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—Lord Silvan Stitch
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Riverbend
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By the time they reached the tunnel’s end, their clothing was covered in dirt and the candle Agnis had given them burned down to a nub. Whym pushed the wooden board above his head, testing the weight. It was light, so he slid it to the side. Hay tumbled down onto his head, and he yanked back the candle, extinguishing it by accident.
“What’s going on?” Kutan jerked away from the path of Whym’s arm.
“Sorry.” Whym dropped the candle and held his hands up to feel above him as he stood. The tunnel exit was located below a heavy wooden trough that just brushed against the spike of his cowlick when he stood upright. He felt around then wriggled out of the hole and out from under the trough.
Thunk. “Ow. Thanks for the warning,” Kutan grumbled.
Whym had forgotten to consider that Kutan was taller. “Sorry,” he called as he groped in the darkness to locate the barn door. He swung it open to reveal a grove of trees illuminated by the light of a full moon. The low glow and soft hum of the city was to their right. “I’m guessing the farmhouse is over there.” He pointed toward the back of the barn.
Kutan slung the satchel of food Agnis had sent with them over his shoulder and stepped outside. The howl of hunting dogs carried across fields not far away. “Hope they’re not looking for us.”
“Of course they are.” A figure neither had noticed detached itself from the barn wall. Salazar pulled his hood back with one hand, and extended two large hemp sacks with the other.
Kutan crouched into a fighting stance. “You?”
Salazar tossed the two sacks at Kutan’s feet. They landed with the clang of metal. “You forgot these.” Whym could see the glint of a sword edge protruding from one of the sacks and realized it was his pack and sword belt he’d left behind at the Cache.
“It would have been safer to use a tunnel nearer the Maze. There’s one not far from the Cache, you know?” Salazar stuffed his hands into his pockets. “And were I you, I’d have waited to leave until they’d kenneled the hounds.” The dogs howled again.
“You tricked us and locked us up.” Whym’s head was spinning trying to figure out what was going on. Who is Salazar? Whose side is he on?
“I locked you up so you wouldn’t do something stupid—like try to rescue your master or walk across Riverbend in the light of day.” He stepped closer.
While they’d waited for dark, Agnis had explained that Fink had come to her with news of their capture and proposed to use her tunnel. She’d not discovered how he’d learned of its existence, but had assumed Stern had told him. She’d also revealed that Lord Fen was a regular visitor to the Cache, and theorized that he and Salazar were working together. Whym, though, suspected baser reasons for the visits. If Salazar was really allied with the Council, he believed, he and Kutan would already be in the hands of the TruthGuard and Salazar wouldn’t be there returning their weapons. “Whose side are you on?” Whym asked. “The Council? The resistance?”
“I’m on your side—the Faerie side.” Salazar took another step closer. “Didn’t your friend, Tedel, tell you the Faerie are planning to invade?”
Whym stepped back, maintaining the distance between him and the big man. “I don’t trust you.” Tedel would have told me something like that. The amulet burned.
“I don’t need your trust.” Salazar pulled his hands out of his pockets. One held a candle, the other a letter. He handed them to Whym. “But I will have your obedience when the time comes. Keep that rock of yours safe until then.” The candle lit suddenly in Whym’s hand—magic. The big man glanced again toward Kutan, who’d abandoned his defensive posture and was looking at the candle in wide-eyed wonderment. Then Salazar turned and walked away.
Whym stood frozen in shock as the big man disappeared into the tall grass and darkness. All the clues were there—Seph, Kutan’s lineage, Salazar’s certainty of the Steward’s existence, his frequent mention of the Faerie—but I didn’t connect them. The invasion was the piece I was missing! It ties them all together. But why wouldn’t Tedel have told me about that?
“Don’t just stand there!” Kutan shielded the light from the candle and ushered Whym back into the barn just as the hunting dogs howled again—closer than before.
