The Dead Seekers

by Barb Hendee

  Why was it so difficult this time?

  Perhaps because of that other him? The time of its next true appearance—by Heil’s calculations—was nearing.

  Tris fought on with sheer determination. This thing in his grip did not belong in the world of the living. Perhaps he did not belong here either.

  He forgot all this, looked to the spirit, through it into that whirling black void.

  Then he shoved with all he had left.

  As always, he neither heard nor felt anything. He did not even know he had advanced far enough until the spirit went into a frenzy, clawing at him more wildly.

  It began to shred apart.

  The whirling darkness beyond it appeared to spread all around.

  After so many times, Tris knew he was within a breath and a hairbreadth of the end. More and more of the spirit unraveled, until even the wrist and neck he held came apart in his grips.

  He saw its long face begin to break up. He felt an instant of relief as exhaustion took him.

  A black hand shot out through the spirit’s distended mouth.

  Tris lurched back as his throat closed up, choking off his breath. The spirit’s last shreds ripped apart in the vortex of darkness—around black fingers clutching and clawing at air.

  . . . my Tris . . . not you . . . Tris . . .

  Tris stumbled, tripped, and fell, rolling away and up again on one knee. He clamped his hands over his ears. That did not stop the whispers coming out of the void.

  . . . my Tris . . . me Tris . . . my life . . . not yours . . .

  Always before, the other him had simply appeared. No part of it had ever come out of the portal. It had never touched him. It was growing stronger.

  Still on his knees, Tris shut his eyes, focusing on closing the portal. This time, he did not watch as the void twisted inward and drained out of the night.

  —

  “Tris? Tris!”

  Mari stood over him, watched him flinch as his eyes opened. When he looked up, for an instant it seemed like he didn’t recognize her. Then the others came rushing in around her and him.

  He’d done it again. This time she’d seen him do it—for the most part. The ghost was gone somehow, and when that black whirlpool drained away, there he was, only him. Down on one knee, he’d had his hands over his ears and his eyes crushed shut, as if shutting out some noise she hadn’t heard.

  What had happened while she couldn’t see him through that spinning blackness?

  He’d vanquished a murdering ghost and hadn’t called for any help. So what was wrong with him? She couldn’t bring herself to touch him, to help him up, but now he was panting.

  Was that from effort or something else?

  Mari crouched down. “Stop fighting for air,” she ordered, and then softer, “Just breathe . . . breathe.”

  Stàsiuo was towering over her. She glanced up to see his face was drawn and pale.

  “It was a spirit, a ghost,” he half whispered, and then nearly shouted, “I saw it!”

  Mari bit down her first words, and instead answered, “Yes, and it’s gone now, for good.”

  “Where?” Farrell asked. “It was there before that black whirl came and then . . . what did he do and how?”

  Mari couldn’t answer that. She had no idea how Tris did what he did any more than why he could. Still on the ground, he hadn’t said a word. Someone’s steps pulled her attention up and over.

  The guard with the shaved head from inside the cell stepped out of the stable’s back door.

  “Captain,” he said quietly. “You’d better come. It’s Bródy.”

  Stàsiuo hesitated only an instant, and with one more glance down at Tris, he went off to follow that guard into the stable’s back side.

  Mari hovered beside Tris, trying to decide what to do next. She finally stood straight, for he still wouldn’t look at her.

  “Farrell, stay with him, in case he needs something,” she said. “I’ll be back.”

  Mari walked off with one more look back at Tris. He was still completely withdrawn. She hadn’t seen how things had happened with Brianne, and so she didn’t know if this change in him was just the way he normally reacted after banishing a spirit.

  What was it like to grapple the dead to a second death?

  She wasn’t going to get that from him, not now, so she wanted to see what the captain found inside. When she reached that first area with the desk, the head-shaved guard had brought a lantern from somewhere. Maybe it had been in the cell, and the ghost-light had overwhelmed that other light.

  Stàsiuo stood in the opened cell door, and Mari stepped close on his right to peek in.

  Sabine knelt on the floor with the iron key ring beside her. She looked almost as pale as that ghost but broken, sickly. She stared at the back wall rather than the body, whispering over and over, “It’s all right, my love. I’m here. I’m here now.”

  Bródy’s body lay in front of her.

  His skin looked stretched over his face. His arms were sticklike and shriveled. Eyes and mouth were locked open, as if in a scream. His expression was frozen in an instant of last horror.

  Stàsiuo just stood there looking down at the body, as did Mari.

  —

  Not long after, Mari settled Tris by the fire in the common room’s hearth. Not that she’d had to do more than push him the other way when he’d tried to go for their room instead. She knew—guessed—he’d prefer privacy, to lie on the bed even with her present and sink into himself.

  She wasn’t going to let him do that. After what he’d been through tonight in the cold, he needed heat. So did she, and there was no heat source in their room.

  After so many years hunting her prey, she’d finally, clearly seen what she knew Tris could do. He had power over spirits of the dead, even to send them to a second death. He was what she’d expected—hunted—but the look of him now brought back doubts that made no sense.

  Mari’s head began to ache under the strain.

  Farrell stepped near and leaned down. “What can I do for him?”

