Sunlight was a hard thing to wake to.
Hours after her descent, she sat up. The midday sun stung her eyes and baked the dew from her skin. As she rose, her bones creaked. She felt older than she was, and she took many breaths before composing her thoughts into anything more than a muddled soup of half-memories and partly-assembled pain.
It hurts, she groaned. I should have flown at night.
Though foggy-headed and squinting, she took one glimpse at the lay of the land and knew she had reached her mark. Sallow. Stocky, hard-barked trees and prickly underbrush surrounded her, all of it lurching like claws from the rocky soil. Further east the land arose like welted skin, with hundreds of slate-topped hills bulging above the trees. The Undergrave, her chosen end, lies not far beyond those hills.
I remember it.
The Undergrave.
She closed her eyes. The Undergrave’s entrance would be inaccessible now, buried after her father’s exile by thousands of Thillrians. It will be abandoned, she knew. And why not? Why would anyone ever come here again?
Except Grimwain.
The memory of Grimwain compelled her to move. Clambering to her feet, she reached into her satchel and shoveled a fistful of raisins into her mouth, afterward sipping from a pool of rain at the base of the foremost hill. Then she was off, marching into Sallow, where no one was said to live, and where no sensible person dares to go.
Like the wind, she cut between Sallow’s trees and brambles. Briars, thickets, and ragged streamlets haunted her every step. Piles of slate and graveyards of dead willows blocked her way. But like the wind, she made her way through. Her shoes were missing, her feet filthy, and her tunic damp and smelling of rain, and yet it hardly mattered. I am the guardian of the Undergrave. I might be here a hundred years. If I look wretched, who shall ever know?
For hours, she walked.
She passed a hundred stony hills, each one more bulbous than the last. The terrain grew rockier, ever more inhospitable. Each time she climbed a hill hoping to find the Undergrave, she descended its other side disappointed. She often imagined she recognized a tree here, a stream there, but time after time her memory proved false.
Too long since I was last here.
And the Black Moon haunts my mind.
The day threatened to die. Father Sun began his slow descent, and shadows stretched between the hills, long and dark and hungry. As dusk neared, and with her feet throbbing and her eyes bleary, she daydreamed a new plan.
I will fly again. Why walk when the sky belongs to me?
She sank to the earth and relished a moment of rest. The place she hunkered in was a narrow valley, as safe and secret as any in the world. A pair of high hills flanked her on either side, sheltering her from the sun’s paling light. Even more pleasing, a streamlet creased the valley’s center. She knelt at its bank, splashed her sunburned face, and washed the grime from between her toes.
A day ago, supper with Saul and Marid.
Rain and clouds and wind.
But tonight…
She waited for the sun to set. Her feet soaking in the shallows, she washed her hair, unraveling all its many tangles. It was relaxing work, and as the sky turned red and the clouds stretched into long, lavender strips, she hummed a quiet tune to herself, her face clean and her hair tied back into a single ebon lock.
The first pinpricks of starlight pierced the deepening dark. She rose to her feet with a contented sigh. Alone, she sighed. At last.
She lifted her arms and prepared to fall into the Nightness, but in the instant before she shut her eyes and let the shadows sweep her away, she spotted something that startled her. A red glow lived at the valley’s far end, a mote of flame burning like a ruby betwixt the hard-shelved hills. She saw it and wondered how long it had been there, whether she had missed it because of the sunlight or whether someone had only now awakened it.
A fire? Here? How?
Splashing through the stream and pattering across the bare valley rock, she darted through the darkness. A few hundred steps later, she knelt at the valley’s end. The flimsy fire burned before her, its puny red flames snapping inside a bronze bowl hanging by a chain from a blackened wooden post.
So… She crept up and pinged her finger against the brazier. Not so alone after all.
