JUSTICE (The Ferryman + The Flame #2)

by Paille, Rhiannon

  “Time for a new Ferryman.”

  Krishani felt sick at the words. He scrambled away from the thick wooden planks of the table and scampered out of the hall almost on all fours. As he passed the heavy wooden doors he fell on his knees and choked for air. He closed his eyes and remembered the piercing brown eyes of the Ferryman.

  It is your time now.

  It is your time now.

  His memories were faithful reminders time moved forward whether or not Krishani was frozen in it. The stone below his cheek dissolved into mud and alarmed shouts rang out nearby. He opened his eyes and saw nothing but the worn mucky path hastily traveled by fleeing villagers. He raced to his feet and tried to wipe the muck off his face, smearing it down the side of his breeches. He glanced at the remnants of the village. Skeletons of straw huts blackened by fire surrounded him. He turned and turned, taking in the severity of the damage. He looked to the western sky, the outline of mountains in the distance. He recoiled and averted his gaze. To the east were endless skies and plains. He took a step, his boots squishing in the mud. There was no Ferryman to protect the people. Nobody to help them fight against whatever enemies plagued them. He closed his eyes as flashes of the midnight battle in Avristar flooded his eyes. This was a slaughter compared to that—houses lit on fire, people screaming, running, fighting, failing. Death lingered in the air like the icy chill of winter. Krishani shivered and pulled his cloak around his shoulders. He wanted to forget everything he had seen and race back to the comforting sounds of the waterfall, but as he passed the twelfth hollow hut his stomach lurched. He fell to his knees, vertigo setting in. His heart weighed a thousand pounds as the ground swayed. He slowly turned his head towards the hut. There, poised in the air above the ravaged body of a beige-skinned woman was the outline of the enemy. A pitch black void hovered against the canvas of the decaying realm, humanoid, but devoid of physical matter. Thick wisps of black energy created a swarm of layers around the being darker than the night sky. It was its own maelstrom, an individually contained storm.

  Krishani didn’t think as he pulled himself to his feet and ran until he tripped over himself and tumbled down a hill, his face colliding with the ground.

  Drops of water stung Krishani’s face as he came to. He groaned, shifted his weight and sat up. He rubbed his eyes and tried to focus. All he could see in his mind’s eye was the storm cloud surrounding the beast. The crashing sounds of the waterfall were enough to make him realize he was back in Avristar.

  He blinked and stared at the mouth of the cave. His stomach tensed as he recalled the dream. Lord Tavesin is waiting for me, he thought bitterly as the pain coursed through his heart. Avristar hated him. He could feel it in the beat of the land, his foreignness fighting against his will to appeal to its mercy. Avristar was no longer a merciful land. It was no longer anything desirable. It was broken beyond repair.

  Krishani huffed and ripped up a patch of grass. He tossed it into the bushes on the side of the cave and drew his knees to his chest. He let out a shaky breath as he contemplated his next move. Crestaos and the Daed were still out there. They were still hunting the Flames. Worse yet were these unknown enemies, the ones burning the village, and the ones hovering over the maimed girl. A deep chill rested in his bones at the thought of the demon.

  He put his hands on his knees, so much pressure and responsibility on him. Maybe limbo refused to take him because it couldn’t take him. He grimaced as he inhaled another sweet mouthful of Kaliel’s scent. He spent countless nights with her in the cave. It would always be their place in Orlondir.

  He brushed his fingers along his breeches, trying to clean the dirt from his fingertips. He hadn’t bothered to rinse his hands after digging them into her grave. His heart was so heavy with grief it felt numb as it thumped steadily in his chest. The dirt seemed to be caked into his fingers. He sighed and left the cave, running his hands under the waterfall. The first time he touched the water he formed ice. He could still imagine her body curled against the frame of the cave entrance, staring at him with a perplexed look on her face. It was comforting and crippling at the same time.

  Krishani pulled his hands out of the water and stared at them. The left one was bereft of dirt, but the right one had blackness fused to his fingertips. It crept across his fingernails. He put his hand back in the water, spreading his fingers, letting the water wash over them. When he removed his hand he expected to see the dirt gone, but the blackness remained, like a mark etched into his skin.