  He’d apparently forgiven her for slashing her blade in front of his face.

  “Get him some tea?” she asked.

  “Yes . . . yes, of course.”

  He went off in a hurry.

  A dozen or more refugees were still in the common room, sitting about the tables, sipping drinks or pulling apart bread to soak in late-night soup. Some—most—looked over at her or just at Tris. By now, they might’ve heard second- or thirdhand about what’d happened. She could see fear in their eyes, though after what they’d been through, it was a lesser fear.

  Mari turned back to Tris. A few more guards entered, maybe whispered something she didn’t bother to hear, and went to a table. The portly cook carried in a tray with mugs and a pitcher. After he’d set those down, one of the men began to pour dark ale.

  Tris ignored everything, and Mari’s agitation only grew.

  She’d seen him this time—or partly—though no other white wisps had appeared. His face was nearly that pale, and in the darkness, he’d looked darker than night, maybe as black as that swirl in the air that’d hidden him in the last of it.

  Was he really the one, or was she wrong?

  Quick, heavy steps sounded as the captain entered through the front door and went straight to the table with the other guards to pour himself an ale. He took two large swallows, and all his men looked between him and Tris.

  One guard Mari didn’t know walked toward her.

  “Farrell says there’s a spirit among us . . . or was,” he started. “Says it’s what killed the colonel and the others. Is that true?”

  Mari never had a chance to answer.

  “Attention, and listen up,” Stàsiuo said loudly, looking about the room with the mug still in hand. “The killer among us was a spir
it, and it took Bródy this night.”

  Everyone probably already knew that by now, but the room went silent except for the captain.

  “His death will be the last,” Stàsiuo continued, and then he motioned to Tris. “Our visiting lord took care of that. For any who doubt it, some of us bore witness, including myself.”

  Mari felt suddenly self-conscious, for not every peek, glance, or stare throughout the room was aimed at only Tris.

  “I am correct, am I not?” Stàsiuo asked, this time in Stravinan, before turning his gaze on Tris’s back.

  For a moment, Tris didn’t answer, didn’t even appear to have heard.

  “Yes,” he said finally, eyes still fixed on the hearth’s flames. “As you have said.”

  The captain addressed the room again, attempting a wry smile. “We’re safe once more, at least from murderous ghosts. Of course there are still Warlands soldiers, smugglers, bandits in the crags and hills . . . and the sharp tongues of your wives.”

  The attempt at humor surprised Mari. But he knew his men better than she did. Farrell returned with a cup of tea, almost offered it to Tris, but appeared to think better and handed it to Mari.

  Farrell raised his own mug. “To our lord, the Dead’s Man.”

  Tris flinched slightly. Why would such praise bother him? She knew how it might’ve bothered her, but not him.

  Many guards in the room raised a mug and repeated Farrell’s words, though none among the refugees.

  —

  Long past the mid of night, Mari lay awake in her bunk, unable to sleep.

  Part of this was probably due to having slept through the afternoon, but even so, she was weary after the events of tonight and longed for the oblivion of sleep. Her mind would not stop turning.

  Now what?

  Tris had rid this place of its unnatural plague, and in all likelihood, he would pack up and start back for home tomorrow, if he had enough strength back. Where did that leave her? She could hardly go with him, and yet her questions were still unanswered. She was still torn in indecision over whether he was the one she sought, whether he was the one to suffer from her revenge.

  Turning her head, she let a bit of her other form rise up, enough that she could see his outline. He was lost in deep sleep. She could tell by the rhythm of his breathing. In the night, he did look like a dark silhouette stretched out there.

  She almost envied his exhaustion. Closing her eyes, she tried to force herself to sleep.

  A scream rang out, loud and filled with chilling terror. Another followed, this one from a different voice.

  Without thinking, Mari sprang from her bed and ran out the door of the room. Shouts, cries, and screams exploded in the night, but she saw nothing. The door to the first bunk room smashed open, and several guards came running out. She ran past them, to the doorway, and absorbed the scene before her. Her heart slowed.

  Other guards remained, and a few had drawn swords, swinging at white visages in the air.

  There were four spirits in the room, floating over bunks, whooshing up the center, or pursuing fleeing men. The ghosts were all stark white and transparent, but their forms were crystal clear. They appeared half-starved, and wearing tattered clothing . . .

  A man with a jagged hole in his back.

  A woman with a bashed-in skull.

  A boy and a girl with broken bones and covered in wounds on their heads and backs as if they’d been trampled by horses.

  Guardsman Lavich was on the floor, on his knees, gagging.

  The ghost of the little girl floated down directly in front of him. With a cold smile, she drove her hand through his throat, and he screamed.

  Mari’s mind went back to that night when her parents died. She could not stop seeing white forms flitting about, driving their hands and limbs through the living, causing them agony.

  Suddenly she felt herself jerked out of the way.

  Before she could strike out at whoever had grabbed her, she realized it was Tris. He looked into the bunk room, and all four spirits turned to see him.

  The woman with the head wound was nearest to him, and he rushed for her, but she was halfway inside the room, and she vanished before he reached her. The man vanished, and then the boy.

