“Maybe next time you can try giving him the flask in advance,” Gritzel called from behind and hurried to catch up. “The little tyke’d have a hard time standing on two legs if he downed it all.”
Vademus slowed, waiting for his second in command. “Next time, I’ll bet a moon of you shining his boots. I’d win either way. It’d be good to see you do something useful for a change,” he quipped, though he was partly serious. Gritzel was a lousy officer but a good friend—the type of guy that made the time in the Fringe pass more easily.
“Only officers care about shiny boots,” Gritzel dismissed the threat. “Keep him off pit duty, and he’d nail his foot to the ground to win.”
“Commander Fen!” A scout bounded toward them waving a letter above his head. “Commander Fen.” He handed over the sealed letter while trying to catch his breath. “There’s a. Lord of. Council. To see you. Sir.”
Vademus recognized the seal. Lord Belos Cullen. Trouble. “What’s Lord Cullen doing here?”
“Don’t know, sir. Wouldn’t say. Just gave me the letter to give to you. He’s at your tent now.”
“You don’t think—” Gritzel started, but stopped when he saw the look on the Commander’s face.
Vademus dismissed the scout, broke the seal, and opened the letter. Official business for the Council of Truth. He frowned. It explains nothing. Why would they send a lord to the Fringe without notifying me? And why Cullen? If there was anyone he liked less than his brother, it was Belos Cullen. The obnoxious man was the last remaining lord able to trace his lineage to the founders of the Council of Truth. The fact gave him a sense of superiority and entitlement—an arrogance as outsized as his girth.
When the scout was gone, Gritzel started again in a hushed voice. “Isn’t Cullen the one you said was so rough when you gave your last report?”
Rough? The lardass skewered me before the whole Council. “Yeah, he’s the one,” Vademus responded, thinking back to his last report to the Council. Lord Cullen had made a spectacle of berating him for the plodding pace at which the army was dispatching the Fringe tribes. He’d gone almost so far as to call for a replacement to be named. The Commander headed toward his tent, a nervous sweat slicking his skin despite the chill of the evening. If Cullen were half as smart as he thinks he is, he’d know I have no control over what I report. I give my brother facts. Artifis tells me what to say to the Council. The sluggish pace, as well, was set by the First Lord. Vademus had started to suspect his brother was more interested in maintaining the conflict than in actually clearing the Fringe.
“Lord Cullen,” Commander Fen hailed the gray-haired lord as he approached. “To what do we owe the honor?”
Belos Cullen waited to answer, making a point to first look at the disordered sea of tents, his face screwed in contempt. “Your last report was riddled with pretense and excuses. Given the blatant lies of your messengers, I felt it time the Council learns the real truth.”
Heap-loving wanker. Vademus offered his hand in greeting. “It’s our pleasure, of course, to host you.”
Lord Cullen rebuffed him, stepping past to survey the camp. “Did you design this camp yourself, or did the Shades do it for you?”
Vademus flushed. The camp was a mess, with no rhyme or reason to the layout. The men have enough structure in their lives. Let them sleep where they wish.
“And imagine my surprise,” the bulging lord continued, “to have reached your perimeter without being confronted by a single scout. No wonder the Shades give you fits.”
I stopped sending scouts beyond the perimeter because they stopped returning. Better to live with a few men picked off the camp’s edge than lose my best men for nothing. I’d rather they escort the supply caravans than provide the Shades target practice. “I look forward to hearing your advice.” He swallowed the bile that uttering those words had brought to his throat. If it were up to me, we’d declare victory and be done with this whole mess. Here we’re not soldiers, but butchers. It’s shameful.
“I do have some good news for you.” Lord Cullen paused for effect with a slight upward tilt of his chin. “We’ve caught a mole in our midst.”
“A mole?” Vademus feigned surprise. He’d told Artifis since the start of the war someone was tipping off the Shades. Their ambushes were too well-planned and executed to be chance. That, and they never attacked the caravans carrying concealed soldiers rather than food.
Lord Cullen squared his shoulders as if he himself had been responsible for catching the man. “Ansel Brosz. Bugger avoided the seekers for almost a moon before that seeker, Marvil, delivered his head.”
“Then tonight we celebrate,” Vademus announced. “I’ll have the men arrange a feast in your honor.” He looked forward to the celebration as he would lancing a boil, unpleasant but necessary.
The porcine lord licked his lips. “It has been a long journey, so I’ll not turn down food and some ale. But don’t think it’ll make me withhold your failings from Council.” He wagged his finger to emphasize the threat. “Your brother can’t protect you, now.”
Vademus remained collected despite the lord’s provocation. “I’m Commander. I don’t need protection.” But the mention of his brother had unsettled him. He didn’t fear the Council, but he did fear his big brother. “Why did Artifis send someone so important to undertake this perilous journey?” he probed, hoping to solve the riddle of why Lord Cullen was chosen for the journey.
Lord Cullen puffed out his chest and sneered. “Your brother’s no king. He can no more order a lord than you. He didn’t send me! He tried to stop me from coming.”