  Panic swept through him as he wiped his hand on his cloak and looked at his fingertips again. Nothing changed. Krishani sucked in a breath as he fled towards the Elmare Castle. He finally had something he actually wanted to talk to Melianna about.

  Krishani pushed open the heavy doors and wandered across the marble floor. He tried to wash his hand in the fountain, but it was no use—the mark was intrinsically attached to him. He paused, the cloud of a memory almost forcing itself into the fore of his mind, but footsteps in the hall distracted him.

  “I cannot stave it off any longer, Atara.” Istar’s haughty voice wafted through the corridors. Krishani glanced at the lower east wing, remembering the rain. The sky responded to his every whim and command, something he tried to achieve for moons. Anger triggered it, and somehow pain channeled his abilities fluently. He closed his blackened hand into a fist and tried not to recall the vile words Istar spoke.

  “You cannot give him time to heal?” Atara’s meek voice pierced the silence.

  Krishani gulped; she understood.

  “We have no choice. Avristar is in ruins. It will be destroyed if we let him stay!” Istar’s hiss wafted through the halls. Their footsteps drew closer, but he didn’t try to conceal himself. He wanted to speak with Atara, but another confrontation with Istar would prove unpleasant.

  Krishani listened to the clicking sounds of his own foot tapping against the floor. He looked at the fountain, his fingertips grazing the sacred waters, the blackened marks congealed to his fingers.

  “Krishani is not to be blamed for his actions. He’s innocent.” Atara’s voice wavered as her feet clicked across the floor, trying to stay in step with Istar.

  “Innocent?” Istar snarled. “Innocence doesn’t cause mass destruction. Innocence doesn’t bring the enemy to our doorstep!”

  Krishani hung his head. He tried to pull himself to the west wing. How was he supposed to talk to anyone that knew Kaliel? Sitting in the mess hall with Pux had been hard enough; the feorn’s brotherly love for her was enough to make him vomit.

  Atara’s footsteps stopped. Krishani envisioned her crossing her arms and staring Istar down. “You are impossible. Compassionless. Do you realize what we have lost?”

  Istar stopped. Krishani imagined him staring into Atara’s eyes. “How am I to repair the damage done to our land?”

  “How am I to repair the damage done to our people?” Atara said. Her voice shook. “Can you not see the heavy burden we must bear? Why do you care about the land alone?” She squeaked as though she had no breath in her to speak and Krishani listened to the long pause. He quietly dragged his heavy boots along the floor as he waited for their conversation to continue.

  “What are you doing here?” Mallorn hissed. He grabbed Krishani’s blackened hand and dragged the boy up the steps to the west wing. Mallorn’s eyes found the mark on Krishani’s hand. He threw it away, a ghastly expression on his face.

  Krishani met the gaze, confusion clouding his expression. He tried to find his tongue. “I may have a battle scar.” He lifted his hand and stared at its peculiarity. The blackness spread to the second knuckles in his fingers. He went to lower his hand, but Mallorn caught him by the wrist and held it up in the air.

  “That’s no battle scar,” he said. He sized up the boy, focusing on his hand. “You’re turning. This is because of your calling.”

  Krishani regretted returning to the castle. Not more talk of Ferrymen. He wrenched his hand out of Mallorn’s grip. “I don’t want t
o be the Ferryman.”

  Mallorn scoffed. “You can deny it all you want, but you cannot escape it.”

  Krishani went down the hallway. He knew Mallorn would follow him, but he needed air or relief, something to help clear his head. “I’m nothing.”

  Mallorn grabbed his forearm and pulled up his sleeve to show him the black marks. “You have no choice. This will spread until you are no more.”

  Krishani half-smiled. Mallorn meant it as a deterrent, but it made Krishani happy to know there was a way out. After all he had been through there was a way to die.

  “The end of me,” he breathed.

  Mallorn whacked him across the back of the head. “Stop it. The Ferrymen are important.”

  Krishani let his head throb. He didn’t raise his hand to rub the spot Mallorn struck. From the dream he knew just how important the Ferrymen were. People died by the thousands in the Lands of Men and no one protected them. He stopped at the sixteenth corridor. “I have nothing to live for.”

