“Marcus, it’s fine,” she said, her voice drained even to her own ears.
“No, it’s not,” he said. “They shouldn’t have kept you there so long, shouldn’t have hounded you that way. Not after what happened. Especially not after you proved that something could be done about the distortions after they’ve formed.”
“But I’ll be fine. I just need some rest.”
He halted, and she could sense him standing over her, looking down at her.
“You don’t understand, do you?”
She sighed. “I don’t understand what.”
She heard him drag a chair closer, slit one eye enough she could see him as he settled, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.
“I don’t think the Primes know what the distortions are, or where they come from.”
“And you do?”
He grimaced. “Not for certain. But the other Wielders and I have talked about it and it seems obvious to us that it has something to do with the Flyers’ Tower. The distortions didn’t start appearing until after the tower was sown. Since then, the stress on the ley system has been obvious. The Primes claim that they’ve accounted for the additional power needed to keep the flyers in the air, make grand statements to the public about how the distortions have nothing to do with the flyers, but those of us here in the nodes know differently. We can see it when we’re working in the pit.”
“But you can’t see everything. The Primes work at the Nexus. They know what’s happening throughout the system. Not just here in Erenthrall, but in all of the ley networks in all of the surrounding Baronies and the cities beyond.”
“We don’t need to see the whole system to know that something’s wrong,” Marcus scoffed. “We can see it in the streets! In our own ley station!”
Kara flinched as his voice rose, her head pounding. Marcus noticed, for he caught himself, forced his breathing to calm.
“But that doesn’t matter right now,” he said, and stood. “I’ve sent Kyle to get some food and drink for you, and told the others to let you sleep, even though they’re all dying to hear the story of what happened directly from you again. Kyle said they haven’t stopped talking about it since the Primes arrived.”
She could hear the smile in his voice, heard him hesitate. She opened her eyes to find him staring down at her, a strange expression on his face. For a moment, she flashed back to the ley station, to the sensation that had coursed through her as he joined her, as he passed along his strength when hers began to flag. The memory woke a warmth deep in her chest and caused her to blush. A tiny smile touched Marcus’ lips and he leaned forward. Her heart stuttered as she thought he meant to kiss her, and her arm twitched as she tried to raise it to hold the back of his head as he did so. But she was so weary she couldn’t lift her arm, and Marcus merely muttered, “Good job today, Wielder. At least now we know we can do something about the distortions when they appear.”
Then he did kiss her, on the lips, his breath cool against her burning skin, his mouth gentle. It sent a shock through her entire body. She tasted the salt of his sweat, drew in the musk of his scent—
And then he withdrew. She didn’t want him to go, wanted to reach for him, but he turned, opened the door, and left.
Within moments, despite the fire that had awakened inside her, Kara slipped into sleep.
A violent pounding intruded on Augustus’ tranquility. He ignored it at first, a wrinkle of irritation forming in his brow, and sank himself deeper into the sensation of the ley flowing over his body, the tingling energy relaxing his muscles and rejuvenating his body. He’d discovered one of the side effects of immersion in the ley over long periods of time was a youthening effect, like those described by the followers of Korma, who immersed themselves in hot mud baths and applied poultices to their faces and skin. They believed that nature harbored the secrets of the universe, that it would provide cures for every disease, antidotes for every poison, and through careful application and preservation in their daily lives, right all wrongs in the universe. Most healers ascribed to a belief in Korma. The Kormanley had originally been part of the god’s following, but had broken away to focus their attentions on the ley itself, rather than nature in general. And they’d been correct, at least in regard to the ley. He’d been immersing himself in a bath of ley for decades now and even though he was seventy-seven years old, he looked forty. Baron Arent had done the same and had ruled Erenthrall for seventy years already; he expected to rule for another seventy, if not a hundred. It was one of the main reasons Arent hadn’t married and produced an heir. Augustus didn’t believe Arent ever intended to give up his hold on the Baronies, not even to someone of his own blood.
The pounding renewed, breaking through Augustus’ thoughts. He grumbled and pushed upward out of the ley, opening his eyes to the rough stone ceiling of the immersion chamber hidden behind a doorway in his bedchamber. Arent had a similar chamber in the Amber Tower, known of only by the Baron, a few retainers, and Augustus himself. Lifting himself up onto the lip of the depression, he realized the pounding came from the bedroom door. He shrugged into his Prime robes and closed the door to the secret room behind him. “This had better be good,” he mumbled as he made his way to the bedroom door.