Whym held the letter Salazar had given him near to the flame, but couldn’t make sense of what he was reading. “It’s nonsense,” he said.
“Let me see.” Kutan took the letter and squinted in the dim light. His free hand shot up to cover his suddenly gaping mouth. He dropped the letter and backed away, only stopping when his back thumped against the barn wall. He sank to the ground.
Whym moved toward him. “Could you understand it?”
Kutan stared down, hands spread and pressed against his temples, mouth opened as if he were struggling to breathe. “It’s in code,” he finally answered, a mumble to the dirt floor.
“And?”
Kutan looked up, started to speak, but then bit his lip and looked back toward the ground. “I was never angry you killed Tyrus. I was upset you didn’t ask me to help.” He looked up at Whym. “I would have, you know? And I’d have made sure no one knew who was responsible.”
Whym didn’t know what to say. What was in that letter? “I…again, I’m sorry about Stern.”
Kutan’s lips turned upward into a pained smile. “The letter was from Stern. He asked Salazar to kill you, so I wouldn’t suspect his involvement.”
Whym was jolted by the revelation. Though his relationship with Stern had never recovered after the night he’d met Laatst, Whym had tried, at least, to extend a cautious trust to their master on the return trip to Riverbend. “Why?”
Kutan shook his head, flattening the smile in tight-lipped anger. “The teller and visions—same as before.” Kutan paused before continuing, glancing out of the barn toward the glow of Riverbend before turning back to Whym. “Does ‘Servant of Death’ mean anything to you?”
Whym felt the blood rush to his face, and consciously lowered the candle so the light dimmed further. How? How could he? He swallowed, and forced an answer through his constricting throat. “No. Why?”
To Whym’s relief, Kutan’s expression didn’t change. Instead, he shifted his eyes to the letter on the floor beside Whym. “Forget it. I think the teller’s words had sickened his mind. I just wish…” Kutan stopped, exhaled, then stood. “If you want to hide, I’ll help you find a place.”
Whym knew Kutan’s feelings had to be mixed after reading the coded message. He’d just lost someone who was like a father to him. Then before having time to grieve, the man’s memory had been defiled. The understanding made him appreciate the generosity of Kutan’s reaction even more. He thought of the last words his own father had spoken to him—make me proud—and knew he could never live with himself if he ran away and hid. “I don’t plan to hide.”
Whym thought about the players in this evolving battle over the Lost Land—Lord Fen and the Council, Stern and the resistance, Salazar and the Faerie. There wasn’t one side he felt he trusted. They were all flush with secret schemes and hidden agendas. Even Agnis, who’d risked her own life to rescue them from the Cache, was a mystery to him. He recalled his mother’s uneasy reaction when he’d mentioned Agnis. No, the only people I trust are my father and Kutan. Whym’s jaw set with the realization. He was leaving his father behind. Kutan was as close to family as he’d have left. “I meant what I said before—about following you.”
Kutan stepped over, put his arm around Whym’s shoulder and stared out toward the dull glow of Riverbend—Whym’s place of birth, no longer his home. “I also don’t wish to lead,” he said. He turned his gaze to Whym, the pain of loss etched on his face. “But I’d be pleased to have a friend accompan
y me.”
Whym was relieved to have the wall that had separated him from Kutan torn down and his guilt over Stern’s death assuaged. When he looked at his friend—no, brother—he didn’t care who else was fighting with him. If he was shoulder to shoulder with Kutan, he’d be fighting for the right side. “I’m not your friend.” The statement prompted a look of dismay from Kutan. Whym held out his hand. “Brother,” he said, “where are we going?”
Kutan smiled, a smile that briefly hid his sorrow. He bent to retrieve the letter, then held it against the flame. He let it burn until only the corner between his fingers remained, then dropped it and snuffed out the fire with the heel of his boot. “To the Fringe.”
“To join the Shades?”
“To find my mother.”
