The torture had started when he’d reached the jail. Only then did he learn that Whym had murdered the First Lord’s eldest. The news came as a surprise. Salazar was supposed to have killed Whym as he entered Riverbend. Whym was supposed to have been dead when Kutan arrived. Since Whym had not been found, Stern assumed the big man had finished the task. But now Kutan was being hunted as well. Despite Kutan’s skill, Stern guessed it was only a matter of time before he was caught and hanged as well. Stern blamed himself.
If I’d have killed Whym when I was supposed to, Kutan and I would not have returned to Riverbend without an army at our backs. But my faith was too weak. I doubted the visions. When I looked at Whym, I saw the kind and decent boy I knew. I couldn’t believe he’d become the monster in the visions. Even after the flames parted for Whym’s hand, what he called magic was so pitiful I continued doubting. But when he occupied the animals, I knew. I only waited until Riverbend to act so that Kutan wouldn’t know of my involvement. My cowardice has cost both our lives.
“Who else did you plan to murder?” his jailor had demanded during the questioning. Stern had laughed at the irony—the only death he’d planned was Whym’s. He was to be hanged for murder, but the wrong one. In response, the jailor had beaten the smile from his face and teeth from his mouth.
Stern tried again to focus on the faces as he was being dangled above the platform. It was no use. He couldn’t see. He wished he couldn’t hear as well.
“Traitor!”
“Scum!”
“Murderer!”
I’ve devoted my life to the resistance. To free you! This is how you treat me? He reminded himself he’d operated in secret, that they’d have no way to know the extent of his sacrifices. The words hurt regardless.
As a boy, he’d adopted his father’s aim of reforming the Council and removing corrupt lords. But his perspective and goals had changed over time, particularly after he’d met the former teller in Bothera. He’d realized the Council of Truth itself was a paradox—a well-intentioned but flawed idea. No matter how many revisions were made, there could be no single truth—no single answer to accommodate the diversity of the whole realm. My father and ArWhym failed because their goal was reform. This time, the rebellion will disband the Council and devolve power to the regions. The regions wouldn’t rise for reform. They will for freedom.
“Hanging’s too kind! Make him suffer!”
Stern tried to tune out the invective. But like a volley of arrows against a wall of shields, some sliced through to find their target. His anger won as he was losing consciousness. You all deserve what I saw in the visions—deserve what Whym would have delivered. I should have let him live to punish you.
Northern Edge of the Fringe, Chapter 70
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Only when tempered by the fires of passion and quenched in the ice of devastating loss, will you comprehend.
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—Teller Salf to Quint
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Northern Edge
of the Fringe
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“How could they still be meeting?” Quint looked up from the path toward the cave. “Maybe whoever they sent didn’t find us.” He’d hoped for Dermot’s reassurance. Instead, the scarred soldier said nothing, a grim expression graying his face.
After the scene with Arianne two days before, Quint had wanted to stay so he could protect Nikla should the meeting turn ugly. She’d been emphatic, though, that she needed to handle this on her own, going so far as to hint his presence would be counterproductive. You’ve helped enough. The accusation haunted him as much as the Bone Reader’s threats. The man was dead, but Quint couldn’t shake the feeling that his malevolent influence remained within Arianne. If she’d poison for love, what would she do for hatred?
He looked over his shoulder to see how far the shadow of the peak had stretched eastward. They would reach the cave before dusk, though just barely. He forced his eyes down to watch his steps along the path. Be patient. You’ll see her soon enough.
His spirits sank, though, when they arrived at the spot where the ground flattened. The cave mouth stood before them, tall and wide—fit for a dragon. That morning the people and their tents had been spread over the area. Now it was empty—no people, no tents—but for the odd item forgotten and left behind. “Could they have gone inside?”
Dermot looked troubled but didn’t answer. He kept climbing.
The cave was too far from the Dragonborn settlements—at least what had been settlements before the Council’s forces razed them—to have been visited often. Based on the faded markings on the walls and the weatherworn carvings on the ground outside, though, it had not always been abandoned. Quint recognized several of the symbols, some from Nikla’s body. His eyes were drawn to a fresh carving—scratching more than a carving—on the cave floor at the entrance. It was a familiar symbol placed just beyond the top lip of the opening, but he couldn’t recall the meaning.
He looked up from the symbol and stared into the darkness of the cave. “Hello?” he called timidly. “Is anyone here?” he said louder when there was no answer. “Nikla?” His voice rattled into the depths of the passage. He was answered only by fading echoes, then silence.
He noticed Dermot squatting near the side of the entrance and walked over to see what he’d found. Just as Quint reached him, he saw smoke rising from the big man’s hands. Gurch had taken a torch from his pack and was holding it out.
“Fire?” Quint asked. “But the scouts might see it and find them.”
Without answering, Dermot lit the torch, then dropped the burning nest of wood fibers to the cave floor. He ground them out with his heel. Gurch lit two more torches from the first. One he handed to Spence, the other to Dermot.
