“Ludicrous fearmongering!” Halbert turned to Saelbeneth. “You revere the forest, as I do, madam. We cannot kill the trees.”
The Council leader glared at every face round the table. “These forests which surround us cover vastly more territory than the Kiareinoll. Do you not think destroying them might have some consequences to the entire world?”
“But it is the only way, madam!” Nelchior said. “We are all agreed Meylnara must be destroyed, and we all know the story of the wizard who put his soul into his guard.” A smug gleam entered his eyes as he looked at Vic. “We all know what had to be done to destroy him.”
“You can’t!” Bethniel said. “All of us return to the trees someday, and to kill them is to take the lives of those you love.”
Nelchior’s gaze stayed fixed on Vic. “We can continue as we have, laying siege to the Lair, spending thousands in treasure and lives, or we can initiate a single, final campaign and be done with this place in a matter of days. But first, we must eliminate the rogue from our ranks.”
All eyes landed on Vic, Samovael’s gaze hot with hatred. Thabean had said she was stronger than them all. Now she would find out.
“Beth,” she said in a flash of mindspeech, “tell Gustave to meet me where we made our sally this morning.” Charging ions into a shield, she shot toward the chimney hole. Tentacles of power grabbed her, hauled her down, slipped off her shield, grabbed again. Inch by inch she edged upward through air viscous as mud, the sinews in her ankles, knees, and hips stretched. Leg bones spread apart, her spine separated into each vertebra. “You’re stronger than any of us.” Shutting her eyes, she poured all that strength into her flight.
They did not attack, not with fire or lightning. Invisible blows glanced off her shield. She heard them gasp, groan, mewl. Someone shouted, and their grip vanished. She catapulted into the rain. Samovael and Grunnaire burst out of the roof, another two wizards following. Vic hurtled toward the clouds. Vapor closed around her. Her ion shield sparked, and lightning webbed through the sky. Thunder boomed as the energy rushed through her, and the Woern screamed with pleasure. Cursing, Vic moved higher through the bank, her body the epicenter of the electrical storm. When her pursuers entered the clouds, electricity crackled with a life of its own. The sky roiled with thunder; bright, blinding crooks of light stabbed into her. Screaming, she climbed higher, finally bursting out above the maelstrom. The sun blazed over surging gray, and she shot toward the caldera.
A blade of lightning blasted her. Shaking with pain, she wheeled and dodged a giant claw, wielded by Samovael. Vic knocked him down into the lightning-streaked charcoal and shot toward a trio of iron-colored anvils. Staccato spikes lit the inside of each tower; she fled inside one as Samovael emerged. Lightning shattered through her, and she felt it stretch from the stratosphere to the ground far below. The wind roared, spinning her around as the thunderhead suddenly collapsed, winding toward the ground, a cyclone dragging her down toward the churning forest and earth below. The howling gale yanked her limbs, pulling them out of their sockets, and it took all her power just to hold herself together. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t tell up from down as she wheeled around the vortex. At last the tornado flung her away, and she sailed toward the thrashing canopy. Seizing control of her flight, she dodged through whipping branches and took shelter in the folded roots of a giant messernil.
Above, the storm raged, the thunder constant. Gasping, Vic huddled in a nest of ferns, thankful to be still, even in the slashing rain. If she used no power, they would not find her. She could make her way on foot to the caldera, find the Kragnashians, obtain refuge from them.
With a deep breath, she stood. The robe, soaked and heavy, clammed against her legs. Her stomach clenched. Damn, you can eat, she thought at her son.
A fist punched from the inside, shoving her onto her knees and ramming vomit up her throat. Gagging, she sent a pulse of energy to counter the spasms. Another cramp bore down, and matter surged past her cervix. “Elesendar,” she gasped, splaying her hands across her belly. Pain ripped from her sternum to her groin. Her knees contracted toward her forehead, her abdomen twisting, wringing out the blood that gushed down her thighs. “Elesendar, please, no!” The abandoned spacecraft made no answer, and her tally of deaths grew by one.
