The sound of footsteps grew louder. She looked over her shoulder, and saw the mists moving frantically, parting in anticipation of something it might not care to touch.
She looked back at Penit. “You must play the part of someone brave.”
At that, Penit’s eyes focused on her. He seemed suddenly to be aware of who and where he was. He released the tree. His inner arms were marked with the pattern of the tree’s bark. He blinked away the tears in his eyes, and nodded.
Ignoring the wound in her own leg, Wendra helped him up, and nearly fell as she tried to stand. Penit put his arm around her waist, and together they started toward the lightest break in the mist. The dark fogs stilled, and a moment later they stepped into the light of day.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Escaping the Darkness
The great tragedy of the Placing—if not an elaborate fiction to begin with—might be that races were sent into the Bourne not because they were corrupt, but because they were peculiar.
—Supposition made by social theorist Amada Sellut in her treatise, On Divergence, used by the League of Civility in the formulation of its modern creed
Braethen drew his sword, and looked at Vendanj. “What happened?”
“Penit saw the face of Male’Siriptus,” Vendanj explained.
“I didn’t see it.”
“A child sees with simpler, truer eyes, and his feelings are closer to the skin. The mist laid hold of these things and used them.”
“What now?” Braethen asked.
“We’ll hope there isn’t an entire collough of Bar’dyn at the edge of Je’holta.”
The mists continued to form strange shapes. Braethen paid them little attention, focusing on an image of him and his father, reading together on the porch at day’s end. His da had wanted him to be an author, too.…
The fogs began to solidify in front of him, forming deep, wide holes where eyes might have been, and a slack jaw gaping in a frozen scream.
“Steady, Sodalist.” Vendanj put a hand on Braethen’s shoulder.
Braethen started, blinked, and the face was gone.
The mists began to list and heave, moving first one way, then another, but more slowly, as though dancing to a silent, mournful dirge. Vendanj put a hand to Braethen’s chest and pulled him back. The mists parted like a curtain, creating a clear, dark path before them. Soft steps over the dank ground. Braethen felt suddenly cold. A shape made its slow way toward them, draped in shadow. A simple inclination of its head spoke a chilling disregard.
The mists undulated in a series of waves at its passage. This was a different kind of Quiet.
How many nights had he sat at his table reading, trying to understand what he might one day face if he became a sodalist? His elbows had worn thin the varnish at the table’s edge, and the smell of candle wax had become his closest friend. And yet no book, no imagining had prepared him. His hands trembled as he held forth the Blade of Seasons.
The mists erupted in a din of snapping wood and rustling leaves and the roar of a thousand whispered voices from the dust of the earth.
The horses broke free from Braethen’s grip, the slipknots pulling loose. They dashed into the mists. He tried to keep control of the one closest to him as it reared and whinnied and kicked its forelegs, but the horse got away and went to ground.
“Forget the mounts,” Vendanj said. “They’ll find safety.”
Braethen turned as the Quiet emerged completely. He shivered, and pointed the Blade of Seasons at it.
The world turned black and he could see nothing.
He turned in circles, and soon felt weightless, having no idea which way was up or down. He still held his blade, but couldn’t see it. He reached out, hoping to feel the Sheason. Nothing. He crouched, sure he would find the ground beneath his feet … but it was gone.
Braethen reeled. Was this death? He tried to speak; no sound came. He shouted; still nothing. He pressed his fingers to his lips to be sure he was opening his mouth. The only thing real, touchable, was his own flesh.
And the sword.
In his hand the solid feel of the hilt reassured him. Inside the blackness, he and the sword were all that remained. Its weight comforted him. And though he still couldn’t see it, he lifted the blade before his face.
What’s happening?
Braethen began to fall. He couldn’t see the passing of clouds or rocks or birds, but his gut wrenched as though he were plummeting from the North Face to the lowlands below. A feeling grew violently in him that he was rushing somewhere. Toward his own end, maybe. He needed to solve the riddle of this darkness or be pulled apart. His heart hammered in his chest. He gripped the hilt of the sword with both hands.