She stood now at the easternmost end of the valley. Two smaller hills rose up at her sides, while a huge hummock of slate lurked like a tombstone before her. It was a desolate place between the three hills. The clearing where they joined was a warren of lifeless stones and dead, decaying wood. Every gnarled tree was slain, cleaved cleanly to its trunk, and everywhere sat great piles of dusty granite and shattered slate. At the clearing’s edges sat dozens of abandoned dwellings, some of them ugly stone huts, others log-raftered cabins built into the flanks of the two smaller hills.
She went still for a moment, searching her memory. She knew this place, if only by reputation.
Ghurk and Marid described it to me. The Thillrians built a city to live in while they sealed the Undergrave. They stripped the earth and slew thousands of trees.
This was the city.
Those were the trees.
The Undergrave is near.
But for the hanging fire, she would have rejoiced. But no sooner did she realize the Undergrave’s closeness than she spotted other flames dotting the darkness. Seven, she counted. No…ten. Out in the clearing, the fires swayed from their chains as though held by ghostly hands.
I am not alone here.
The darkness settled around her. The day expired. Breathing shallowly, she narrowed her Nightness gaze to the far side of the clearing, where she saw exactly what she expected. A group of men, dangerous men, assembled outside a stone hut. Five of them hunkered on their haunches near the door, while three others loitered beside a fallen tree. The distant firelight painted their faces scarlet, but the swords at their waists looked black.
“Over there,” she heard one of them say.
“By the fire. A girl,” grunted another.
It would have been an easy thing to escape into the shadows, but against her fear she chose to remain. Guards, perhaps, she hoped. Even the Thillrians knew Grim might return.
With the Nightness glittering in her eyes, she saw the approaching men as plainly as though it were midday. Four of them ambled to her, weaving their way through the dark with torches in their hands. Two were garbed as simple woodsmen, their tawny shirts blood-colored in the firelight. The other two were dressed in something resembling soldiers’ attire, with hard leathern hauberks and unpolished broadswords dangling from their waists.
They came to her. The foremost among them, a tall, bearded man whose gaze swallowed her every inch, was first to speak. “M’lady,” he crowed, “we see you’ve found our fire. Not many visitors these days. You must be lost.”
“I am not lost.” She lifted her chin. “I am looking for the Undergrave. I know it is near. Can you show me the way?”
“Who are you?” he asked.
“Andelusia.”
She saw it in his eyes, in the hitch of his unsubtle smile. The nameless soldier had heard her name before. “Andelusia, is it?” He clucked his tongue. “Not a Thillrian name, you know. Too pretty, too long-winded, too northern, I’d say.”
“You were waiting for me?” She stared hard at him.
He and his companions took another long look at her. “Oh, we were waiting for you, true enough.” The lead man smirked. “I s’pose we expected something different. Our Master said somewhat about a sorceress, a black-hearted temptress, but you…well…you. You’re just a pretty little thing.”
Anger, rare and raw, coursed like lightning through her veins. The men’s smirks provoked dark thoughts inside her, and for the first time in many months she felt heat beneath her skin. Her heart beat hard beneath her shirt, while her tiny fists pulsed open and shut.
“Ghurlain sent you?” She glared. “How could he know I would come here?”
“Ghurlain?” The ma
n laughed. “Ha! No. ‘Tis another who bade us watch. A friend of yours, you might recall.”
No.
“A dark-eyed jewel, a lady unlike any other.” The man laid his palm on his sword hilt. “That’s what he said. And you…we reckon you’re her. He was very concerned for your safety, this fellow, even if he was uglier than a three-tongued toad.”
Ugly? Toad?
“It’d be best if you stayed with us for a while, m’lady,” the man snorted. “The Gluns are a dangerous place. Doubly for a woman of your…quality.”
“How do you know me?” She glowered. “Who sent you?”
“The ‘Tulu. He told us everything.”
She raised her chin. “Not here to guard the Undergrave, are you? Here to keep it safe for Grimwain.”
“Who?”
“Do you even know what you are doing?” She wilted them with a glare. “What did he promise you? Gold? Places in his army? A few turns of sweating atop me? Did he even bother to warn you, to tell you what I am? The answer is no. Just look at you, you with all your swords. As if they could help you.”