The sun had finished its descent shortly after they’d arrived. The last vestiges of gray dusk lingered outside, but inside, the cave was as black as the former Bone Reader’s stained lips. “Stay with me,” Dermot told Quint, holding the torch aloft. The cave mouth was so huge the three torches barely dented the darkness.
Dermot snapped and pointed. Gurch and Spence split off, Spence heading toward the left wall of the cave, Gurch the right. Quint followed Dermot straight ahead into the recess.
“Hey, I think I found something,” Spence called, his torch illuminating what appeared to be a large crate.
“Me, too,” Gurch added. “Box of some kind.”
“What the—” Spence dropped his torch then fumbled to pick it up. As soon has he found the grip, he swung it wildly in front of him.
“What is it?” Dermot shouted with uncharacteristic haste.
“A body,” Spence answered, still waving his torch, his frame tensed as if he expected something to jump out at him from the darkness.
“Those sick—” Gurch stepped back from the crate. “They cut him into pieces!”
Sacrifice! Quint remembered the meaning of the symbol and recalled when Nikla had taught it to him—the lesson right after the Reaping. His heart sank when he saw another crate ahead of them. Dermot held up the torch to illuminate the box. Quint stepped past him to look inside.
“Don’t!” Dermot grasped Quint’s shirt and pulled him backward.
It was too late. Quint saw the tattoo on the back of the hand—the hand that was sitting on the dried grass away from the rest of the body. He saw the brand with the Tungan symbol for water on the piece of arm. You’ve helped enough.
His feet caught on each other as Dermot pulled him back, and he fell onto the hard-packed cave floor. He rose to his knees and screamed into the depths of the darkness beyond, “I hope the Council butchers every last one of you!”
Riverbend, Chapter 71
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Plucked from the jaws of Death
A hoped for reprieve
Give thanks for every breath
That later you breathe.
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—Unknown
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Riverbend
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Whym was roused by the sound of metal rattling in the lock. Light filtered in through the keyhole and under the door. He sat up, expecting the delivery of another meal. With no other way to tell time, he’d used the count of meals to determine the day. Though he couldn’t be sure of the method’s accuracy, if his count was correct, it was the morning after the day of Stern’s execution.
Salazar hadn’t returned since his first visit, so they’d learned nothing more of his intentions for them in the interim. Although he’d claimed to be protecting them, Whym didn’t trust the man. For all he knew, Salazar was just waiting for the bounty on their heads to increase.
Whym slid off the bed to kneel on the floor beside Kutan. The rattling continued, as if someone were struggling with the lock. “There are two of us. Let’s try to escape.” If the same woman delivered the meal, they could easily overpower her. Once we’re out, though, then what? Even if we can sneak or fight our way out of the Cache, the TruthGuard and anyone interested in a bounty—which would be nearly everyone in the Maze, if not all of Riverbend—will be looking for us.
Kutan turned to him with narrowed eyes, then looked away with the shake of his head. He’d not spoken since Salazar’s last visit—the visit he’d learned of Stern’s fate.
The lock clicked. The door swung open. Torchlight flooded the room.
“Agnis?” Whym exclaimed. She was the last person he’d expected to see in a brothel.
“Fink?” Kutan said at nearly the same time.
“Shhh.” Agnis hurried to Kutan and discarded the ring of keys onto the bed. “We have to do something about that ugly mark.” She pulled a small, round stone container from her shoulder bag and handed it to Kutan. “Rub this on your cheek.”
“What are you—” Whym began.
“Shhh!” Fink held his finger to his lips.
Agnis pulled out two more small pouches—one filled with dirt, the other ash—and smeared them on Kutan’s face, blending them in until the birthmark was concealed. He looked like an unwashed street tough from the Maze. “That’ll do,” she announced, then stood and wiped the grime from her hands onto the plush bed cover.
“Follow me,” Fink whispered.
The old man led them down the hall and turned right just before the desk. The dark-skinned woman who’d first led them to the room lay on the floor, staring up with unblinking eyes. They walked for what felt like a block—opening and closing doors—before they exited into a room filled with rows of empty baths.
Kutan stepped over to one of the baths to look inside. “Where are we?”
“The old tannery.” Fink grabbed Kutan’s arm and pulled him toward the door. “The work’s done downriver these days. Neighbors complained about the smell.”
Agnis pointed to where two baskets of apples were sitting. “Each of you take one.”
Whym squatted, prepared for the heavy weight of a full basket, but lifted it with ease. “Filled with straw,” Fink explained as he peeked out the door. “Come on.” He stepped outside and held the door for the others.
Whym looked around to get his bearings. It was early morning, early enough the sun provided only a dim gray for the start of the day. Like the other entrance to the Cache, the area looked abandoned, with most doors stoned or bricked over.
“You could go as well,” Agnis said to Fink as she reached back in and grabbed a cane she’d left by the door.
The old man waved her away. “Pigeons to feed.”
She nodded, then turned to Whym and Kutan. “Follow me. Baskets up to your faces. Not a word.” Before starting off, she licked her thumb and blended in a couple of the smudges of dirt she’d applied to Kutan’s face.