What am I meant to learn here? The question seemed to hasten his fall.
An elusive awareness danced at the edge of his understanding. His father. The porch. A look of disappointment. His mother dead in the other room. He sensed that his fall and the dark would end there. Was he retreating in his mind? To his mind? His shoulders and legs began to cramp.
Then a simple thought. It’s me. Beside Vendanj. In the dark. Or with my da on the porch. I … am I. Somehow the sword made them all true. At the same time.
The world rushed in. The darkness retreated. The ache and cramps were gone. He was back in the mist beside Vendanj as though not a moment had passed.
Vendanj gave Braethen an approving look, and turned to meet the Quiet. It lowered its chin and a pulse of darkness rushed forward in a thick wave, cutting a path through the mists and knocking them both off their feet.
A low, soft voice followed. “Mal i’mente, Therus.”
“Maere,” Vendanj said. “It’s a Maere.”
Braethen felt a deeper chill. Behind his eyes he saw the memories of his youth. Cherished and formative memories. Memories that were being rewritten and unwritten, taken from him or re-formed into painful scenes he would never want to revisit. Bit by bit, he was losing his da. Losing his love of the Sodality.
Braethen howled at the loss, and jumped to his feet. Unbidden, something rose in his throat. “I am I!” he screamed. The cry repelled the darkness and the shifting in his own mind.
He turned to see Vendanj rise to his feet, his hands coming up. The Maere whipped its cloak back off its broad shoulders, its long form rearing like a horse. But before it could do more, Vendanj thrust his hands at it. The mists parted as an unseen force struck the Maere. Its mouth widened in a silent scream.
Braethen lunged and brought his sword around with all his strength. The blade tore into the creature, and the Quiet’s cry finally erupted in a deep, slow, undulating pitch. The sound pulsed on the fog in visible waves. One muscled arm took Braethen in the side of the head, and sent him sprawling. He landed hard on the ground, his ears ringing. But he didn’t let go his sword. Hot blood ran down his neck. He tried to stand, but the world turned at dizzying speed, the force of it pulling him down. He collapsed back to the soil.
Vendanj placed one hand on his chest and extended the other. He spoke something in low, quick words. Instantly, the mists withdrew from around him, and a rush of light descended from the sky. Braethen looked up and saw a long, wide opening through the dark cloud. The sun streamed down, catching the Quiet in its light. The Maere began to thrash to and fro. Steam rose from its body and holes opened in its flesh, as though it were completely insubstantial, a construct of their minds.
In desperation, the Maere charged Vendanj, whose eyes were shut as he focused his energy and words into the Will.
Braethen struggled to his feet, but fell forward onto his hands. He scrambled ahead, using one hand on the ground to keep his feet under him. The Maere closed on Vendanj, but staggered, losing substance with each step.
Vendanj’s eyes were still shut, and he stood, unaware. Braethen pressed on, gaining speed and resolve. He pushed away his dizziness, focused on the Maere, and rose, bolting ahead. The Quiet raised its hands, just two strides from Vendanj. Braethen cried out, and Vendanj opened
his eyes as the Maere blew from its torn lips a rank breath across its blackened hands. Darkness leapt, flashing forward in jagged arcs toward Vendanj.
With the last of his failing strength, Braethen brought his sword up into the belly of the Maere. The blade thrummed as it met the Quiet. The creature doubled over, its dark magic dissipating as it crumpled, writhing, to the ground. The sun continued to stream down on them, and in moments the Maere was nothing more than steaming ashes at their feet.
Braethen looked up again at the marvelous tunnel carved from the mist straight up into the light of day. The Sheason slumped to the ground, and Braethen sat down hard beside him.
* * *
Tahn lay facedown on the ground, gasping for breath. Sutter collapsed on his hands and knees beside him, drawing his own ragged gulps of air. The smells of dirt and rocks warming in the sun filled his nose. After a moment he turned over and propped himself up on his elbows. The mists remained just a few strides behind him, small plumes puffing outward, threatening to expand and engulf them again. Distantly he thought he heard a shriek, but his heart still throbbed in his ears; he couldn’t be sure.
