by JA Andrews
“You have to rule them before you can lead, Will.”
Chapter Fifteen
It was days before he spoke to Ilsa again.
Over the next three days Killien summoned him only twice for short discussions about things Will had written. Both times he’d been surprised to find he left thinking better of the Torch than when he’d arrived. Almost worse was how much Will enjoyed the conversations himself. A large part of him hated Killien more each time he saw a grey slave’s tunic. But a newer, smaller part of him had formed a firm respect for the man who seemed so unlike the other Roven. He was endlessly interested in other lands and their people, he treated Will with simple friendship, and as far as Will could tell, treated his slaves better than many men treated their own families.
But both times he’d been near Killien, Lilit’s wagon had been surrounded by people and he’d had no chance to even see Ilsa.
The days fell into a blur of pale green grasslands. The wind blew constantly out of the northwest. Sometimes a mild breeze, sometimes so fierce it tore away anything not tied down. On warm afternoons, the clouds piled up and rolled across the Sweep with sheets of rain, plunging it into darkness and thunder. And with every day his frustration at not making progress with Ilsa grew. The Morrow would reach their rifts in a week, and if Killien decided he had no more use of a storyman, any chance to talk to Ilsa might be at an end.
To pass the time, Will continued working his way through the books in the red bag and write out stories for Killien. Whenever he could, he snuck a glance into Lukas's grey bag, but only one book was interesting. Will had enough chances to read Methods of Transference to fully understand compulsion stones.
Killien and Lukas were very focused on the idea of transferring emotions or thoughts into someone. Which was troubling.
Most days he spent a portion of the time with Killien, talking about history or stories. Will often found the Torch discussing some book or another with Lukas, but Will’s appearance always prompted the slave to close the book and fall back. Although Will was always answering Killien’s summons, Lukas didn’t bother to hide his feelings about the interruptions.
Most nights Will ate with the Torch. The man continued to request stories from Queensland, and Will felt that each night was spent downplaying his knowledge of Queensland while still satisfying Killien’s curiosity. Hal was always there, a constantly friendly face who worked in questions about dwarves whenever he could. Sora joined them if she wasn’t out scouting. Lilit too, a scowling, hateful addition to the group no matter how much Will tried to entertain her. But, shadowing Lilit, came Ilsa, who never made eye contact, but seemed to listen with rapt attention. Will found himself tailoring each story to his sister, pleasing Killien falling into a secondary goal.
Killien’s other slaves were always close by, but never actually with the group. Lukas, Sini, and Rett sat together a little removed, but usually listening to any story Will told. Lukas watched him with an unrelenting coldness, but Sini and Rett watched curiously.
The nights Will didn’t eat with Killien, he sat with Rass in the back of a wagon and let her prattle on about the little creatures she’d seen that day. Each night it got easier to fall asleep on the hard wagon, each morning he rose less sore and less enthusiastic about the walk that was about to begin. Every other day they reached a large cistern dug deep into the ground and covered with a thick metal lid. Will stood on the edge of the first one, looking down into the dark, still water, feeling cool air seep out from it. The well looked endless and the water poured into his canteen tasted stale.
It was the evening of the sixth day before Will caught sight of Ilsa in the crowd near the cistern. He wove his way through the crowd until he reached her.
She met his eye for only a moment before looking away. “I can’t talk to you.”
“I won’t move my lips,” he said through a stiff jaw, falling in beside her and looking forward stoically.
She let out a little laugh, then pressed her lips into a straight line again. “You don’t have anything to hold water,” she pointed out.
Which was true. He searched for some reason he could give her for being there. He wanted to ask her how her life had been. If she remembered her home or their parents. If she remembered him.
He wanted a way to pour all his memories into her mind and show her the childhood she’d lost. A way to figure out how she’d survived here, how hard it had been, who she'd turned into. But those were hardly conversation starters.
Tossing out the first hundred things he thought of to say, he managed, “I just need your help.”
