by Barb Hendee
Not that sickness had ever been or was a concern.
Heil’s calculations had not accounted for two past appearances of Tris’s other self. Because of these anomalies, it had taken the elder alchemist almost three moons to roughly calculate when the black one would next reappear. It was through this that Tris finally learned the true terror of the danger he posed to others.
Those of the Vishal manor were not the only victims of the plague that had taken his mother. Large numbers of people in Stravina had died of this sweating sickness. He had been naive about the world, let alone his own nature, at that time, though being spared had not surprised him. It had made him feel only even more alone.
Tris had never been ill, not even with sniffles as an infant.
This should have been one warning, among others to come, when he finally left his family’s lands for the last time.
Along that journey, he neared a village called Yan’vul, well after sunset. On that quiet night he heard weeping somewhere ahead. He should have turned back, turned away. A torch’s flicker was at first no more than a distant light ahead. As he neared, its flutter revealed much more. It was mounted atop a pole planted in the middle of the road. Dangling from a lashed crossbar was a torn, plain white cloth as a banner.
It was a warning that the plague had come to Yan’vul.
Tris walked on until spotting the settlement’s outskirts. He paused where the road breached the sparse trees surrounding the village. At first he saw nothing but scant torch poles and lanterns along the main path. Then the weeping returned but not from any cottage in sight.
The sound carried from the dark trees to the west.
Tris rounded the nearest mud-bricked cottage, all of its windows shuttered and dark, until he spotted a glow far out among the trees. He followed that beacon slowly, so as not to startle whoever was out there, and lost sight of the lantern now and then but never that sound.
Sorrow guided Tris in among fresh mounds of turned earth—graves hastily dug and more hastily marked with bits of board. Names he could not read in the dark were scratched into the wood with a knife or some farmer’s hand tool. They were everywhere he turned, until he again spotted that one light.
Between the trees upon a rise ahead, a woman in a drab head shawl knelt hunched over upon the slope. By her weeping, she was the one he had heard before, though her sorrow broke in long silences.
He stepped carefully off and around, trying not to disturb her. He did not know why, but he had to see why she was here alone. He already knew, though he did not know how small a reason she had. Once he was far enough to the right, he saw another mound.
It was small—tiny—compared with all the others.
Tris backed away quietly, retreating to the village. Along the way, he noticed other dim lights among the trees. Small flickers of white light seemed to appear one after another. There were so many mourners burying dead in so many places that he stopped, unable to find any path that would not disturb someone’s grief.
One white flickering light appeared to move. Someone was done with mourning or at least with burying the lost.
A scream made Tris fix on that one light—and another one moved—and another.
The next scream cut short suddenly. White lights once shifting began to race about, flickering as they passed behind tree trunks and then reappeared. And their shapes began to grow larger and change as they neared.
Tris did not wait. So many spirits at once heralded something worse, and he did not know how to face so many at the same time. He ran toward the village as he heard the weeping woman scream a name.
“Mi-Michelle, my baby . . . no!”
When he reached the village’s main path, others awakened by screams appeared in open cottage doors. For an instant, he thought to shout at them to run. Then he saw it.
A darkness like a young man took form while walking inward from the village path’s far end. It never halted, never faltered. The shape of its black head, like Tris’s own, never looked aside. It kept on straight toward him, even as the first white wisp burst through the chest of an old man in an opened doorway.
Tris stumbled in a backstep and then turned and ran.
—
Mari crept through the tall grass along the matted path left by his passage. She was close now; she could smell him more and more with each step. When she heard him breathing quickly in the night, she veered away into the grass, rounding that sound in an inward spiral, until she spotted him.
He just sat there with his back to her, huddled in his cloak within a space of crushed-down grass. His breaths came harsh and quick. She watched and listened, savoring her coming release, now at hand. This was going to be so easy. She’d finally be free of the pain, the sorrow, the grief and rage and guilt.
Mari poised to take her prey, coiled for a charge. But she hesitated.
Why was he panting? Why wasn’t he doing something? And then she thought she saw a glint in his hand for an instant.
Why would he bring that little food knife with him?
It vanished as he shifted positions, perhaps tucking the blade away.
She saw him shaking. No, that was just a shiver from cold; even she felt it through her fur. Still, there was not a sign of a ghost or any shimmer in the darkness nearby. If he’d come out to raise another host of spirits for slaughter, where were they?
He just sat there, shuddering.
Careful and silent, she ducked back before padding softly around to the right and his far side. She stopped where she knew she’d glimpse the side of his face. Soft and slow, one paw so careful at a time, she stalked in until she saw him clearly through a thinner barrier of grass stalks.
Mari froze again, watching him.
Were those smeared tears on his face, or just a glistening left from wiped-off water splashed from the stream?
—
Tris now knew what he had done that night in Yan’vul. It had been his own presence—and his connection to that other him—that breached the barrier to the realm of the dead. Heil had reasoned this as the only possibility for how the black one had appeared outside of the calculated schedule. Once this was known, Tris had understood much more.