  Mallorn’s forehead creased in tight wrinkles. “Death. You must live for that.”

  Krishani wanted to smack him for his answer. Instead, he balled up his fist and descended the stairway, heading towards the kitchen. “Hernadette!” he called. There had to be another answer, a cure for his condition or something to alleviate the aching he felt throughout his body. He passed the archway and paused at the mouth of the kitchen. A plump woman in soiled linens appeared in the doorframe.

  “You’re well!” she exclaimed.

  Krishani shook his head. “Alive.”

  “Which is well. Do you need something?”

  He extended his hand. “I need a cure for this.”

  Hernadette covered her mouth with her fingertips. “That is a plague.”

  Krishani pulled his robe over his hand and shrank away from the kitchen. When he turned around, Mallorn stood in the hallway, staring at him. The Kiirar had a soiled gray robe underneath his cloak, a cord tied around his waist.

  “Come to Nandaro with me,” Mallorn said.

  “Avristar will sentence me to death.”

  “You should leave before that happens.”

  Krishani’s face twisted into disbelief. “She loathes me that much?”

  “It is the price one pays for that crime.”

  It was like knives stabbing his insides as the land he called home turned against him. “Does she blame me for the existence of the foe, too? Does she blame me for Kaliel’s death?” He sunk to the floor and covered his face with his arms.

  “Nandaro was the last place she called home,” Mallorn said gently.

  Krishani couldn’t stay. He couldn’t face Avristar’s wrath. Defeated, he glanced at Mallorn and nodded reluctantly.

  “Aye,” he whispered. “I will go to Nandaro.”

  10

  Mallorn’s Cabin

  A day later the fields were still sloppy. Krishani and Mallorn galloped across them with all the speed they could muster, but the horses slid down hills, splashing mud onto their cloaks. Krishani reluctantly followed Mallorn, slipping away as sunset hit the horizon. The melancholy followed him as the waterfall, orchards and castle faded. He wouldn’t return. There was nothing for him in Orlondir. Istar and Atara followed the advice of the land. Neither of them would understand the depth of his misery. They were mere figureheads of a tradition gone sour, archetypes carrying out tasks they were appointed to perform.

  Umber trampled over sodden ground and Krishani glanced up. Nandaro loomed in the distance. He stifled a choke as he thought about what he would find there. He sucked in a breath and whipped the reins, trying to force Umber to gallop fervently.

  Krishani should have known Avristar would have no mercy. He was nothing but an injured bird flown from another nest. They would tend to his wounds and set him free. What freedom could be found in following death? He thought back to the demon hovering over the girl and shuddered. He couldn’t deny the Lands of Men needed help. The Ferryman Krishani followed never flinched, never trembled. He did the work with stoic grace, never begrudging the catastrophes surrounding him. He was an honorable man.

  Krishani doubted his ability to be anything like him. On the inside he was a dead man, and on the outside he was an empty shell.

  Mallorn broke through the trees and the horses slowed. They wound down the thin path avoiding branches overhead. Krishani let his plagued hand brush against a leaf. There was something different about the woods since he had last been to them. The trees cowered, their leaves brown and dark orange. They littered the ground in hoards, obscuring the trails. Worse were the rotted trees, bereft of any life at all. Krishani sighed; even the land had been affected by Crestaos. He let Umber amble back and forth. The closer he got to Mallorn’s cabin the more he felt a foreboding sense of dread. Krishani pulled on the reins to slow Umber as they reached the mound. He slipped off his horse and kept hold of the reins as he watched Mallorn stare at the atrocity with disbelief.

  From one end of the mound to the other was an ashen gray trail. Crestaos. Grass resembled white powder, trees on either side hollow and dead. The path descended the hill and moved into the forest, leaving a clear trail behind. Mallorn crossed it, seemingly careful not to step on the ash, and clambered down the hill towards the barn. The boards on the side of it were cracked and gray. Mallorn pulled away the clasp, the doors swinging open. He dropped to his knees and let out a cry.

  All of them were dead.

  Krishani laid a hand on the elder’s shoulder and glanced into the darkened barn. He smelled the rot, but the souls were long since absent.