Ilsa shook her head, keeping her eyes forward. “If Lilit hears of me talking to you,” she whispered, “she’ll be furious. She hates you.”
True. Will glanced around. “That’s what I need help with. Is there any sort of story she would like? Anything that might make her think better of me? Killien keeps asking for things from foreign lands, and with each one, I swear the Flame hates me more.”
“She does.”
Ilsa was shorter than him by a hand, and she glanced up at him. Being close to her was such a strange combination of familiarity and awkwardness. Such familiar features set in a face he didn’t quite recognize. What sort of stories would she like to hear?
“Pick something with a powerful woman,” Ilsa said. “One who is the driving force of the story.”
Will smiled. “That I can do.”
“Now go away before you get us both in trouble.”
He paused, trying to think of some reason to stay. An idea occurred to him. “Can Lilit read?”
She nodded. “Now leave. Please, Will.”
At the sound of his name, his breath caught. For the briefest moment he thought maybe it signified that she knew him. But there was nothing in her face beyond a worry they’d be noticed.
His mother had always teased him that he couldn’t resist his baby sister. He’d retrieve anything for her that she couldn’t reach, carry her on his back whenever she asked, act out ridiculous stories just to make her laugh. It didn’t matter that Ilsa had no idea who he was today. For him, nothing had changed.
He gave her a slight nod and pulled himself away. At least now he had an idea of how to ingratiate himself to Lilit.
When he got back to the book wagon, he pulled out some fresh paper and set to writing out a story with the most powerful woman he could think of. Sable’s story was epic enough in proportions to need a whole book, but certain episodes of her life were excellent tales themselves.
He wrote until darkness hid the page, then rose with the sun to finish. By the time the caravan began moving, he had left Shadow hitched to the wagon and woven toward Lilit’s wagon.
He reached the side of it and heard a thunk from the back. Moving quickly before any of the nearby rangers noticed him, he ducked around the corner.
“Ilsa,” he whispered, walking along with the wagon.
But it wasn’t Ilsa sitting there, shifting her weight uncomfortably.
Lilit’s eyes flashed in recognition and her lips curled into a sneer. “What do you want with my girl, fett?”
“I don’t…” Will almost stumbled. He tried to give her a disarming style, but it probably looked panicked. He glanced into the wagon, but Ilsa wasn’t there. “I have something for you, actually. I thought you might be bored so I wrote down a story for you about a woman named Sable who began with nothing and ended up essentially ruling the world.”
Lilit’s expression didn’t soften and Will held the papers out to her. She glared for a moment before pulling them out of his hand and flicking them to the ground. They fanned out in front of the next wagon, smashed into the grass by the horses’ hooves.
Will stared at the trampled pages disappearing under the wagon.
“My husband may see you as some exotic pet,” she said, her voice cold, “but I know you’re nothing but a field roach slinking in through a crack, spreading disease and filth.”
Will opened his mouth to object,
but she leaned forward and fixed him with a look of utter hatred. “If you come near my wagon again, Killien will lose his pet.”
Will pulled back. So much for ingratiating himself to her. Will gave her a quick bow and turned away. He cast one last glance around, looking for Ilsa, but all he saw was a page of his story fluttering further behind them under the feet of the caravan. Before Lilit could call for any of the rangers, he hurried around the next wagon and headed back toward the books.
The next few days were torturously uneventful. Ilsa stayed at Lilit’s side, which was now firmly off limits. Will had failed to find Ilsa near the cisterns when the clans stopped. He’d watched during the days to see if she’d leave the wagon, but he could not catch her alone.
On top of that, some sort of crisis involving an illness among the sheep kept Hal busy and ill-tempered, and Sora spent the days ranging.
The third such morning, he rode along the eastern edge of the caravan, getting some relief from the fact that there were no Roven between him and the Scale Mountains. The flatbread that was breakfast every morning, somehow managed to be both salty and bland at the same time. He ate it mindlessly, bracing himself for another day alone.
