Reaver's Wail

by Corey Pemberton

“There's still time to head Eamon off if we leave soon,” Willow said.

  Nasira bit her lip and nodded.

  “Siggi?” asked Willow. “Argus?”

  The Rivannan grinned. “Sounds like an adventure, ladies and gentlemen.” He swept an arm around the platform. “After seeing this place, I can die a happy man.”

  “Argus?”

  They turned to him, and their eyes were a row of arrowheads. He took a look around the platform, following the edge where it dropped off into the sea. “Fine.”

  Siggi cheered, and Brenn clapped him on the back almost hard enough to crumple him. “Sorry.”

  “Very well,” said Willow. “We'll need to gather provisions. We set sail in a few hours.” She turned to the brazier, and with a single giant breath blew out the fire.

  “Come along. There's one more thing you should see.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Willow led them into a storehouse.

  What looked like a storehouse.

  This wasn't a squat stone building at all, but a secret entrance into the tower. After passing a few simple wooden tables strewn with tools, they ducked under a threshold and found themselves surrounded by books.

  Argus moaned. “Is this—”

  “The Library of Man? Yes, it is.” She guided them between the shelves, not stopping until they reached a bannister covered in gold. She leaned with her back against it, oblivious or unconcerned with the vast empty space behind her.

  “Remarkable,” Nasira said. “This makes the first artificer's library seem about as elegant as a privy.”

  Willow nodded. “Our history is a long one. And you're the first ones to glimpse it besides the demigods or their descendants—except for you of course, Brenn.”

  “Why?” said Argus. He knew that in times of yore, those who weren't direct descendants of the demigods were prohibited from entering.

  “Because there isn't any of us left,” Willow said with a shrug. “Because it might be up to non-descendants to reverse the Blight and restore peace in our lands. And because I'm in search of a few more books.”

  She followed the bannister around the middle of the tower, which was hollow. Above and below her, other floors with similar bannisters and shelves went on as far as the eye could see. Taking one's eyes off the ground was dizzying; the tower burrowed into the earth just as it rose into the sky.

  “Should we wait here?” Harun asked.

  The others nodded. They were monstrous in battle, but looked terrified by all those ancient books.

  “Feel free to roam,” she said. “Just don't stray from this floor. If anything catches your interest, you can borrow it. The gods gave you eyes to see ancient wisdom, and ears to hear its voice. Besides, there are spare copies of every tome buried deep beneath the earth.”

  They watched her rub the bannister. She touched it the way she might caress a lover, treating the bronze as if it were flesh. Then came a low soughing from the darkness. A strip of the bannister peeled away from the rest and disappeared into the chasm.

  “Remember,” she said, “don't stray from this floor.”

  She tapped on the bannister with a closed fist. The piece that had fallen away sprang out of the void. Nasira gasped as it wrapped around the sorceress, who smiled. “It's only the library's hand. Another old friend.” With that, the renegade bannister thrust her into the opening.

  Higher and higher she went. That bannister climbed with her, growing or unfolding out of an unseen recess. Finally it extended over the edge a few dozen stories up and gently deposited its passenger.

  Argus shook his head. The others reeled, muttering curses. The must was overwhelming in here. It was different than the must in other libraries or booksellers. These tomes were old, but a hint of sweetness flavored the aroma. Dew on a spring morning. Everything was very much alive in here. Even the books.

  “Go on,” Willow called, her voice echoing in the chasm. “Consider this an apology for my poor social graces. Roam, and when a book calls to you, listen.”

  That was all the encouragement Argus and Nasira needed. They lunged into the endless shelves. They passed sections devoted to music and medicine, agriculture and philosophy. Nasira stopped when they encountered the ancient lore, cried out and reached for books with trembling hands.

  Argus left her there and went on. He followed the rows of torches that lined the ends of the shelves. He wondered who'd lit them, or if they ever went out. The seeds of civilization filled this place, but there was only one which captured his interest:

  Magic.