Three of the men hesitated. The foremost did not. He reached to the back of his belt, snatching a pair of iron manacles and holding them menacingly before her. Made for me, she knew at a glance. Narrow, just like my wrists. Iron, to dull my magic.
She stepped backward. The yellow-toothed Thillrian advanced, jiggling the manacles in her face. “Put these on, little lass.” He stalked her. “I’ll show you exactly what was promised me.”
The Andelusia of earlier years might have hissed in fear and fled for her life, but not tonight. She shut her eyes, gaining a moment’s focus, and then snapped her gaze back open. When the sweating fool reached to clamp his meaty hand around her wrist, she whipped her hand away and touched his forearm with two fingers, uttering an almost unheard syllable as she did it.
Her spell, gleaned from the Pages Black, entered his body.
“Wha—?” he stammered. Already doomed.
Wild-eyed, he dropped the manacles and gazed with horror at his hands. In flakes and tatters, his skin sloughed off. She took two steps backward, watching as he foamed from his mouth, his eyes rolling back like white marbles in his skull.
The other men backed away.
The Ur fever worked quickly.
With a shudder, the man choked on the dust of his own powdered teeth, wanting to wail but unable to make any sound beyond the cracking of his crumbling jaws. His skin went black. Lines of ash followed the pattern of his veins, then turned wholly a blighted shade. She pitied him then. She wished she had used another spell, but the fever was the first that had come to mind.
Forgive me. You should never have been here.
He let loose a final sound, a last deathly wail billowing like smoke into the night. His fingers fell off, his clothes turned to dust, and his belly bloated like a drowned corpse. He perished, and in that instant thousands of flies burst from his fever-pocked flesh, afterward coalescing into a buzzing black cloud that sped off into the dark.
There were no words for such horror, only dead silence reigning for a hundred heartbeats after the man breathed his last. Aghast, their mouths open, the other men stood frozen in place as though their feet had been rooted to the earth by the hands of dead men.
“Witch!” one of the three shuddered.
“Murderer,” trembled another.
She might have fainted then, sick with her terrible deed. She did not allow herself the luxury. One of the men reached for his sword, though even as it rang free from his belt he fumbled and dropped it.
“Go!” She arose, tall and terrible as a column of thunder. “Leave this place!”
“You…you melted him!” The man staggered away. “What manner of monster are you?”
“I am Andelusia Anderae.” The Nightness smoked from her fists. “I am ward of the Undergrave, lock and key against the exile, Grimwain of Romaldar. These hills are mine, these huts, these murdered trees, and these rocks. Now go! Go and tell no one of what you saw, else I will butcher you all.”
If ever she had seen men run so quickly, she could not remember it. It was as though she were a nightmare from their childhoods, for they ran without care of direction or destination. After they vanished, some dozen men hiding in the nearby huts clattered through their doors and fled.
Rabbits. All of them. Running like rabbits.
In twenty breaths she was alone again. Silence reigned, and she sagged to the dry, rock-strewn soil. Her victim’s skeleton lay before her, his bones black and sockets empty.
Father, what have I become?
Diary, Part IV
Sallow. The valley beneath Undergrave Hill.
Two nights removed from my arrival, I sit in a rotten house a hundred breaths below the Undergrave. The vale is dead. Tree stumps, moldering cabins, and ugly rocks are all I see. In a small pile at the edge of the moonlight, the bones of the man I murdered lie still. In all my life, I have never felt more alone.
But there are good things about being so alone. Tonight is profoundly quiet. No animals live here, no owls, ravens, or crickets. The scorching sun is gone, and the stars winking at me through the dusky clouds, inviting me to dance among them. I could almost sleep. I swear it. I could, but for the Nightness.
In these lonely hours, I am glad for this journal. I need it to help me forget what happened. Smoke, bones, and pestilent flies. I knew he would perish, but not how. Lest I idly sit and forever dream of his death, I will put my thoughts to paper. It may help to loosen my tension. Though if not, what then?
