She said it, but for a moment, though Susan and Nell charged ahead, Laysia stood rooted, caught by the memory of the sound rushing at her. So this was what the child heard! Laysia had read of such things and thought them only legends, but here was the world blaring its passionate intention into her ears. She looked back at the child and took her hand again, as the sea of emotion pulsed at her, vivid as the mist.
The mist slid into the hollow, a woolly fog crackling with static. The sound swelled and the haze rose as Jean shook and tried not to shake, tried not to disturb the terrible pendant around Liyla’s neck. And yet it was hard to be still when below the soldiers in the clearing faltered and bent, dropping weapons and putting hands to their ears. Already the men were changing, the hair on their faces thickening. Jean gasped, and the rancid air choked her, made her head swim. In the hollow, soldiers buckled and sank beneath the cloud, shrill wails of terror and pain shouted to the sky.
“Slashers!” the younger soldier croaked. “They’re making slashers!”
Despite the fire pendants, the captives cringed and bunched together.
“What is that?” Liyla’s mother cried. She’d struggled to sit upright, and Jean caught sight of the raw spot below her neck where the hair had been burned away. “Will it come here?”
From his place on the ridge, the Genius laughed out loud.
“As you expected!” he said to Ker. “Exactly!”
In the corral, the captives watched in horror.
“But they’re his own troops!” the ruddy soldier whispered. “What’s he done?”
“He’s mad,” the younger one said. “Gone mad, and feeding his own men to the beast.”
Jean stared into the hollow, watching the men twist and fall beneath the mist, then rise again, horrible and malformed. Howling, they ran in all directions, scrambling for the rise and falling back, and even running farther into the mist, blinded and wild.
The Listener of old had first heard the world speak and described the sound as a voice, ever singing. He had been mistaken. It was ever weeping, ever screaming, ever frightened and pleading. For that was the sound that rushed at Laysia now as she clung to Kate’s hand and heard the terror and pain that vibrated from the mist and the hollow. How had Kate withstood this voice of terror and fury? Was this what she’d heard all along?
Go!” the Genius shouted, and Jean watched Ker hoist her banner. The first line of red cloaks pounded from the wood, sweeping past the corral to ring the ridge.
“Now!” Ker called. With a roar, the soldiers charged into the hollow, firing. The fog thinned. Jean could see a line of smooth-faced men appear, stopped suddenly halfway across the field. The gunfire had hit several of the slashers, but it had reached the scholars, too, and as they fell, the new-made slashers sowed chaos, leaping for the scholars’ throats and throwing bewildered men to the ground.
The last of the mist evaporated. The afternoon sun glittered on the melee in the camp, the edges of the fallen sharp as if cut from paper.
“That’s all?” the ruddy soldier cried from his place beside Jean in the corral. “That’s all the power of the great ones? We’re lost!”
But before anyone could answer him, a hammer of wind slammed from the opposing wood, sweeping a line of red cloaks into the sky. The ground shook. Gasping, the captives grabbed hold of the fire pendants, trying to keep them still, and Jean looked to the clearing, hoping. Max had to be there! Max would come for her!
If he was, she couldn’t find him in the chaos. Gusts of wind roared through the camp, and she saw a tent buckle, walls bending, curving inward. A peg popped, and then another. Canvas flapped in the wind. The tent burst into flame, and another exploded from the dirt, its poles whirling to mow down a group of charging soldiers.
Still the red cloaks kept coming, fresh lines advancing from the wood, and now a whole platoon followed Ker as she plunged into the clearing. The wind knocked some down, and others came behind, pounding past the corral, shaking the ground. As they descended, a whirlwind leaped from the center of the hollow, spraying dirt and blowing tents skyward.
“It’s coming!” Liyla shouted.
The captives threw themselves down, pressing the fire pendants into the dirt. Pop! The ruddy soldier screamed and rolled in the grass, madly slapping at his flaming shirt.
“Stop!” Jean screamed. Was it Max sending it? Dust flew from the grass, the trees thrashed, stones shot up, and clouds swirled overhead. Daylight blinked out and then returned, once, twice, again.