  He turned left, right, then left again until he'd lost all sense of direction. All the while he followed a voice. A whisper, really. He couldn't tell if it came from inside his head or elsewhere. But he followed it stubbornly anyway, like a boy chasing a bug.

  It grew louder.

  He turned again, and the voice grew louder still.

  Over here, it said. Here you will find the answers you seek.

  “Yes,” he said, then felt foolish when it didn't answer. He watched his fingertips creep along the shelf, tracing every spine on the bottom. Finally, when he'd just about given up, his fingertips stopped.

  “The Five Branches,” he sighed.

  The voice that had led him there was gone, but Argus felt a fleshy warmth as he pulled the books off the shelf. He wanted nothing more than to scream, to cheer and dance and fill the tower with laughter.

  Yet all he did was open up the first book, the one with an ear drawn on its cover, and began to read.

  One must listen before one can speak. Listening gives us the words to shape our fate. It allows us to sense what others overlook, and know a man's heart. But we must listen carefully, for if we hear the wrong words…

  Argus closed the book.

  There, surrounded by the heavy air and books, he started to sob.

  He'd spent his life searching for the Five Branches, ever since he'd heard the fairy tale as a child. Kept on despite age and growing skepticism—both within himself and everyone with whom he shared his foolish dream. He'd wasted a fortune on counterfeits ranging from the ludicrous to the remarkable.

  Finally, Argus had given up hope that the Branches had ever existed, or if they did, he'd never see them in his lifetime…

  Until now.

  He cradled the books and wiped away hot tears. The books were small, little more than pocket-sized, and that was convenient because he wasn't leaving this tower without them. His hands roamed over the simple covers, savoring the black leather's every wrinkle.

  The shelves vibrated all around him. A deep voice resonated, far away, but loud enough to make its presence felt even in this remote corner.

  It was Brenn, no doubt. Calling the others.

  Argus tucked the books into his pack and set off to find him. Working his way slowly through the maze, he inched closer toward the center of the tower. His mind was consumed with the passage he had read.

  The Five Branches are real, he thought. And I'm going to learn them.

  It was a thought more miraculous than kissing a girl for the first time or seeing the leaves change with the seasons.

  Other voices called him now, echoing throughout the library.

  With one final burst Argus emerged from a row of flickering torches.

  “There you are,” said Willow, safely back on the floor where they'd come in. He was the last one to arrive. Everyone had a few books except Brenn, who'd waited in the same spot where they left him.

  “We should leave,” Willow said.

  “We can take these off the Cradle?” Nasira asked, balancing a stack of books which stretched from her waist to her chin.

  Willow laughed. “If you can manage to carry them.” She gestured to the hallway from where they came. “Come on.”

  They followed her out, except this time when they crossed the threshold they found themselves in what looked like an abandoned tavern. Rows of long tables and chairs greeted them. Empty mugs covered in dust.

  Th
ey left the tavern through a red door and found themselves clear across the city from where they'd entered. Time had slipped away in the tower; the sun was well on its way down.

  Willow whistled again, summoning the horses.

  As they rode toward the edge of the Cradle, she made multiple stops for provisions. Night fell, but she told them they couldn't afford to wait until morning.

  “We have to arrive in Garvahn first,” she said. “Before Eamon gathers all his strength. It's our only chance.” She sparked a pair of torches in metal holders, then leaned closer to examine the books they'd chosen.

  “Hmm,” she said, reeling at Siggi's selections. “Books on the ancient arts of brewing and lovemaking—of all the knowledge you could have chosen?”

  He shrugged. “Those are perfectly noble pursuits, lady. I'd say I've mastered both, but maybe I'll learn a thing or two yet.”

  Harun snorted. Across his lap lay knowledge relevant to the natural world: stargazing and botany, knot tying and battle.

  “Practical choices for a practical man,” said Willow.