“Shouldn’t we find someplace to hide until night?” Kutan suggested, bending slightly so she could reach.
“I said not a word!” Her nostrils flared. “People see what they expect. The best place to hide is out in the open. I’ve been doing it my whole life.”
As she led down the street, Kutan turned to Whym with a look of uncertainty Whym interpreted as, Sure we’re not better off with Salazar?
Whym pulled in his chin and raised his eyebrows, unable to shrug while holding up the basket. He thought of the dead woman and guessed going back was no longer an option.
Agnis set a leisurely pace, occasionally stopping to chat with vendors along the way. Whym wanted to rush to wherever was their destination, but had studied long enough with Stern to know she was right—people wouldn’t look twice at a woman stopping to chat up vendors while her deliverymen waited. As person after person passed without paying them any attention, he began to relax.
“Good spot for a break,” Agnis announced when they reached the main bridge into NewTown. “Baskets down, turn around, and take a knee,” she whispered out of the side of her mouth, then made a show of leaning over her cane and groaning as she stretched her back and legs.
“Madam Stitch?” A man who’d crossed from NewTown approached them. “What are you doing out this early?”
“Best apples make the best preserves.”
“All the way to RatsNest?” Whym heard the crunch of the man’s feet as he neared.
“I’ve been buying from this vendor since you were a wee one. Sends his boys to deliver for free.” She motioned toward Whym and Kutan, who were looking away from her in the direction of the river’s flow.
“I didn’t see you in the square yesterday. Did you not attend the hanging?”
The hanging? Whym guessed he’d been correct about the day count. That means Salazar was telling the truth. Stern’s dead. He peeked at Kutan, whose demeanor reminded Whym of the stoic expression he’d worn when Murck had first closed the shackle on his neck in Aldhaven.
“At my age,” Agnis sighed, “I’ve seen enough dying, deserved or not.”
“Reckon we all have of late.” Whym relaxed a little as the footsteps moved away. “Well, have yourself a nice day.”
“Do tell your lovely wife to stop by for some preserves.” There was a long pause before Agnis again spoke, long enough Whym had to fight the urge to turn to see what was the delay. “Up and get moving,” she said eventually. “Best hustle up if you want a tip,” she said louder for the benefit of those around.
They took a roundabout route after crossing the river, but were not stopped again. As Agnis closed the door to her home, she released the breath Whym hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She leaned against the wall with her eyes closed. “I’m too old for such excitement,” she said, her saggy bosom rising and falling with heavy breaths.
Whym placed his basket beside the table. His back and arms ached from the walk despite the straw to lessen the weight. “The hanging—”
“Yes, it was Stern.” Her shoulders stooped as she said his name. “There was nothing we could do to save him.” She opened her eyes. “Now, let’s get you some food.” She retreated into the next room, returning moments later with a tray of sliced brown bread and a small bowl of cream that smelled of garlic and black pepper. “It’s not much, but it’ll do.” She set the tray on the table. “Eat as much as you can. You’ll leave tonight.”
Kutan picked up a slice of the bread, but just stared at it. “Do you know how they caught Stern? Was he coming back for us? I thought he was going first to the Wildes.”
“No home to go back to there.” She tore off a piece of crust and dipped it into the cream. “Someone burned down the cottage. I’m surprised he’d not learned that.” She popped the crust in her mouth, stepped back outside by the rain barrel, and ret
urned with a small bucket of water. “You’re not planning to go back there, are you?” she asked as she found three cups and dipped them in the bucket.
“We’d have to get out of the city first,” Kutan scoffed. “They might not expect us to walk across town in the light of day, but I guarantee they’ll be watching every gate and manning the walls. They’ll see past a basket of apples.”
Whym realized Kutan had accepted Stern’s fate, and was focused on their next steps like the seeker had taught them. Only look back once you have time to ponder and remember. Keep your thoughts in the present to make certain you reach that point.
“Won’t be a problem,” Agnis said with a certainty that made both Whym and Kutan look up from the food with puzzled expressions. “Come. You’ll see.”
They followed her down to a cellar below the house. She shoved an empty crate to the side and placed her lamp where it had been. Then she knelt and felt the floor before hooking her fingers under one of the stone tiles and lifting it to reveal a wooden board beneath. After removing a few more tiles, she lifted the board. The area under the floor was hollow.
“We’re going to hide here?” Whym gasped, remembering the darkness of the room in the Cache.
“Stern trusted me for a reason—just like ArWhym trusted my grandfather,” she answered, again facing puzzled looks. “It’s a tunnel to the barn of a farmhouse beyond the wall. My grandfather was ArWhym’s spy on the Council of Truth.”
Riverbend, Chapter 72
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Turn rocks until you find truth. Pick it up then and make it your own. But hold it loose, so it might wriggle free. Then find truth again. When you encounter another’s truth, remember the many truths you’ve held.
Birthrights_Revisions to the Truth Page 45