“Save us!” Liyla cried. “Do something! Jean, please!”
But Jean could only cringe from her and cry out to the scholars in the hollow, though her voice was too small to carry.
Everywhere, confusion. Sound, sound, sound, and Laysia tried to understand the meaning of it. But the child already knew. A dart of rage, and Kate jerked her backward as a soldier bounded their way, gun raised.
“How —?” Laysia began, but the girl only pulled her back again, as a red cloak snatched at the place they’d been.
Laysia hurled the man away with a blast of wind. Where were the others? Kate pointed upward, and they took to the air, swooping over the tents toward the needle of focus that said . . . Susan! They dropped to the ground behind her. But where had Nell gone?
Boulders exploded from the ground and snapped muskets from men’s hands, crushing them into the dirt. Fire leaped out of the grass and caught red cloaks from behind; wind snatched the guns from the soldiers’ hands. Then Nell appeared, a whirlwind whistling behind a cluster of tents.
Hatred, terror, pain . . . and then, all unexpected, surprise and joy lanced through the air.
“Max!” Kate shouted.
A boy had appeared beside the girls, bulky and dark haired and pulsing alarm and confusion.
“What are you doing here? Susan? Nell’s too small to be here!”
He swiveled, glanced behind Laysia, and blanched.
“You brought Kate?”
“The Genius has Jean!” Nell told him. “She’s with him now!”
Panic rolled from the boy.
“The Genius!”
He whirled and ran toward the other end of the clearing, flickering in and out of sight.
“Max!” Susan screamed, following. They gave chase, Laysia half blind with the wild confusion that rang in her ears. Lost ones, soldiers, watchers, their passion poured in on her, their madness, their frenzy of anger and fear. She lost her way, once, twice, bombarded by so much noise. But the child pulled her on, following the others as they darted in and out of sight. And then Kate stopped short.
“Oh, no.”
Laysia sensed the iron contour of the man’s mind a moment before he burst into sight before the boy. Tur Kaysh, age heavy in his face, and blasting rage.
“You’ve left your place!”
“My sister’s been taken! And I have to get the rest of them to safety!” Max shouted over the noise. “They can’t stay here!”
Tur Kaysh’s eyes followed the boy’s waving hand to Kate and locked on Laysia. In an instant, all the violence of his outrage, the staggering force of his fury narrowed and shot toward her like an arrow.
“Exile!” he screamed. He turned on Max. “What have you done?”
“Nothing, I — They’re my sisters! I have to get them out!”
But the man had gone white with anger, and his hands trembled as he reached into the pouch that hung from his robes.
“Is all I’ve taught you nothing? Look at her! She thinks me weak, coming here! And you stand beside her!”
“No! No, I —”
But the boy stopped when the old man drew a small ash-coated stone, a bone-handled knife, and a leafy twig from the pouch. A chill sliced through the heat.
“Chaos from all sides,” the old man growled. “And my students too weak to resist it. But I don’t suffer from such weakness.”
Then he touched knife to twig and stone, and mist, dark and potent, poured forth to engulf Laysia. Beast, unclean beast who
sullies, who grasps, filth, filth . . . The thoughts swarmed in, and with them the throb of hunger, of wanting, of the desire for release. So many years lost! Anger bubbled in her, yes, rage, not only outside but her own now! Fear and despair were heavy, and she had carried them so long! Fury washed through her, a cleansing wave, and she reveled in the strength of her arms, her hands, beast, beast —
“Laysia!”
Fear shot through the mist, and worry, and . . . trust. The image of the dream child came to her, the cloud of hair, and the dark-haired boy, and the smell of green. Kate was shaking her. Laysia found herself on the ground, trembling, the mist a cloud simmering in the dirt. But the touch of the child’s hand had called her back. She shook her head, trying to free it from the weight of the fog, and saw the old man stare at her with loathing.
Then another voice caught her attention. Nell, shouting.
“We’re wasting time! The Genius has Jean! Laysia, get up!”