Vademus’ mind rushed to grasp the implications. Artifis, what are you up to? He was certain if his brother hadn’t wished Lord Cullen to come, there was no way the lord would now be in the Fringe. If Artifis objected to the journey, there’d be no risk anyone would later point fingers at him. That’s how he works. There’s no way Cullen survives the return home.
Vademus excused himself under the pretext of arranging for the lord’s accommodations and overseeing preparations for the feast. A sense of dread constricted his throat as he tried to figure why he was so troubled. I couldn’t care less about Cullen. No, I’d welcome Belos Cullen’s death. He stopped abruptly. Besides my brother, how many other lords would know or suspect that truth? The dread spread from his throat into his gut. Too many! Artifis, you wouldn’t, would you? Your own brother?
Welloch, Chapter 25
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Dyrmor appeared human but aged like a dragon. She ruled as Mother for generations, and the Tungan slaves became a mighty nation under her leadership. With Brorsidst leading their armies, the Dragonborn expanded their borders beyond those of their ancestors.
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Then Dyrmor fell in love and wed. Trahire was handsome, clever, and well-liked, but his ambition begat a ruinous jealousy of the Dragonbrother. Eager for glory, Trahire beseeched his wife to ignore her brother’s counsel and continue to expand their borders. When Dyrmor sided with Brorsidst, Trahire laced the offerings left for the Dragonbrother with poison, then drove his sword into her brother’s eye.
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Dyrmor executed Trahire for treason and swore to never again take a man to her bed. It was too late. Without the Dragonbrother’s strength, their army suffered defeat after defeat, and the Dragonborn relinquished the taken land.
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Consumed by grief, Dyrmor lost her passion to rule. However, she wanted to prevent the leadership of her people from reverting to the Bone Reader, whom she blamed for inciting Trahire and providing the poison. With no children of her own, she selected an unwed girl to groom as her successor. When the girl—the first Daughter—was prepared to lead, Dyrmor abdicated. The Daughter became Mother to the Dragonborn.
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Dyrmor left to seek out the dragon homeland but promised, if the Dragonborn
kept faith, she’d return with the Dragonbrother reborn to restore her people to glory.
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—Excerpt from the Tungresh,
the sacred scrolls of the Dragonborn
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Welloch
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Nikla swung far out over the ravine, her body taut, her braid trailing behind. Death watched from below, a sweaty-palmed grip on a weathered rope away from its prey. Before Quint arrived in her life, brief moments like these were the only times she’d felt alive. Otherwise, her days were a slog through the drudgery of time. In Quint’s arms, though, she’d tasted something that left her eager for every moment of every day. Even when they weren’t together, the feeling remained.
The momentum stopped, then built again as the swing returned her toward the cliff edge. She let go and landed catlike on the soft grass, then peeked to see Quint release the breath he’d been holding. She felt wonderful to again have someone who cared, someone who considered her precious.
After her parents’ death, her uncle and aunt had provided the food and shelter custom dictated, nothing more. Nikla, bound by the same customs, had become their servant. She cooked, cleaned, and worked the fields. It was a difficult life, but she focused on the positive. Most daughters are swaddled in layers of custom and ritual. I’m disregarded. My life is valueless enough I’m allowed to risk it.
“You’re crazy!” Quint discarded the rope she’d pushed toward him, letting it carry back out over the ravine and the Dragons Teeth below.
She masked her disappointment with a smile. She’d conducted the lesson there under the pretense of showing him where the rituals used to be held. Her real purpose for bringing Quint to the spot was to show him the swing and share with him the thrill of defying death.
He eased closer to the edge to view the river tumbling through the jagged rocks. “You really throw people down there?”
“Only foreigners,” she chuckled, and retrieved the dangling rope with a fallen branch.
“I’m serious.” Quint’s brow furrowed. His body had tensed when she’d shown him the swing. It remained tense still.
She silently wrapped the rope around the tree trunk, secured it to the lowest branch, then sidled next to him. He was still surveying the Dragons Teeth, his handsome face serious, his forehead creased. “Not for a long time. The Mother forbade sacrifices.” She plopped down beside him, dangling her legs over the steep drop.
He looked at her then toward her dangling legs. She sensed he was fighting the urge to drag her back from the edge. “Aren’t the offering boxes sacrifices?”
She smiled. He’d learned so much, but his knowledge of her people was like that of a child’s—scraps of understanding pieced together into an unfinished puzzle. She approached the teaching with patience, offering piece after piece so he might fill the gaps—the final picture less important than the process of putting the puzzle together. “The offering boxes are for the Dragonbrother. The sacrifices the Mother put a stop to were for the old gods, the desert gods. More Tunga died for them than all the wars combined.”
“Your gods are horrible.”
There was a time when such a statement would have infuriated her. Now she understood it derived from ignorance, not an intention to offend. “Maybe, but from what you’ve told me, they’re not so different from your own. Just different tastes. The desert gods hunger for the lives of their own people. Yours demand the lives of others. One’s sacrifice. The other murder.”
“How can you say such a thing?” She’d discovered he often challenged others’ beliefs, but became defensive when his own were challenged.
“In fact,” she continued, “I don’t see much difference between the Council of Truth and the Allyrians.”