Welloch, Chapter 73
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Keep your gods, your dragons,
Your idols with magic.
I’ll not feed them my sacrifice,
Nor touch my forehead to the ground.
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I will never accept
My fate to be tragic,
But instead continue searching
for a master until I’ve found
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One worthy of my service.
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—Quint
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Welloch
One Moon Later
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Quint ambled through the ruins of Welloch. Though the air still carried the charred remembrance of the razing, grasses and weeds pushed through the ashes to reclaim the land. He’d intended to locate where the Bone Reader had hidden to escape the fighting, but after arriving, realized he no longer cared.
Instead, he remembered. He remembered how he’d felt when he’d first arrived in this remote corner of the Fringe—naïve, hopeful. He was no longer that person. Before, he’d blamed others for his actions—the Mother’s intransigence, the Bone Reader’s threats. But blame was for those who needed excuses. I suffered for the wisdom I acquired. I’ll own my failures.
He knew it was too early, the wounds too fresh, to look back and decide what he should have done. Still, with the benefit of hindsight, he couldn’t help but think he might have followed the Mother’s course had he been in her place. Why ruin your people’s last days of peace with preparations for a war lost generations before?
“We should get moving.” Dermot stood a few paces behind, next to the stone steps of what had been the GreatHall. “We don’t have much light left.”
Dermot had insisted on burying Nikla’s body. Quint had let him, but hadn’t helped. The body, cut into pieces and placed in the crate, was no longer the woman Quint loved. It was an offering, no different from the dismembered crickets or the goats or sheep of richer days. “I’d like some time alone. I’ll catch up.”
The scarred ex-slave looked uncertain, but deferred to him as usual. “We’ll camp tonight in the clearing where we met—” He stopped. “You sure?”
“I’ll be fine. Don’t worry.” Quint watched the big man stride away, then looked toward the hill above town where he’d lived for many moons. A green rebirth had begun to poke through the packed dirt tents had once covered. He headed the other way to visit with another memory.
They’d not found the remaining Dragonborn, though they’d not followed the tracks leading west around the back of the mountain. Farther west waited the Endless Sand. Quint assumed that’s where Arianne would lead them, to return the Fire to the sands where it belonged. He no longer cared what befell the others of the tribe. As far as he was concerned, they were all party to the Bone Reader’s vengeance—complicit in Nikla’s death.
He could hear the water rumbling through the Dragons Teeth as he approached the ravine, rumbling like an empty stomach growling to be fed. He’d once feared falling off that cliff. Now, with the toes of his boots over the edge, he peered down to where the Dragonborn had thrown their human sacrifices.
Sacrifice. The symbol was seared into his memory.
He stepped over to the tree. The frayed rope was still wrapped where Nikla had left it. He pulled it free, wondering whether the elements had weakened it in the moons since it last bore weight. He recalled the rapture he’d seen on her face as she’d swung. I should have swung as well. That’s what she wanted. But I was afraid.
He gripped the rope above the upper knot and leapt, his feet searching for the knot lower down. When they found it, he let his head hang so he could see the Dragons Teeth below him. He relaxed his two-fisted grip and let one hand fall to his side. It would be easy to let go—a fitting ending.
He swung out far and wide in an arc over the rushing waters. He could feel the brief moment where he stopped, the point between coming and going. The rope was returning him to a future without Nikla. Pain and guilt waited for him at the edge of the cliff.
He let go.
His feet landed on the soft grass, and he cushioned the impact with a bend of his knees. He stood and walked away, letting the weathered rope carry out over the ravine. He intended to leave it hanging there. Nikla was gone. The Dragonborn were gone. Neither would return. Nor would he.
Dermot had urged him to go to Bothera and beg his father’s forgiveness. He’d refused. He planned to fight. When he’d joined the Shades, he’d joined believing in the innocence of the Fringe tribes—persecuted peoples too weak to protect themselves. Experience had stolen his innocence and his passion for that cause. The tribes were as flawed as every other people in the Lost Land. It was the fight—only the fight—he now sought, to balance his many retreats.