Their horses had bolted from the fogs a moment ago and stood fretting and stamping ahead of them.
“Abandoning gods, what is that?” Sutter exclaimed, looking back at the mist.
Tahn shook his head.
Sutter slapped Tahn’s chest. “Why did you run?”
The images flashed in Tahn’s mind—the young woman falling from a cliff of broken stone, singed sheets of parchment rising on hot winds. He saw an image of himself tearing at stone with bloodied fingers. Tahn held up his hands and looked at them, but saw nothing save the old hammer-shaped scar on the back of his hand.
The images didn’t make sense to him. Countless suns folding into nothing. The gentle voice of Balatin teaching him on a summer porch with light flies winking in nearby pinions. It all disolved into a mirror of desert brush, waterless wastes, a barren tree.
He was left with only the litany he recited every time he drew his bow, and that meant no more to him than before. He took fists full of dirt in his hands and shuddered beneath the growing heat of sun on his back.
Sutter gently grabbed his arm. “Tahn, what’s wrong? What did you see? Why did you break the line?”
Tahn stared at the bank of dark fog. “It got inside me. I don’t know how, but I could feel it reading my memories like pages in one of Braethen’s books. And then it was like something was writing the story forward.” Tahn paused, trying to understand the feeling. He shook his head.
Sutter stared at him for several long moments. Finally, he said, “We’ve got to go back for the others.”
Suddenly, Tahn remembered Wendra. “Silent hell, what have I done?”
The sound of pounding feet rose from the fog. Tahn sat up, hoping to see Wendra emerge from the grip of the dark cloud. Several feet inside the mist the large shapes of several Bar’dyn appeared.
“Run!” Tahn yelled.
He scrambled to his feet and headed for his horse, Sutter at his heels. The stamping of heavy feet shook the earth behind them. Sutter quickly drew abreast of Tahn, matching his every step. Tahn looked back and saw the Bar’dyn emerge from the mist. Their eyes fixed on him and Sutter, massive legs carrying them with impossibly quick strides.
Tahn’s chest burned. He’d not gotten his breath back. As he struggled up a low hill, something pierced his foot. In his haste, he’d stepped on a spine-root. Several needles shot through his boot and entered the soft flesh of his sole. He almost fell, but Sutter caught him, grabbing his waist with one arm and jerking him forward.
As they struggled toward the horses, something hit Sutter in the back. Nails pitched forward, breaking his fall with his hands. Stuck in his back was a spiked iron ball. Sutter got up. Blood spread in circles around the spikes. Tahn glanced behind them, and saw a Bar’dyn hurl a second ball. The Quiet threw the weapon with its bare hand; its fibrous skin keeping it safe from the spikes. The ball hurtled with tremendous speed. Tahn dove to his left, his foot jolting with pain as he hit the ground.
The Bar’dyn closed on them, eyes set and determined, an intelligence burning from within. Two drew swords without breaking stride, a third shifting a long ax into its other hand. But the look in their large eyes frightened Tahn more than the weapons they carried—patience, reason.
Sutter stooped and helped Tahn up, arching his back against the ball lodged there. Leaning together they hurried through the dry grass. Tahn could hear the labored breathing of the Bar’dyn, like horses going full on. Any moment the steel of a blade or huge, gnarled hand would rip at them. The mounts were close, but each step grew heavier, more difficult. Tahn’s legs threatened to give out. His hair fell in wet strands over his eyes and face. His friend’s cheek and jaw dug into Tahn’s own as they pushed forward, heads together. Even the heat of the sun fell like a weight on him.
They reached the horses. Sutter climbed on his mount and rode around, putting himself between Tahn and the Bar’dyn. He lifted his sword as a challenge. The Bar’dyn came on undaunted.
“Hurry, Tahn!” Sutter yelled. His friend ducked, another ball sailing past his head.
The mounts began to sidestep, tugging at their reins. Tahn couldn’t get his foot in the stirrup without stepping on the barbs that had broken off in his foot. Putting pressure on his foot to mount would be agonizing.