  The little girl was still near Lavich by the far door.

  Before vanishing, she offered the same cold smile to Tris. Then she was gone.

  Captain Stàsiuo came running in the far door, looking down at Lavich, whose features were twisted in pain as he gagged.

  “What in the name of the gods . . . ?” Stàsiuo began.

  Mari shuddered. “There is more than one.”

  —

  Tris was numb.

  He watched Mari try to assist as Lavich was carried out of the bunk room. The man was still alive, but his skin was beginning to stretch, and his body mass was beginning to shrink. He groaned and choked as if trying to breathe.

  Mari’s words kept echoing.

  There is more than one.

  Some of the guards were beginning to return, staring at him accusingly. He knew their blame wasn’t fair, and yet he could not fault them.

  Stàsiuo strode toward him through the bunks.

  “You said we were safe!”

  Tris had no response. He had rid the barracks of a vengeful spirit, only to learn there were more.

  “I don’t care who your father is,” Stàsiuo went on. “Give me one reason not to throw you out tonight!”

  “Because I am still the only one who can fight them,” he answered quietly. But how was he to both lure and fight four in succession? He could not do this alone.

  Coming to a decision, he looked to Stàsiuo, and said, “I will require assistance, and I need to send for someone. I have a few ideas how to protect your men at risk until help arrives.”

  The anger slowly drained from Stàsiuo’s face, replaced by sorrow and resignation. Tris may have failed him, but he was well aware that he was the captain’s only option.

  “What do you need from me?” Stàsiuo asked.

  “I’ll need paper, ink, and a quill. Then you’ll need to assign your fastest rider to make a run to Strîbrov.”

  The captain took two long breaths and then nodded. “Come with me.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Heilman “Heil” Tavakovich paced his apothecary shop at the far end of Strîbrov. It was a short pace at best. A few patrons had come by, more than usual for a small, out-of-the-way town hidden in the southwestern forests of Stravina. But a lack of distractions today still got to him.

  Not that he wasn’t usually annoyed about something.

  He hated feeling—acting—like a mother hen. The peasant boy who’d come looking for the ex-baronet hadn’t told a tall enough tale for him to tag along to another grimy village. Tris could handle that on his own.

  It was just a ghost, for hell’s sake, and Jesenik was only a three-day walk.

  Now it was almost nine days since Tris had left, and the next appearance of his “shadow” wasn’t that far off.

  Heil cast about his outer shop, pacing along the sturdy back counter running the length of the place. The back wall was lined with shelves filled with clay pots, glass jars, and crocks, along with wooden boxes of herbs and roots. A wooden table in the corner was overloaded with accoutrements, a pestle and mortar, brass scales, marble bowls, tinder and flint with a brazier.

  Oh, he was sick and tired of waiting to hear something!

  Snatching up the flint and tinder, he went for the pocket hearth in the south wall, started to set a fire, and then just gave up. There were a number of things he could work on, but it was too early to sneak off to his sanctum beneath the building.

  Any alchemist who’d lived as long as he had always had something “cooking,” but he was somewhat bored with all of that. Perhaps he should work on someth
ing else. Heading behind the counter, he lifted out a supply of honey and a large urn filled with rose petals, both delivered yesterday. The next batch of cough syrup was past due, and he had to keep up appearances, regardless that no one took notice that any apothecary in this town wouldn’t make enough profit for what he offered in remedies.

  One more tedious task in another tedious day.

  Maybe a bit of simple ghost hunting would’ve been better.

  He went back to set the fire, and once that was proper, he boiled water and poured it into the urn of rose petals. Then he endured more waiting as it steeped. He would drain it, boil it, drain it, boil it . . .

  Gods’ guts, could life get any more boring than this?

  By nightfall, the water would be saturated with the properties of the petals, and then he’d mix in the honey along with some lesser-known ingredients. The result was a good tonic for a cough. In fact, it was the best in the region. Villagers came for it from as far as they could walk.

  He hung an iron kettle on a blackened iron hook-arm and swung that in over the hearth’s flame. Then he just stood there—again—looking about the shop. This was the only place he’d ever called home, ever felt at home. He’d inherited it from a man who was not his father, and someday, he’d leave it likewise to Tris.

  And now, thinking on this, his mind wandered back along the way that brought him here . . .

  —

  Heil’s mother, Gabrielle Tavakovich, had been the daughter of a wealthy wool merchant. They’d lived a fine life in a fine, three-story stone manor near Enêmûsk in Droevinka along with a small squad of servants. Though Gabrielle was the third daughter, she was the most beautiful, and her father expected a great marriage for her, perhaps connecting the family to nobility.

  Her sisters were obviously jealous—and cruel—because of this. Or at least, that was what Heil remembered of the tale.

  When all three sisters were still young, an elderly Móndyalítko woman, who’d lost the lust of wandering, settled with the family to watch over the children. She’d had a great influence on Heil’s mother.

  At seventeen, Gabrielle met a handsome but penniless man. For love of him, everyone else vanished for her. The man presented his case to her father, claiming he was eager to better himself. If allowed to marry Gabrielle, he would gladly work in the family wool business.