A horse trotted up behind him and he almost smiled.
“You missed me, didn’t you?” he asked.
Sora pulled her horse up between him and the Scales. “No.”
“Good.” He felt something loosen inside him. “I didn’t miss you either.” He took a bite of flatbread.
She rode beside him calmly with her usual distant expression and he studied her out of the corner of his eye.
“Please tell me you’re here to either bring me to Killien for an thought-provoking conversation,” he said, “or to talk to me yourself. I’ll even be happy if you’re just here to tell me all the things you don’t like about me.”
This earned him the hint of a smile. “Killien is busy planning scouting routes with the rangers.”
“You’re a ranger,” he pointed out.
Her leathers were the same as always, plain and well-worn. The morning was as sunny as every spring morning on the Sweep and already warm enough that her arms were bare. The band around her arm caught his eye again, the scar below it white in the morning light.
“Wait…” He took in her leathers and the assorted weapons she wore, “you are a ranger, aren’t you?”
Sora shot him an exasperated look. “I don’t patrol the way they do. Killien trusts me to pick my own route.”
“Ahh. You mean he doesn’t want to argue with you.”
This time, the side of her mouth definitely lifted as she shook her head. “He knows I’ll keep my eyes open and go where I need to go.”
“I understand.” Will nodded. “I don’t like to argue with you either.”
She broke into a laugh that rolled across him like one of the breezes rippling across the grass.
He stared at her a minute before realizing he was grinning. He rubbed his hand across his mouth to tone it down. Feeling oddly proud of himself, he ripped off a piece of his flatbread and offered it to her. “If Killien’s busy, then you must have come here to talk to me.”
She shook her head at the bread and fixed him with a calculating look. “You are usually so clever.”
He waited for something more. “…thank you?”
“So why are you so fumbling around Ilsa?”
He stiffened. “Are you watching me?”
“Whatever the reason is,” she continued, “stop. First of all, it’s the most awkward proposition I’ve ever seen, and it causes me physical pain to see it.”
He stared at her in disgust. “I am not propositioning anyone!”
“Second, it doesn’t matter whether you’re trying to impress Ilsa or get in the good graces of Lilit. Both are such bad ideas that they’ll get you killed and poor Ilsa punished.”
Will opened his mouth to object, appalled on so many levels he didn’t know where to begin.
A cry rang out behind them and they twisted around to see a Roven ranger trotting up the column leading a young man whose hands were bound to his saddle. The prisoner’s bright, wiry red hair blazed like a flame over his panicked face. He was all elbows and knees with a thin, patchy beard. He yanked and thrashed futilely against the ropes.
With a hoarse cry, the man tried to fling himself off the horse. He started to topple to the side, his arms twisted up to the saddle horn. Sora turned to ride up beside him, shoving the man back into his saddle and holding his arm. He hurled himself from side to side, sobbing.
The ranger took up a position on the other side and they trotted the man forward. He struggled against them for a few paces before his shoulders fell and he curled forward, the sound of sobs coming muffled from his chest.
Will followed Sora, riding with her back straight, her grip on the man’s arm never wavering. They slowed when they reached the front of the clan and the ranger sent a child scurrying off to find the Torch.
Killien rode out of the crowd with Lukas flanking him and stopped, letting the rest of the clan pass them by.
“We’ve found the man who’s been spying for the Sunn, Torch,” the ranger announced, holding out a small roll of paper. “Arsen, son of Oshin. He was counting the herds. The writing matches the pages we found hidden in the spring shipment of wool for the Sunn.”
Arsen yanked his thin arms against the hands holding him.
The ranger untied Arsen from the saddle and dragged him roughly to the ground. He tried to pull away, but Sora climbed down and held him as Killien dismounted. The Torch walked up to the prisoner until he stood only inches from him.
“I’ve done nothing wrong!” Arsen tried to pull back, but they held him in place.
Will stayed on Shadow, a few paces away.