Haven
Ashel’s baritone beat like a heart. Wineyll’s flute danced like the flickering light. She lost herself in the sound reverberating off the stone walls, reveled in the way it echoed up the passage to the library and came back louder, fuller, turning their duet into a symphony. Wing covers burred in time with the music, and Ashel laughed and patted a thorax when one of the creatures squealed, trying to copy Wineyll’s melody. Its screeching hurt her ears, but she carried on through to the end, happy to see Ashel finding some joy in the exercise. The song ended, and the singing Kragnashian chittered at its fellow, who stood still and implacable.
Ashel bowed and clapped a thank you for the day’s lesson.
“The Voice learns,” the friendlier Kragnashian replied.
“Who is your ally?”
“The cup is full.”
Thanking it again, Ashel angled his head up the passage. For a week, Wineyll had accompanied him while he traded songs for lessons. They’d spent most of each day immersed in Kragnashian vocabulary and syntax, but Wineyll felt her mastery equated to a toddler’s.
“I wish I had some idea whether those People down there are Lornk’s partners executing a ruse or truly Parnden’s allies,” Ashel said when they reached the stacks, “but all they ever say is, ‘The cup is full.’”
“If wishes were horses,” Wineyll sighed. “Everyone says Kragnashians never lie.”
“Just because no one’s ever caught them in a lie doesn’t mean they don’t. The Kragnashians were supposed to guide you all through the desert, and they let you get lost.”
Earnk knocked on the doorframe. “The fishmonger brought word that Parnden will hang Alek tomorrow at sunset. Father’s come ashore. Are you ready?”
Stomach twisting, Wineyll nodded and packed the flute into its case. Earnk clasped her hand, and they went down the hall together. No, she thought. Just tell him no. His father . . . wasn’t she still tied to Lornk? Not really, she argued. Elekia was Lornk’s wife by Lathan custom, even if they’d never declared. But what about the Penance? At Ashel’s urging—or insistence—Earnk had promised to arrange a short sentence. A few weeks at most. But could she face the families of people who’d died because she failed? Or of Mane Thrushwind, the boy she’d killed herself? Surely only a madwoman would agree to that. Yet as the Concordance loomed, her fingers clung to Earnk’s, and she did not have the strength to let go.
Kelmair met them in the kitchen, where Elsa handed them plain cloaks. Shouldering a rucksack, Ashel cracked open the courtyard door. “Two on the peddler door, four on the gate. No Kragnashians.”
“I wish I had my sword,” Kelmair grumbled.
Wineyll peered through the crack, studying Parnden’s guards. One whittled, a pair leaned against the wall, the other three squatted round a game of dice. They seemed relaxed enough now, but whenever anyone entered the courtyard, the soldiers would spring up and watch with hard eyes, hands on hilts. Reaching into their minds, Wineyll placed an image of empty cobbles. “I’ll go first.”
She stepped into the crisp autumn morning. The dicing guards hooted over a throw; the whittling one glanced around and back at her carving. A wood shaving fell at her feet. Wineyll motioned the others forward. The door clicked shut, and the group walked casually across the courtyard. Wineyll’s eyes darted for other witnesses, but no faces appeared in windows, no doors creaked open. Ashel edged past the guards beside the peddler’s door and silently lifted the latch. The door swung open on well-oiled hinges, and they slipped past guards whose gazes never wavered from their game. A family strolled on the opposite sidewalk, mother and father swinging a little boy to and fro. The child hallooed as he sailed up, his parents l
aughing, and Wineyll filled their vision with a quiet street where the family walked alone.
They hurried down the block and had almost reached the corner when pain like a hard fist punched her below her navel. Her knees struck the pavement, and the flute case bounced away. The sidewalk smelled like fungus and earth. The air hot and clammy, sweat erupted, soaking her garments as another cramp seized her pelvis. “Elesendar,” she breathed, palms splayed across her belly. Her knees contracted toward her forehead, her body encircling the pain.
Rain pours through limbs and leaves, making the ground a quagmire. Heavy silk, drenched with mud, clings to her legs, pulls her toward the earth.
Dimly, she Heard babbled concern. A hand pillowed her head, another shook her shoulder. The family rushed to help. Shooing them away, Kelmair hissed in mindspeech, “The guards!”