Rage clotted the air and a cyclone whirled from Tur Kaysh, knocking Nell to the ground. Laysia tried to rise, to help her, but weakness had leadened her limbs, and she felt the terrible wind press her down. She couldn’t reach the child! The wind drove Nell down with its smothering force, and Laysia could do nothing but hear it, cringe at the screaming fury of the man and the riveting power of the wind, pounding, pounding.
And then the sound broke. The boy had bounded into the face of the wind and stood over his sister. His clothes billowed and he staggered, trying to keep his feet. The old man’s head came up. Confusion pricked the air, surprise.
The mist that still clung to Laysia echoed with outrage.
“Your first loyalty is to me!” Tur Kaysh shouted.
But the boy would not move.
Hurt, fury, guilt whirled between them, and then knife gnashed on stone again and the mist thickened and rose to engulf the boy. He hunched down, his hands flying to his ears. Vaguely, Laysia felt Kate clinging to her hand, but shadows marred her vision, and from her knees, she fell to the ground again, the mist grinding her into the dust. She saw Susan fall, and the boy tottered, head in hands.
Atarry cloud billowed in the hollow, more dense than any mist Jean had seen before. It shot through the lines of running men, swallowing them and spewing out slashers to stampede blindly among the opposing sides.
And still thick as pitch, it climbed toward the ridge.
“It’s coming for us!” Liyla breathed.
Jean saw it engulf the soldiers who were in its path. On the ridge, the troops paused, but the Genius only stood watching for a moment before returning to the corral, his dog at his heels.
“Send the men,” he said to the guards. “And the woman, too.”
The guards moved into the corral, lifting the deadly pendants from the captives’ necks and hustling them to their feet.
“Perhaps the girl, too?” the Genius mused to Spark. “It might be interesting to see.”
For the first time, Liyla’s father spoke. “Please!” he cried. “My girl’s a useful one; she’s shown you, hasn’t she? Don’t let it take her! Who will keep hold of the stranger?”
The Genius stopped and seemed to consider.
“Perhaps you’re right,” he said. “But of course, if she remains, she’ll have to shoulder the burden the rest of you have dropped. As you say, who will keep our guest quiet if she doesn’t?”
He motioned to the pendants the soldiers had removed, hanging now on the fence.
“Put them on her,” he said. “Carefully.”
One by one, the soldier slipped the orbs over Liyla’s head as she sat wide-eyed. They plucked even more from the basket, until her chest bristled with pendants. Liyla looked as if she wanted to cry out, but only a squeak came.
Then, as if they were in on a joke together, the Genius grinned at Jean. “You think me mad, don’t you? Have those old men in the valley convinced you that I can be beaten by their tricks?”
She wanted to tell him that he would be, that his own soldiers were even now falling beneath the mist, but like Liyla’s, her throat had snapped shut; she had no voice.
He laughed outright this time. “No need to say it. I know what you’re thinking. Didn’t I say we know each other well? Yes, so you doubt me. But small children make poor strategists, even if they do have lovely faces.” He winked. “It’s true that my friends in the valley have become expert at turning out beasts, but beasts, too, have their use.” He patted his dog’s sleek head. “Watch, I’ll show you.”
Then he waved the guards on, and they herded the captives from the corral, pushing them to the ridge and onto the slope of the hollow. Liyla’s mother turned back, and Spark came running, driving her down toward the mist.
The darkness reached their feet first, then wound around their legs. The ruddy soldier screamed, and the fruit seller collapsed. They were changing, all of them. The skin rippled on their faces, and they bent and writhed, their screams changing to howls as Jean and Liyla watched.
“Da!” Liyla cried.
For a moment, her father’s rippling features turned her way, and his eyes seemed to focus. Then, behind him, the dog snapped, and he fell, overcome.
Darkness, the noise all gone, light snuffed out, and despair yawning for her, madness coming, bleak, empty.
In the end, it had defeated her, and Laysia felt the mist take the last of memory, the last of joy, the last of hope.