“Nothing?” Killien’s voice was quiet, and the man quailed. “We’ve intercepted two letters this winter being sent to the Sunn Clan, detailing the Morrow’s stores and herds. The one in the wool shipment numbered our rangers. And our warriors.”
Arsen’s face turned a sickly white. Hal had arrived with a handful of rangers, spreading out in a circle around them. All of their faces were dark. Will barely breathed.
“No, Torch!” Arsen sputtered “I have a cousin in the Sunn Clan, his mother was captured when we were young. We send letters to each other. Just letters. He’s a wool merchant, and he thinks that if the clans traded more—”
“You spied for the Sunn.” Killien’s face was a mask of fury.
“No! We just talked about the two clans, the things we could trade—”
“Why does a wool merchant need to know the number of our rangers? Of our warriors?”
Arsen said nothing, his eyes wide in terror.
“The Sunn have a dragon, and more stonesteeps than the rest of the Sweep put together. They force us to give them our crops, our wool, and our gold. They have no desire to trade with us.” Killien set one finger on the man’s chest and Arsen jerked back. “You betrayed the clan. You betrayed me.”
The words cut through the morning like a slice of icy winter air. Will’s hand smashed the flatbread into a lump.
Arsen’s mouth opened and closed like a fish, his body quavering and he sank down to his knees. “I didn’t…I don’t…” His voice fell to a hoarse whisper. “Mercy, Torch!”
Killien stepped back and straightened. He took a long breath and let it out, his face settling into impassivity. His gaze looked through the man and his judgment cut across the Sweep, flat and empty. “Arsen son of Oshin is found to be an enemy of the Morrow Clan.”
Arsen’s body crumbled forward until he hung from the arms of Sora and the ranger. He began to weep, a bubbling, terrified sound and Will clenched the wad of food tighter in his hand. Desperate for the man, Will looked at Hal, but his face was stony. Every Roven stood severely silent, judgment against the man already cast.
Will opened up toward Killien, looking for any hesitation or pause. A wave of adamant resolve from Killien filled his ches
t. It was mirrored from the Roven around him.
The man’s cries had quieted. Killien, without looking at him again, nodded to the ranger. Another ranger stepped forward with a small knife and sliced two braids out of Arsen’s beard, pulling off the silver beads and letting the hair fall to the ground.
When he pulled a silver ring off Arsen’s hand, Lukas dismounted and took it. He tilted it in the sunlight, and a watery blue stone glinted. Lukas murmured something to Killien, and at the Torches approving nod, slipped it into his pocket.
Killien looked past the man. “Take him to the Scales. Don’t let his blood fall on the grasses.”
Sora dropped the man’s arm with grim disapproval. She mounted her horse and rode back into the clan, her back resolutely turned to Killien. Another ranger took her place and they lifted the traitor to his feet. This time he didn’t resist as they pushed him away down the caravan.
Will watched them go, straining to see where they took him until they were out of sight behind other Roven. His breakfast sat in his stomach like a stone.
Hours later, when the shadow of the caravan stretched far to the east, Will caught sight of Sora riding out of the column. She didn’t say anything, just fell in beside him, her face set in a darker expression than normal.
“What will happen to the man Killien sentenced?” Will asked, his voice low.
She looked straight forward not answering for so long Will began to doubt she would.
“No one who betrays the clan is allowed to live.” Her words held no emotion. “The Morrow won’t taint the Sweep with the blood of a traitor, though. If one is found while the clan is in Porreen, they’re drowned in the sea so their spirit is pulled away with the next tide. Here, they’ll have taken him to the Scales to be burned.”
“Already?” His stomach sank at the idea of the terrified man. “There’s no inquiry? No trial?” One of the southern dukes had been accused of treason not long after Will had become a Keeper. The investigation process had been so extensive Alaric had brought Will to the capital to help with the questioning and recording. It had taken months. In the end the duke had been found guilty of theft, but not treason, and imprisoned.