Arms slid under Wineyll’s shoulders and knees. She bounced against a solid chest as feet ran down the block, dodging round one corner and another.
They skidded to a stop, and Wineyll felt herself set on sticky cobbles in a narrow alley. A cat hissed and sniffed round a bin. Kelmair danced from foot to foot, watching round the corner for pursuit. Ashel patted her hand; Earnk cradled her head.
Thunder booms, and tree roots shiver. Another cramp, another wail rolls through her.
“Kelmair and I will lead the guards away while you take Wineyll back,” Ashel said to Earnk.
“No,” Wineyll groaned, rotting midden and humus thick in her nose.
“They’re coming,” Kelmair said.
She is whimpering, begging Elesendar, but another contraction seizes her womb like a vise.
Wineyll thrust herself onto an elbow. “Be still,” she whispered aloud, shoving aside Vic’s sensations and Listening for the approaching guards. Her breath in short gasps, she projected a refuse-strewn alley, its only occupant a hungry cat. Two guards dashed past. Backing up, they reappeared in the alley entrance and peered into the shadows. One took a few steps toward them. Growling, the cat arched its back. Assuring each other it was clear, the guards rushed away.
Quivering, Wineyll fought to block Vic’s pain. “I don’t want to go back,” she gasped. “But we can’t stay here.”
“What’s wrong? Are you ill?” Ashel asked.
A fist ground into her gut. Earnk scooped her into his arms. Tell Vic my heart aches for her, he said so only she could Hear.
“We’ll never make it if she’s too sick to hide us,” Kelmair said.
Earnk cradled her as her body clenched around the pain. “We can’t go to the Storunds’ now. It will be the first place Parnden’s guards look for us.”
Ashel clasped her shoulder. “Can you hide us until after they’ve searched? We could take refuge there after they’ve cleared it.”
“I can.” Wineyll gasped as another contraction tore at Vic. They all gave her looks full of doubt. “I swear, I can.”
Nodding, Earnk climbed to his feet and headed out of the alley.
* * *
A platoon of soldiers milled around the Storunds’ block, coming and going through the palazzo gate. Ashel ushered everyone into another alley and prayed Wineyll could maintain her illusions through whatever strange illness had suddenly afflicted her.
A few passersby rushed past, eyes on their feet. Wineyll, red-faced, panted in Earnk’s arms. Forehead pressed to hers, he rocked slowly, murmuring in an inaudible whisper, the words so quiet Ashel could neither hear nor Hear them. Two long hours passed before the soldiers finally filed out and marched away. When the street was clear, they scurried to the gate, and Ashel pulled on the bell rope.
The view portal slid back, revealing an aged eye. “They were just here looking for you,” said the servant. “Tore the place apart.”
“I know. We’re sorry. Please tell Ellen—”
A side door opened, and a hand motioned them inside. Once they were through, Wineyll released a groan.
“She’s sick,” Ashel whispered.
A finger to her lips, Ellen led them inside the house. Servants rushed ahead, and they brought Wineyll to an elegantly furnished bedchamber. A maid righted overturned chairs while another scurried to put tumbled bedclothes in order. A third removed Wineyll’s shoes, and Earnk laid her down. A heavy groan pulled her back into an arch. Her hand locked around Earnk’s, she collapsed back on the bed, gasping.
“Go fetch Moralen,” Ellen told a servant.
“I’ll stay with her,” Earnk said.
Ashel pulled the flute case out of his rucksack and left it on the dresser before he and Kelmair followed Ellen to a parlor, where she filled three glasses with harlolinde.
Studying the clear liquid, Ashel wondered at the malady that had taken Wineyll so suddenly. Her father had died of a wasting disease that left him in breathless agony, but her condition seemed different.
Their host had her own troubles; her face was mottled purple and yellow, striped with lacerations. “Did the soldiers hurt you?”
Ellen grimaced. “Not for the first time. They left me beaten and bloody the day they arrested Alek. The Commissar shut down the tavern too.”
“I’m sorry you’ve been dragged into this.”
“Oh, I’ve been in it since the day the pirates took us off Cairo’s beach. The only reason Alek hasn’t been executed yet is Parnden wanted me to pay the fine and find a substitute. He would have been delighted to see an Oreseeker child take Alek’s place in the noose.”