That other half of him formed during his stillbirth needed to take his life directly.
This was the only way it could remain among the living in replacing him, and that gave him one way to avoid unleashing his own horror into this world. It was a choice he had pushed out of his thoughts until now, for he had always shied from any place of too many deaths at once.
Tris separated his cloak enough to look down as he slipped the knife out of his belt.
If he died before being taken, it might end all of this forever. No one else need ever face another night like in Yan’vul—face that other him. No one here would suffer loss. He pressed the knife flat against his tunic’s abdomen, not wanting to look at it anymore but still needing it ready, as the night’s cold sank deeper into his flesh.
Black Tris was coming.
—
Mari was exhausted. It had been years since she’d last stayed in her other flesh this long, though not that long since she’d stayed awake all night. She felt half-frozen and couldn’t stop shuddering, no matter being covered in fur. And Tris hadn’t moved once all night.
What was he waiting for? It wasn’t spirits, or he would’ve called, conjured, or whatever some of them by now. And why had he been crying, alone out here in the night? She shouldn’t have cared, didn’t want to. She was tired of doubts stalling her concerning him.
Tris raised and turned his head, looking to the east. Mari stiffened.
Long moments later, the sky began to lighten. She’d known it was coming, but how had he? But he still sat staring, as if surprised the sun had come up at all. When he began to rise, she backed deeper in the grass. Again, he stood there looking eastward, as if anot
her sunrise meant something. She heard his first limping step, so he had hurt an ankle or a foot in the drop from the wall.
She waited until he almost slipped from sight before following.
Before Tris had even reached the stream, she realized she might now have trouble getting back inside. In all likelihood, he’d pull up the rope after he climbed the wall. Where would that leave her?
A loud grinding sounded. Turning her head, she saw the north gate opening. Daybreak had come, and the men were reopening the gate. With a soft sigh, she decided she might have to wait for the guards to change out, and then she could bluff her way back in.
—
Tris stood alone in the barracks’ common room before the hearth, trying to get warm again. He had hauled up the rope after climbing the wall, careful to first watch above for a passing guard, and then returned the rope to the stables.
Once inside the barracks, he checked his room first and found Mari not there. He had lingered a moment and decided not to stow his knife away. Then he came straight to the common room.
Along the way, he noted that the rescued refugees had been lodged in other bunk rooms. A long night’s vigil alone left him more anxious than exhausted, though he knew this would soon reverse for lack of sleep. At least the night had passed without anyone or anything coming for him.
It troubled him that Mari was not here either. Where was she? Could the scene at the stream yesterday have been too much for her? Had she left this place? No, back in the room, he had noted all her belongings were still in there, so she would have to return for those.
Yes, she would—had to—return, much as he should have sent her off long before now.
He needed tea, and hoped that breakfast would be laid soon.
Then he heard the barracks front door open and turned. Mari stepped in and stopped at the sight of him.
“Where were you?” he asked without thinking.
There was something in her face, something he could not read, though perhaps not the tinge of ire always just below the surface. She appeared troubled.
“What is wrong?” he asked.
He waited another two breaths. And why was she wet to the waist?
“Nothing,” she answered.
Dropping her gaze, she came in and rounded him widely as she approached the hearth’s far side. What had he done now to offend her?
“Where were you?” he asked.
She sat before the hearth to pull off her waterlogged boots.
“Out,” she answered, gazing into the flames. “Searching . . . Didn’t find anything.”
Searching for what, and why was she wet? Hopefully, she had not been foolish enough to go hunting that one spirit on her own, not that she could have found it. As he was about to ask, he heard boot-falls coming from the rear passage.
Guardsman Farrell entered, carrying two mugs of steaming tea. In a half pause, he scowled at Mari, though she did not look to him. He set one mug down next to her and held out the other to Tris.
Crouching beside Mari, he said something somewhat lengthy that involved several pauses. His accent was so thick that Tris caught little of his Belaskian speech . . . gate . . . order . . . stupid.
As expected, Mari twisted on him, and there was the Mari that Tris knew, ready to assault first. Tris intervened.
“What did he say?”
Mari let out a sigh. “He said what happened out there yesterday was my fault.”
Perhaps true, but that crisis had been building far before her or Tris’s arrival. And he suspected that Farrell’s lengthy comment had involved more than what she’d related. Tris glanced at her boots, beginning to steam by the fire.
“Ask him how long this has been building up,” he said. “These refugees trying to cross over, and why the leaders in the Warlands are so determined to stop them. Why risk losing trained soldiers over a few escaping peasants?”
Mari’s eyes narrowed as if he had said something insulting, though he had no idea what. She finally spoke, not looking at Farrell, and her tone was a bit sharp.