“The Allyrians waged war. War is not murder,” he countered.
She could see he was mulling over her words, though. She admired that about him, his willingness to adjust his views when confronted by new perspectives. “At what point does killing shift from an act you condemn to one you celebrate?”
When he didn’t respond, she figured she’d pushed far enough and changed the topic. “Speaking of war, do you really think the Council’s army will come all the way here?” Her aunt and uncle had dismissed the possibility, but many others spoke as if the army’s arrival was a certainty.
“I don’t see what can stop it.” He joined her on the ground, a safe distance from the edge.
“Not the Shades?”
He shook his head. “When I left Bothera, I’d hoped they would. But the Shades are bees to a bear, more annoyance than threat.” He grinned with the spark in his eyes that signaled his belief he was about to say something clever. “The Shades are a lot like you—weak but annoying.”
Nikla pushed Quint’s back to the ground and jumped on top of him, digging her thumb between his ribs. “I’ll show you weak!”
He yelped then rolled over, pinning her beneath him. He paused to gaze at her, his gold-flecked eyes intense, hungry, then lowered his mouth toward hers. She lifted her chin to meet him, but he moved past her open mouth to kiss her neck then nibble the lobe of her ear. She moaned and pulled him against her. “I want you,” she exhaled into the curved joining of his neck and shoulder.
“Out here?”
She bit his neck hard enough to leave a mark.
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After, they lay, breathless, watching the clouds drift in the sky. Quint could tell by the position of the sun that the end of his time with Nikla neared. He already regretted her departure. He’d need to wait until the next lesson to see her again. “Do you honestly believe the Mother and Dragonbrother will return?” It was a question he’d let fester, one he needed answered. He didn’t believe they ever existed outside of the stories.
“No.” She looked away, as if embarrassed to admit her belief. “I believe the first Mother taught her pupil well and was wise enough to know what her people needed to hear.”
“Then why are you so conscientious in preparing the offering boxes?” He was encouraged to learn Nikla didn’t believe, not only because he thought the prospect of dragons returning to save them absurd, but also because it meant there were likely others who felt the same way—others he might use to persuade the Mother to prepare for the coming conflict.
“What if I’m wrong? It’s a small price to pay for hope.” She rolled to her side, her back to him.
Quint, worried he’d upset her, reached across her body to place his hand on her stomach. “I’m sorry,” he whispered against the back of her neck.
Her response was soft, barely audible. “If the Shades are bees, the Dragonborn are gnats.”
The Vinlands, Chapter 26
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A few Steward children, yet too young to bond with the earth, survived the massacre. Without the bond, these children could not draw Amon’s power and would age like men. Unable to assist with the Breaking, they were instead paired with Fei children in the hopes their offspring would maintain Amon’s presence in the land.
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Before the Stewards summoned the Breaking, they taught these pairs a ritual to allow their descendants to tap into Amon’s power. These descendants became the Faerie.
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—Excerpt from The Rise and Fall of Magic—
The Faerie Histories
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The Vinlands
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“Up!” Kutan shouted. Whym leapt up, feet chopping at the ground. “Down!” His chest hit with a cloud of dust before he pushed it off the dirt and held his body straight, arms shaking with fatigue. “Up! Down! Up! Down! Up! Down!” He fought to hold his bod
y rigid, but his arms gave out. He dropped, with a grunt, to the dirt.
“Not bad.” Kutan knelt beside him.
Whym, still panting from the exertion, rolled over to watch the mid-morning sun lick away the last drops of dew from the meadow. The days were growing shorter. Soon the dew would be frost. Since Stern’s departure nearly two moons before, they’d held to a strict routine—wake early, train, hike, train, hike, make camp, sleep. It was unusual for his fellow apprentice and fill-in master to take an unplanned break. Whym welcomed the schedule change.
“What was that exercise for again?” he questioned, still panting.
An impish smile creased the freckled face beside him. “My amusement.”
“What? You rotten—” Whym lunged at Kutan’s ankles, sending him flailing backward.
But Whym was too exhausted to press his advantage. He was soon pinned to the ground, Kutan sitting on his chest. “And this, though also amusing—” Kutan tapped his knuckle against Whym’s sternum, making a hollow thump—“is to teach you a lesson.”
“Which is?” Whym struggled ineffectually to free himself.
“Don’t mess with someone more skilled than you.” Thump. “Stronger.” Thump. “Smarter.” Thump. “And far better-looking.” The thumps had progressed from annoyance to discomfort.
Whym squirmed, contorting his body like a freshly caught fish. No matter how hard he tried to wriggle free, Kutan remained on top, digging his sharp knees into the spot where Whym’s biceps met his elbows. “Okay! Okay! You win.”
“Lesson learned?” His freckled colleague snickered as he rolled off.
Whym rubbed one arm just above the elbow, where a knee-sized bruise was forming, but smiled. “I’ll admit ‘more skilled’—for now.”
They lay side by side under the azure sky, watching cotton clouds float past. Their time together had melted away Whym’s distrust. He’d begun to think of Kutan as a friend, then a brother. But brothers still keep secrets.
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