  “Practical knowledge keeps me alive.”

  “For now… but in the end we all must return home when the gods call.” Willow looked at Brenn, whose hands were empty. “What's this?”

  He scratched his beard and couldn't look at her. “I… don't know what happened, lady. Cousin—is that the right term?”

  “Close enough.”

  “Aye. Well I don't know what happened in there. There were so many books and everywhere I turned there were voices.”

  “They were calling to you. Your ancestors speaking through the words they'd written.”

  Brenn shook his hand. “They told me to trust my instincts. That I'd find my answers within.”

  Argus clutched his books tightly. Every muscle tensed as he readied for battle. He wasn't opposed to running when the odds were against him—standing and dying wasn't valiant, it was foolish—but he would fight to the death here if that's what it took.

  “Don't worry,” Willow said. “I'm not going to take them.”

  “Good.”

  “Just don't do anything foolish. Go slowly.”

  He nodded, knowing he wouldn't.

  They'd just reached the edge of the platform when Willow said, “Know that once you open those pages, there's no going back.”

  They dismounted and watched the horses retreat into an open pasture. Then it was time to load their things onto the boat. Willow hurried them along. Finally, weary and restless, Argus untied the last knot mooring them to the Cradle.

  Willow blew new life into the sails. They watched the Cradle drift away in silence.

  Argus blinked.

  Then it was gone, and he was left wondering whether the whole thing had been real. But those books lay right beside him, covered in cloaks to keep them dry.

  Those were real enough.

  This time Willow steered them north, beyond the worst of the Shipbreakers. Argus squinted into the darkness, but couldn't quite make out the coastline at this distance. It was the closest he'd been to Leith in seventeen years.

  Soon enough Willow turned the ship around, charting a smoother course away from most of the Shipbreakers—and the Cradle they concealed. This time they didn't scream when the waves got rough. They watched her navigate the narrow channels. She closed her eyes while she did it, steering by feel.

  The water crashed over them, but their vessel sailed true.

  Finally the waves flattened, and the sea opened up. Argus stood on the bow with the former members of the Legion of the Wind. None of them spoke. There was nothing to say. Just the quiet company of brothers he'd bled with, and the stars strewn before them like a million torches in the vastness of night.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Willow watched the Cradle of Eld disappear behind the rocks.

  It made her cry every time, because every time could be the last. It felt so much larger now, devoid of the people who'd called it home. Nothing more than a living monument to an era—and gods—moved on…

  No, she told herself. There's still hope yet.

  Hope lay in the motley crew she had gathered. Desperate times called for desperate people, and that's exactly whom she'd found, hunting bounties, fleeing kingdoms and leading prisoner revolts. They had been strangers to her until she arrived in Davos.

  Listening to the locals tell tales about the Legion of the Wind had convinced her. Then it was just a matter of identifying the survivors—and giving them reasons to join her quest. The girl from the Comet Tail Isles had been an unexpected addition, but she was shrewd. Valuable.

  Willow's instincts had been true. If anyone had a chance of stopping her cousin, it was this lot.

  Gods, Eamon… why did you do it?

  The burden of the Cradle had been heavy for just the four of them, but they'd managed it. Until Eamon got the bright idea that he wasn't going to wait for humanity to be receptive to their knowledge any longer. He'd decided to make them ready, or kill them all trying.

  Willow closed her eyes, trembling.

  She remembered the dizzying, heart in her throat feeling the moment Eamon let go. She and the others had struggled—given everything they could—to hold it up, but it was no use. When their grip finally faltered, Eamon had laughed as the Cradle hurtled toward the earth.

  Earth. I spent my first one hundred and six years dreaming of being down there, envying those who got to play on the beaches and sail its vast seas. Now that I'm here, I've spent my last one dreading it.

  The Cradle was a gift. The ones who lived down here weren't ready to receive it.