A breeze riffled the darkness. The breath of life. Green promise stirred her, and light returned. Laysia blinked at the clearing mist, and the world tilted and righted itself, and she could see, now, Nell, on her knees behind her brother, her hands cupped round a sapling. One slim maple leaf unfolded, and another. It was a frail thing, this small tree between the child’s hands. And yet it breathed life.
The boy had fallen to his knees, pressed his head to the ground, but now he looked up and around. Laysia rose to a crouch, and again she could feel Kate’s hand on her. Nell took hold of the newborn tree. It shot up another foot, flowering, and the mist melted away. Sound returned to the world.
Kate screamed.
The Guide had raised a hand, and before Laysia could stand, a bolt of electricity sizzled through the air. A streak of fire shot from him up and over the children and across an open space, through the tents to where a woman, running along the border of the receding mist, was charging toward them, waving a tall pole, soldiers behind her. It hit with a flash, and the woman screamed, her clothes aflame.
“Attend!” the man shouted at the boy. “This is what you were made for!”
With a shriek, Ker hurtled over the hollow, aflame. Don’t look! Jean told herself. Then the scream broke. She glanced up. Twisted at odd angles, her clothes smoldering, the woman dangled from the high branch of a tree, arms flapping in the wind.
Cringing, Jean looked to the Genius. What vengeance would he take now? But the man barely glanced in Ker’s direction. Below him, the mist was suddenly retreating, leaving behind the bent figures of the soldiers and the captives it had swallowed. As it left, they reared up, screeching. Wild, changed, they turned on the soldiers who had driven them into the darkness, and attacked.
“What use is it?” Liyla sobbed, watching. “What use?”
The Genius never lost his vicious smile. “Yes, they’ve become like savage dogs, haven’t they?” He tilted his head toward the girls. “But I know something of savage dogs. They respond to power.” He watched the new-made slashers tear at the soldiers another moment before he added, “And they can smell fear.”
He nodded to the guards behind the corral, and they heaved open the barn doors. Huddled in the dim space were more than two dozen children, who blinked now in the sudden light. Fire pendants glittered in heaps beside them, and every neck was adorned with a deadly orb.
Jean could not at first drag her eyes from the fire orbs. Mountains of them glinted among the unfortunate children, taller than some of the smallest of them. And seeing this, she at last looked at their faces. A dark-haired girl wi
th a bald spot at her chin stared out at her, the collar of her shirt blackened and burned.
“Omet!”
The girl said nothing. Stomach churning, Jean looked from face to face. There was Sefi, the girl who’d sung songs about the useless to put the others to sleep at night. Nearby sat Yali, who’d been so gentle with Kate. She saw the boy from the sleeper shed, Espin, sitting with hands shielding his chest, and Modo, who’d helped hide them under the floor. Child after child, all were there, and many more.
“Go! Go!” the soldiers shouted, rousting the dazed children from the barn. Chained wrist to ankle, the children couldn’t lift their arms above their shoulders, but they grabbed the pendants and held them away from their chests as they staggered out into the sunlight, trying not to fall.
“Wait! Please don’t!” Jean saw Yali stumble and catch herself, the fire pendant still in her hand.
“Omet!” Jean cried again. And as if she’d been speaking to him, the Genius nodded.
“Resourceful girl,” he said as he watched Omet stumble toward the ridge. “She’d built quite a nest there, infesting the buildings. Pity she was useless.” He gazed for another second at Omet, running toward the battle, driven by the soldiers and their dogs.
“Of course, I’ve found a use for her now.”
And as the children descended into the hollow, the wild-eyed slashers raised their heads, turning, and leaped to pursue them like wolves to the hunt.
The old man shook the ground. Gentle, the scholars had been once, but not now! All the rage Laysia could feel in the air flowed into the wind and fire that raced from him out toward the red cloaks. And still the far wood poured forth the enemy, a hemorrhage that would not end. They came and came, red as a gash in the mountain, and even the shaking of the foundation could not stanch it.
Then from the east, soft at first, a new wind came whistling. Shadows striped the ground, and Laysia saw a mass of watchers soar overhead and alight in the clearing. The first of them turned, and she saw a familiar profile, a well-remembered face.
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