Tris was lost in following their exchanges, which came too quickly to catch even a word or two. This went on longer than he had expected. Farrell was suddenly silent, and Tris turned full attention to Mari.
“He says if any commoners are allowed to leave, more would do so. The warlords wouldn’t have enough left for farming and harvesting to feed what little troops they’d gained for striking at each other. Most commoners who try are caught before reaching the field. If not, they’re cut down . . . always.”
“So soldiers sent after them have orders to kill them all?”
She nodded. “Only soldiers with families are sent. Their families are kept as hostages to make sure they’d do as told . . . or else. It’s been going on for years, decades. The border guards here always watch but can’t do anything until any runners reach the stream.”
Mari looked up at Tris, and the remaining anger in her face faded.
“It’s hard on them too,” she said, “watching people die under the old colonel’s order not to cross the stream. Some of the guards here hope it might change, now that Stàsiuo’s in charge, though others still agree with the colonel about not starting anything open with the warlords. Farrell’s heard Bródy and some of the others call refugees things like ‘Warland whelps . . . dogs.’ They don’t even want these people to make it across the stream.”
Tris pondered this.
“Oh, yeah,” Mari added. “And Bródy’s been arrested for cowardice.”
That did not surprise Tris.
“Of the other men with Bródy’s viewpoint,” he began, “was Lieutenant Curran one of them?”
Mari glanced up sidelong, then looked to Farrell and translated the question.
Farrell nodded tightly and offered a reply to Mari.
“So were all the men who’ve died,” Mari translated.
Tris glanced toward the back passage out of the common room.
Vestiges of the mystery here were being stripped away. In the wake of last night and escaping the need to kill himself, the prospect of dealing with the vengeful spirit of a Warlands refugee was almost welcome.
“What now?” she asked.
“We lure out the ghost, so I can banish it.”
“How?”
“With bait.”
CHAPTER TEN
Soon, the common room began to fill with guardsmen and refugees. Captain Stàsiuo was not among them. The portly cook laid out breakfast, and after giving Mari a few moments to wolf down some bread, Tris decided they needed to search out the captain. Hopefully, the man could set aside what Mari had done yesterday. For what Tris had planned, it would be best to gain the captain’s permission first.
Tris motioned to Mari, and led the way out into the courtyard. She followed. As they emerged, Sergeant Orlov strode toward them, perhaps heading inside.
“Captain Stàsiuo?” Tris asked, knowing at least the second word would be understood.
Orlov pointed toward the rear stables without reply, though he nodded to Mari before passing by to some other duty. Clearly he did not share Farrell’s harsher view of Mari’s actions yesterday, but she had again fallen into silence.
Tris walked toward the stables.
He noticed now that daylight had arrived, the north gate was open again, and there were probably men posted once again at the stream. Mari glanced over at the gate.
As Tris continued leading, she paced him on the right. The muddy earth was still half-frozen and precarious. Mari said nothing in that slow and careful walk, but he glanced sidelong at her more than once. Something had altered in her. Though still harsh-eyed, still showing a shadow of frown, she was strangely withdrawn.
Upon entering the stables, Tris saw only a few guards. Fortunately, none had horses at the ready, and Tris kept to the center and away from stalls
to either side. Some horses snorted; some whipped their heads, blew air, and danced aside or backed their rumps into their stall’s rear wall.
The captain was alone near the stable’s rear doors, stripping a saddle from his horse.
Tris halted at a distance, though Mari continued onward.
Stàsiuo frowned at the sight of her coming, and Tris could not blame him. She had been the first to ignore his command and started chaos at the stream earlier than the captain had wanted.
“Why did you wait so long out there?” she demanded in Stravinan. “You wanted to do something—I could see it—when the first of those people broke from the far trees.”
Tris scowled this time, clenching his jaw. The last thing he needed was the captain pushed further into a foul mood.
Stàsiuo took a step at Mari, and Tris tensed.
“I had to wait,” the captain growled. “And you should’ve obeyed and stayed out of the way!”
Tris understood—and agreed—but this had little to do with his task. He interrupted before Mari could retort.
“Mari,” he said sharply, “tell the captain what Bródy told you about the night Brianne died.”
He could have done so himself, but a firsthand account from her would be more accurate. When she cocked her head aside, glancing at him, he pressed her.
“Tell him.”
Reluctantly, she related the tale Bródy had told her of the white spirit of a starved man in tattered clothing with a bashed-in skull, whom Bródy had identified as an earlier refugee who had tried to cross the border stream.
Stàsiuo grew only more visibly impatient, eyes shifting from her to Tris often.
“Bródy said the ghost started for him,” Mari finished, “then saw Brianne and went for her . . . almost like it wanted to hurt someone he cared about, wanted to make him suffer.”
Stàsiuo offered a soft huffing sound. “Bródy’s just telling tales, cribbed from what he’d heard in Curran’s ramblings before death. Don’t believe anything that coward says, especially to save his own hide. That’s all he’s any good at.”