As he made his way to the clearing, he recalled Teller Salf’s words. Only when tempered by the fires of passion and quenched in the ice of devastating loss, will you comprehend. By then, you will serve another.
He could see the orange glow of a small fire ahead and hear the sound of his fellow Shades’ voices. I’m tempered. I’m quenched. But I’m yet to comprehend. What master do I serve?
The Fringe, Chapter 74
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At the end of the day, I looked back at the paths I’d taken and wondered which fork had led me astray.
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—ArWhym Ellenrond
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The Fringe
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Volos sipped the scalding tea, allowing the pain to settle on his tongue as penance. After his dismissal as the First Lord’s adviser, he’d shamed himself with his pathetic stupor of drunkenness. Thankfully, he’d exhausted the ale around the time they’d reached the Fringe. When he’d sobered up, Cyrus had been a revelation.
The younger twin—the boy he’d once considered too stupid, too weak, too very many things to be worth his effort—had proven to be every bit as cunning and clever as his father, and far better at taking advice. Only days after arriving, Vademus had been recalled to Riverbend and imprisoned. Not long after, the boy had been named Commander.
As Commander, Cyrus had gained both the loyalty and fear of his men. In but a few moons, he’d accomplished more in the Fringe than Vademus had in any single turn. After defeating the Dragonborn, he’d marched the army south, then west, wiping out three smaller tribes along the way.
The younger twin had needed only to be rid of his father and brother to spread his wings. Volos, likewise, was reinvigorated to be rid of the man in the shadows. What the Faerie do across the Blight is no longer my concern. Why should I care about the interests of those who abandoned me after a lifetime of service?
It was when they’d received the news of Tyrus’ untimely death, though, that Volos had known the boy was destined for great things. The First Lord had requested his new he
ir to return to Riverbend. Cyrus had penned a polite response that stated an immediate return was unwise, then sent the messenger back to Riverbend with a slow-moving wagon caravan instead of by horse. “Let Father wait,” he’d said to Volos. “We have much to accomplish before going home.”
Let them have Artifis Fen. I’m molding young Cyrus into the leader the First Lord could only have hoped to be. Together we’ll tear down the famed walls of Bothera and loot the Hall of Riches. Then we’ll rule the Council of Truth and all the Lost Land, by force, if necessary.
Volos rubbed the fingers of his free hand over his shaved and polished scalp, considering what to do. That morning, they’d received interesting news—the son of the Voice of the Oracle was fighting alongside the Shades. Could this be the excuse we’ve been waiting for to attack Bothera? He feared that would result in a lengthy siege, a siege they couldn’t win without the Council’s support. For the first time since he’d begun advising Cyrus, he was unsure what advice to give.
As he debated, his eyes were drawn to a small chest on the table inside his tent. Is it my imagination, or is it glowing brighter than before?
Soldiers had recovered the chest from the last Dragonborn refugees, who’d been caught and slaughtered while fleeing toward the Endless Sand. Not until that morning—after three soldiers died in a dispute over its ownership—had an officer delivered it to Volos. He’d yet to have a chance to inspect its contents.
He moved to the table, and because he didn’t know what gave the chest its unearthly glow, used a scrap of cloth to unclasp the latch and open the lid. Inside, a sphere of Fire burned on a bed of white sand.
“What are you?” Volos asked as he stared into the flames. He wasn’t ignorant like the men of the Lost Land. He was Faerie. He’d spent his childhood across the Blight. He knew magic, even if he had none of his own. This Fire was magic of some sort.
“What are you?” he repeated.
He was answered by a vision in the flames. He slammed closed the lid, latched it with shaking fingers, and pushed it away from him to the very edge of the table, his own chest rising and falling with ragged breaths.
Birthrights_Revisions to the Truth Page 46