. An idea glowed in the darkness, a strip of hot iron waiting to be forged. He turned it over, thinking furiously about how he would shape it. Then a memory pressed against the side of his head, pushing out against the iron like air from a bellows. It glowed so brightly that Kael had to shut his eyes against it.
Sweet mercy — that was it.
He didn’t have to go to war with the mages. He didn’t have to risk sounding the horn and starting a battle: he would scare them away, send them fleeing for the refuge of the castle like a flock of crows. Brend had already planted the seed. His tales of Scalybones were already being passed around the Fields, and it wouldn’t be long before they began to take root.
All Kael needed to do was think of someway to bring the specter to life, and fear would do the rest.
The fires retreated, the iron cooled, and Kael was left with the beginnings of a very promising plan.
*******
When their work was finished for the day, Kael practically sprinted back to Westbarn. He went straight into the stall and saw Eveningwing sitting in hawk form among the rafters. Kael thought he looked rather guilty, but it wasn’t until he nearly cut his foot open that he realized why.
The hawk had once again been snacking where he wasn’t supposed to: a pile of rodent bones lay beside Kael’s pallet, picked clean and left sharp. But he was far too focused to be angry.
“Have you heard anything from Jonathan?” Kael said, prying a tiny bone from the leather of his foot.
Eveningwing’s head bobbed up and down excitedly. He hopped in among the folds of his ragged tunic, which he’d been using as a makeshift nest. After a few moments of digging, he emerged.
He had a roll of parchment clamped in his beak, which he dropped into Kael’s waiting hand. “Excellent — and we will be discussing this,” Kael added
, holding up the bone. “So don’t think you’ve gotten off easily.”
Eveningwing’s head sagged low, making him look as miserable as a hawk possibly could.
Kael tore the parchment open in a rush, hoping to mercy that Jonathan had discovered something — anything — that he might be able to work with. His heart began thumping excitedly as he read the first line:
I’ve got some blistering good news, mate: I’ve made quite a bit of progress on our little pro —
“What’s that?”
Kael jumped.
Declan stood in the doorway, his brows tipped low over his eyes. He jabbed a thick finger at Kael’s letter. “I knew it. I knew you’ve been up to something — shooting off right after dinner, whispering to your feathered pet. Don’t move.”
Kael didn’t. There was a darkness in Declan’s eyes that he’d never seen before: it was as if the black of his pupils had spilled out into the gray. His stare had grown so wide that Kael felt as if there was no escaping it. He’d never seen a man’s eyes do something like that. It wasn’t natural.
When Declan leaned around the door and called for Brend, his voice sounded completely different — as if somebody else spoke for him.
“Uh, oh,” Brend said as he approached. “Now Declan, remember to take deep breaths —”
“That rat’s up to something,” he growled. Veins bulged dangerously from his neck. “I don’t know what it is, but I don’t trust him one — omft!”
Brend threw a fistful of dust directly into the middle of Declan’s face. It stuck to the sweat on his brow and lips. His eyes blinked out from it in surprise, and Kael was relieved to see they were a normal shade of gray once again.
“Better?” Brend said. He waited for Declan to nod. “Now, what are you all fussed about?”
“The rat has a letter.”
“Does he, now?” Brend leaned around to grin at Kael. “Is it from your wee fiddler friend?”