  “Amenally nawva callen armalta,” he whispered. It was the same blessing he whispered to the Ferryman when he died. The words felt awkward as they rolled off his tongue. He turned to the cabin. Kaliel’s energy was faint, but distinguishable between the destructive energies of Crestaos.

  Mallorn stopped. “They were my only friends.”

  Krishani knew before they arrived the horses were dead, but he wanted to believe there was still some hope left. The animals were innocent; they didn’t deserve punishment. Mallorn closed the barn doors and pressed his forehead against the wood for a long moment. When he turned to Krishani he had a stern expression on his face.

  “Come, I have something to show you.” He didn’t wait for Krishani to respond as he bounded up the mound and circled the cabin. “Krishani!”

  Krishani traced the ashen path, a dreadful pit clawing at his stomach. Part of him couldn’t fathom seeing proof that the foe existed. Crestaos hadn’t even touched Orlondir. He knew all along she was in Nandaro, tucked away in the Village of the Shee. Krishani shivered and hugged his arms to his chest. Could he hide in Nandaro with the Kiirar until Avristar was ready to forgive him? How long could he stave off becoming the Ferryman?

  Wither in desolate loneliness and bring the forests to their eternal slumber. Triumph in faithful patience and bring the forests to their eternal summer.

  The thick words of the Great Oak flooded his mind and he grimaced. He tried to forget all about that awful tree at the border of Amersil and Evennses, but its words were fused to the back of his mind. He refused to surrender. He would find a way to cheat his own immortality.

  Mallorn appeared on the mound moments later and narrowed his eyes. “The tragedy will never fade,” he said. “You cannot allow yourself to become a monster because of it.”

  Krishani looked at him with an empty expression. His thoughts were miles away, contemplating the words of the Great Oak and whether or not he could destroy the tree altogether. Mallorn’s eyes moved to the boy’s hand and Krishani lifted it up. It didn’t hurt, but the black wisps wrapped themselves around his fingers, trailed along his thumb, swirled into the middle of his hand. The stench of dead horses heightened as a gust of wind blew through the trees and over the cabin. He tried to think of something to say to Mallorn, but his mind was too full of regret and worry to form thoughts.

  “Aye.” He followed Mallorn and climbed down the ladder. Wh
atever the old man had to show him was unimportant. He was more interested in the cabin upstairs. He knew Kaliel had never been in the cellar.

  Mallorn took a scroll off the table and thrust it into Krishani’s hands. He paced around and waited for him to open it.

  Krishani gulped. “What’s this?” The parchment buzzed in his hands as he unrolled it. Before him was nothing but a family crest. In the center was a faceless man on a white horse, around it, symbols that to Krishani meant protection. At the bottom was the name Tavesin, scrawled in symbols he didn’t understand. It looked like it came from the Lands of Men. Krishani resisted the urge to tear it in half. If these were the men that abandoned him at birth, why did they want him now? He noted other symbols in the crest; the only one he recognized was the symbol for Terra.

  “The Tavesin Family,” Mallorn answered. He took the parchment from Krishani and stretched it out on the table, placing a stone on each of the corners to hold it open. He pointed at the man on the white horse. “That is the Ferryman.”

  Nausea crept into Krishani’s stomach. He swayed on the balls of his feet and took a deep breath. It was the man who died, he was sure of it. He gripped the clammy mud wall beside him and tried to grasp what Mallorn was saying. The Kiirar knew more about the Ferrymen than Lord Istar had let on.

  Krishani felt dizzy, but he had to admit it. “He’s dead.”

  “Then that man represents you.”

  Krishani turned green and scrambled up the ladder. “No!” he stepped across the creek and the ashen path and moved towards the horses. He couldn’t look at it in black and white on parchment. There was no recollection of the Ferrymen in the Great Library, their existence was obscure. Krishani had been hanging onto hope, maybe none of it was true.

  Kuruny told him the Lands of Men were dangerous.

  If you take this path you will never see Kaliel again.

  Kuruny’s words reminded him of the night he was about to climb Mount Tirion and speak to the Gatekeeper. He was going to marry the land and accept whatever fate Avristar handed to him. All because of the death of the Ferryman. A fact neither Istar nor Atara let him ignore.