Ashel squeezed her hand. “I read the pamphlet. Democracy is a bold idea for Betheljin, one I doubt Lornk would embrace if he succeeds.”
“The only thing your father and Alek disagree on, is how to organize elections across such a vast territory.”
Ashel drained the glass, wondering if he’d get used to people calling Lornk his father. Everyone simply accepted it; he’d overheard the servants arguing who resembled Lornk more, Earnk or himself. “But Lornk still intends to call himself Commissar.”
She smiled sadly. “One step at a time, Ashel. It will be easier to outlaw slavery when it can be done by fiat.”
“Do you really trust he will help the Oreseekers?”
“Whatever Lornk’s flaws, he is our best hope.”
“Your confidence in me is always heartening, Ellen.” Lornk entered and embraced the Oreseeker. “I promise you, Alek will not die upon that gibbet.”
“How did you get in?” Ashel asked. “Parnden’s troops must be swarming the neighborhood.”
Lornk, clad in tattered culottes and a patched linen shirt, poured himself a glass of harlolinde. “This particular property has several secret passages and hidey holes. I was already here when the guards came. What I’d like to know is why the troops are on the hunt—whose carelessness tipped them off?”
“It wasn’t carelessness. Wineyll took ill suddenly, and we were seen.”
“What’s wrong with her?”
“We don’t know.”
“Moralen is coming,” Ellen said.
“Do we strike tonight?” Kelmair asked.
Everyone turned to her in surprise. The Caleisbahn woman stood on flexed knees, as if ready to spring.
“I want to know about the Kragnashians in my house,” Lornk said, turning to Ashel. A smirk pulled at his lips. “Forgive me. Your house, son.”
Ashel’s teeth clamped his tongue, and iron trickled down his throat while he opened the rucksack and pulled out the book on Kragnashian clans. “They aren’t related to the Center. The markings looked like these.” He pointed at the tattoos of a clan known to occupy the desert surrounding Direiellene. “Are those your partners?”
Lornk scowled. “You must be mistaken. There are subtleties—”
“This book says there are two main clans in the Kragnashian desert, and I’ve seen the Center myself. It’s not that difficult to tell them apart.”
“My allies would not betray me to Parnden.”
“How can you be sure of that? Perhaps they w
ant humanity too busy fighting each other to fight them? They said they were taking over all the Devices in the world based on a treaty with the First.”
“And how do you know that?”
Ashel’s pulse quickened as Geram’s attention shifted to him. This is the fate of humanity, Geram said. Like it or not, we must all stand together. Tell him.
“Because that’s what they said when they took over Latha. I Heard them through Geram.”
Lornk studied him, lips twitching. He loosed a low chortle, then smoothed his features over. “I wish you’d told me sooner. This is a tactical advantage I should have known about.”
“I’ve told you now that there’s a tactical need for you to know.”
“What else did the Kragnashians say?”
“Nothing specific, but when Parnden was showing off, a Kragnashian conveyed something to me.” The memory of hope shivered down his spine. “It left me with a feeling that they do not necessarily support Parnden.”
“A feeling?”
“A hunch. A suspicion. But one that flies in the face of the evidence that Parnden is in league with them. He called them his allies.”
“I despise uncertainty, Ashel.”
“So do I, Lornk, and it seems the only thing we can be certain of is that we cannot count on your so-called partners.” He swallowed. “Maybe Vic has already failed and they’ve sought other alliances. Or maybe they have stepped in to prevent a partnership between Parnden and the Center. The Center told my mother it would bring Vic and Bethniel back if she pledged allegiance to them.”
“Your mother. None of this would have happened if she hadn’t meddled in my affairs.”
“She had nothing to do with your failure to oust Parnden this summer.”
“But she had everything to do with the debacle happening in Direiellene. You’re right that this new alliance with Parnden suggests the War of the Council is not turning in our favor, which would not be the case had Victoria gone to Direiellene prepared!”
Ashel lunged up, fists clenched. “You call your depravities tactics in your grand scheme, but they’re nothing but perverse indulgences.”
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