“Hold!” one of the Bar’dyn called. “You run only from lies!” Its voice rasped powerfully, the words glottal and hard to understand.
“You can go to every hell!” Sutter cried in defiance. But even in his stupor, Tahn heard his friend’s fear.
There wasn’t time to move around Jole to mount from the other side, and he couldn’t jump into his saddle with only one foot. Tahn gritted his teeth and thrust his boot into the stirrup. Intense pain filled his foot, ripping through his entire body. Something snapped in the middle of his sole as one of the spine-roots in his foot met bone.
Tahn screamed, and put his full weight on his foot to hoist himself up. The force drove the spines deeper into his tender flesh. Seated, he let go the reins and put his arms around his horse’s neck. His old friend ran like canyon wind.
Sutter swiped down once with the flat of his blade and kicked his mount into a full run. They raced away, looking back warily. Another ball hurtled past, missing badly over their heads. Each time he bounced in his saddle, Sutter’s face twisted in agony at the sharp spikes in his back.
“Faster!” Tahn yelled.
The Bar’dyn kept pace with them, one gaining ground. Glancing back, Tahn marveled at their graceful gait despite their immense size. Powerful muscles rippled beneath their thick, coarse skin. Their faces had eased into a terrible, placid expression, though their arms and shoulders pumped vigorously.
“We’ll have you,” one of them announced with an even voice—not a threat but a comment. “Then your lies and the lies of your Fathers will we show you.” The Bar’dyn’s face remained unchanged as it called after them, the eerie calm not unlike the Sheason’s.
“They’re gaining!” Sutter yelled over the fury of hooves and the pounding of Bar’dyn feet.
In moments they’d be overtaken. What can I do! Just then a cry shattered the air. The Bar’dyn all stopped and looked back to the mist hundreds of strides behind them. The Quiet looked momentarily confused and without direction. They looked at one another, then back at Tahn and Sutter, who were now well beyond their reach. One of the Bar’dyn pointed, and they began to run again, this time south, toward the North Face.
Tahn and Sutter didn’t slow, and gradually the High Plains faded in the distance as they raced east toward Recityv.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Help of Young and Old
The failing of most adults is that they mistake size for capacity, especially in the person of a child.
—Assertion made by opponents of the League’s seizure and operation of orphanages in Rectiyv, and elsewhere
/> Wendra stepped into the light and saw six Bar’dyn with a figure in a plain buttoned coat: The Quiet watched the mists further to the North, and didn’t see her or Penit duck behind a rock formation twenty strides from the mist’s edge.
Her wounds bled freely, the blood pumping madly and coating her entire left leg.
Penit looked at her with horror. “Are you dying?”
“No,” Wendra said, suppressing a nervous laugh. “But we have to be quiet,” she whispered.
Penit nodded and looked around, grabbing a rock and holding it with his arm cocked and prepared to throw. Wendra let him alone in his protective pose, and gingerly touched her cuts. The wound burned hot, feverish. It would get into the rest of her soon, she guessed. A few drops of blood fell to the soil in the shade of the large rock.
Will the Bar’dyn smell the blood and track us down?
She searched about, and realized they were only paces from the North Face. The dark cloud held steady, rising several hundred strides up the cliff. But on this side of it, the face of the sheer bluff shone red, orange, and white in jagged striations that looked like lightning. The summit was lost beyond sight, too far for help. But close by, at its base, she saw her answer.
A cave.
Wendra pulled the strapping from her left boot, tore a strip from her cloak, and bound her wounds as tightly as she could bear. Then she tapped Penit and pointed to the hole at the base of the cliff. The boy understood immediately. He helped her up, and using the large rock as a shield they stepped as quietly as they could toward the cave. Wendra watched closely for drops of blood on the ground, but soon lost her concern in the flashes of pain that stole over her.
Strange sounds emanated from the mists, but Wendra didn’t stop. She fixed on the dark mouth at the cliff base and pushed all other thoughts out of her mind. She hoped the Far had fared well against the Bar’dyn. She hoped Tahn and the others were all right. But even her concern for her brother fell away under her determination to find shelter for herself and Penit.
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