I have decided. This cabin will be my new home. The little square hut made of logs and piled stones is the smallest, simplest dwelling I have ever known. Sturdy. Quiet. Empty. Perfect. There are others like it, but this one is closest to Undergrave Hill.
Undergrave Hill.
Beneath which Grimwain murdered Rellen.
Where everything or nothing may happen.
I am sitting outside my hut. I have a tiny campfire as my only friend, a pile of slate for a chair, and a bag stuffed with berries and dried meat for supper. The night’s wind is mischievous, catching the pages and turning them before the ink dries. There is no rain. I hear no heartbeats but my own. I am content to know that no one will bother me here, at least for one eve. If every night were as peaceful as this, I could die a happy little girl.
But I have worries. Oh, do I. I do not know who ‘Tulu is, but I know why he wants me dead. Grimwain sent him. I know it because I feel it. This place is watched, even if not by men. I was right to be afraid of Grim. How far does his dominion stretch, I wonder? How many wicked men are in his thrall? If Saul was right, I will not have to wait here long.
Grimwain.
My enemy.
He will come.
He is single-minded, my foe. I remember the look in his eyes as he led me to Father. I saw depth, bottomless and terrifying. The more I dwell on it, the more I think Grim is not human at all. His white eyes, his utter lack of emotion. Could it be so? Could he be more than the exile everyone believes him to be? It does not matter. It seems inevitable he and I shall meet again. Having dispatched his men, I will fall into his awareness. He will find me. Perhaps through this ‘Tulu of his, or perhaps by other means.
If our day of dark reunion comes to pass, I want to believe I will be ready. I will not feel guilty to work the Nightness upon him. I will not rue it as I do the horrors of last night, but instead will relish removing him from the world. To dig to the Undergrave’s bottom, he imprisoned and butchered hundreds of Thillrians. For no other reason than pleasure, he slaughtered Rellen. He deserves only the worst of fates. Who better to give it to him than me?
Is that so wrong?
I should stop writing such things. I have too much to think about, and too much time. There are better subjects to fill a diary than black moons and blighted men. Despite what poor Saul and Marid must think, my thoughts are not all gloom and swamp and despair. There are cracks in the midnight, loose thre
ads in the cloak surrounding me. So for now, for just a little while, I will write of brighter things.
Last night I dreamed of Garrett. He and I were friends again, riding on the Graehelm prairie. I cannot help but smile at my memory of him. I am sweating now, cold beads on my colder flesh. I wish Garrett were here right now. He would know if waiting is the right thing to do. He would tell me if I was being a fool, and he would do what needed to be done. Garrett...I could write about you forever. I miss you. I remember you as though you were right here beside me. If I wear a sad, sad smile, it is for you, my friend.
Garrett’s memory is not the only one. There are others. I could scratch out a hundred pages for Rellen, but he deserves better than any ink of mine. I remember dreaming of him in the rain. It was less a dream, I think, and more his spirit speaking to my heart. If he still watches over me, I admit I would not blame him for hating me. But no. I will remember the good things tonight. Otherwise my tears will fall and the ink will run like rain. And I am trying not to be miserable.
Father. Yes, Father. My insides do funny things when I think of my wayward parent. The better part of me wants to forget him, to push aside every disharmonious memory. He imprisoned me, after all. He put me in his imaginary pit and waited for me to break. He surrounded me with images of death and despair, and he poured lies like honey into my ear. I should hate him for all of this. But what good is hate? And how can I ever hope to forget?
To deny my memories of Father would be to deny my own existence. For where would I be if not for him? I know the answer. I would be back in Gryphon, pattering about Grandwood, thick-bellied with Rellen’s child. Maybe… Or maybe not. More likely I would be sitting in my tower window and staring into the blue summer sky, wishing for rain but not knowing why. I would be a poor wife to Rellen, a distant friend to Saul and Garrett. I would be empty, even more than now, always feeling like there was something I was supposed to do but never knowing exactly what it was. I would certainly not be aware of magic, and would be unaware of the Ur until it was too late.
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