  They had tried telling Eamon that, in the few spare minutes a day he spent away from the library. But he'd grown impatient, and spiteful of his role as a guardian of so many mysteries.

  To think my heart fluttered for him once!

  Green-eyed with flaxen hair, he'd always been fair to look at. To think about bedding, so that she might bear children and keep the line of Cradlekeepers alive…

  Most of that hair had fallen out now, once he started the journey down the thought branch. In a matter of months he'd gone from a charming—if a bit headstrong—man to an executioner.

  Willow lost herself in the waves crashing against the sailboat, and began to weep.

  Poor Cormac, she thought. The quiet one. Always serious, and with a strong sense of duty. All those virtues had gotten him was a free fall over the Cradle's edge. Shoved off by his own brother, no less…

  She and Claire had done everything they could to slow the Cradle's fall and ensure it landed safely in the water. But that meant neglecting Cormac's fall. Making a choice. Letting him die.

  They successfully guided the Cradle into the water. There, in a fury over Cormac's death, the sisters had fought off the traitor. After he scrambled away into the sea, they'd used everything they had to lift the Cradle one last time. They moved it into a hidden place—and prayed they'd seen the last of Eamon.

  Little did they know the cretin would wash ashore a year later in Calladon, with a new name and a new god—one he'd invented to unite the five tribes in the region and rally an army behind him.

  We should have killed him when we had the chance, she thought. Or died trying. Death would be a joy compared to watching him gather his strength, stir his followers into a pious frenzy, and unleash them upon the world.

  And now Willow was alone.

  Claire's concealment spell had been a good one; so far the Cradle remained unharmed. Yet it had cost her her life. Already reeling from the strange illness that had claimed so many others before the fall, she wasted away, and died a few weeks later.

  Willow had buried her away from the heart of Eld, in a peaceful clearing in one of the forests without a name.

  She closed her eyes as hot tears streamed down her face. Was fate immutable? Or did she bend to human will?

  Willow sighed. She would do her best to bend it.

  This is for you, Claire. This is for you.

  CHA
PTER TWENTY-SIX

  They spent the next four days sailing for Garvahn. The kingdom lay at the southern part of that massive continent, so they hugged the coastline due south. Soon after they left the Cradle, they spotted Azmar sprawling on the northwest tip of the continent.

  Argus turned away. The thought that anyone could see him this far out was ridiculous. But a steady stream of boats passed by—undoubtedly full of greedy merchants with keen eyes.

  After they'd left Azmar safely behind, Willow added more wind to their sails. They clipped past Port Laurel and Irongate, the largest coastal cities in Pellmere. The seas were eerily empty out this way. The waves were calm, but it was impossible to ignore the storm brewing just beneath the surface.

  War was coming.

  Even the gulls, who had been all too eager to splatter the deck with shit on their journey north, had vanished.

  All the while, Argus read.

  He'd conjured up a dozen excuses to avoid dice games, stories, and drinking with the others. Yet he never had to use them; just cracking open one of the branches was all it took to make them scatter.

  The others had seen too many “sorcerers” who were nothing more than madmen in disguise. Everyone had stories of magic fiends they'd met during their travels. Some were sallow men who shivered and spoke in strange tongues. Others were cross-eyed fools who laughed incessantly. Another was a Harlockian, once handsome, who'd taken a dagger to his own eyes and ears.

  All of them were mad.

  “I suppose I should warn you again how dangerous the path is on which you're embarking,” Willow told him late that first night, while the others, drunk on rum, slept.

  He shrugged.

  “You're going to press on anyway.”

  “Yes,” he said, pulling the candles closer and opening the Hearing Branch. “Can you help me?”

  Willow lay a hand on his arm. “I'm sorry. Each student's path along the Five Branches is his own. There are no teachers. There never were. The gods have given you all the tools you need to become a master.”

  She pulled her hand away, then stuck a finger into his chest. “For that you have to look within.”

  “Wonderful.”