He snatched it open and growled, “What is it?”
Two Prime Wielders waited outside, Augustus’ personal servant hovering a short distance away with a look of profound distress. Augustus immediately straightened, irritation slipping into confusion. He recognized the Wielder with the goatee—Acton, Ashen, something like that—but the other Prime’s name eluded him.
“Forgive the intrusion, Prime Augustus, but we felt this was urgent.”
“Is something wrong with the Nexus, Prime Ashing?” he asked.
“Ashton, sire. No, the Nexus is fine. But there was a distortion earlier today at the Eld ley station. And this time, a woman was caught in it.”
Augustus’ eyebrows rose, all of his irritation gone now. “What happened to her?”
“When the distortion closed, her hand was still trapped inside. It cut her hand to ribbons.”
Augustus’ stomach turned. “Did anyone witness it? Can we keep the incident quiet?” If the citizens of Erenthrall thought the distortions were dangerous and panicked, who knows what they might demand. He couldn’t let them influence the Baron or threaten his ley network. The actions of the Kormanley were bad enough!
“Everyone present at the station at the time saw it,” Ashton said regretfully.
“It cannot be contained,” the other Prime said, his voice deep. “Word has already spread that the seamstress lost her hand.”
Augustus spat a curse and stepped out into the outer room, motioning with a wave to his manservant to find wine. He began pacing as the man skittered away.
“I knew this would happen eventually, even though I didn’t know exactly what the distortions would do to someone caught in them. The one that shattered the marble in the Temerite embassy was warning enough! I’ll have to tell the Baron. He needs to prepare a statement, something to calm the public, something to distract them. And we need to determine what’s causing these distortions and stop them. Except there’s nothing wrong with the Nexus, with the system! I’ve been over it a hundred times.” He grabbed his hair with both hands, talking to himself more than the other Primes now. “It can’t be the Flyers’ Tower. The Primes have checked the calculations! So what is it? Where are the distortions coming from?”
“Prime Augustus?”
He spun on Ashton with a sharp, “What?”
“There’s more,” the other Prime intoned.
“More what?”
“News,” Ashton said. “Two Wielders from the Eld node were in the station when the distortion formed. One of them, a young woman recently raised to the purple, attempted to repair the distortion and free the seamstress.” He licked his lips before continuing. “By
all accounts, she nearly succeeded.”
Augustus halted his frantic pacing and stared at the two Primes. “She fixed it?”
“She said she would have been able to free the woman if she’d had a few more moments to work on it, but the distortion closed. Everyone who witnessed it swore the distortion was the size of a man’s torso, but after she began working, it shrank down to the size of a melon.”
Augustus’ eyes narrowed. His mind was already working through the ramifications to the ley system, how the Wielders could be used to counter the distortions, at least until he figured out what was causing them and could stop them at their source, and lastly how he could use this information to skew his report to the Baron.
But first . . .
“What is this Wielder’s name, the one who attempted to repair the distortion?”
The two Primes traded a look. “Her name is Kara Tremain. She received her purple jacket and was assigned to the Eld node a month ago. All of those we questioned at the college said that they fully expect her to become a Prime once she completes her training at the nodes.”
Augustus’ lips thinned. “So she is already being considered as a Prime?”
Ashton nodded. “She is set to be transferred to another node in four years.”
Most Wielders—those not thought powerful enough to become Primes—remained at the same node their entire career, to keep information about the ley network from spreading. No one Wielder was allowed to be intimately familiar with more than three nodes. However, those who might become Primes were transferred to multiple nodes during their training, to prepare them for the much more complicated task of overseeing the Nexus and the entire ley network in Erenthrall.
“Good. Make certain that we keep an eye on her. If she continues to show promise, we may want to bring her to the Nexus earlier than usual.”
Ibsen Senate.
That was the name Hagger had gotten from Sedric, the Kormanley priest he’d interrogated. The Dogs had moved on Ibsen’s flat in Eastend immediately. Since the collapse of the riverboat trade with the advent of the ley barges, Eastend and its docks had declined steadily, even though the district abutted Shadow and remained relatively close to Grass, the heart of Erenthrall. Ibsen was located a few streets from the decrepit docks, in a mudbrick building with no remaining glass windows, everything boarded up, a few tail ends of yellowed curtains trailing out through cracks in the boards. They’d scouted the surrounding streets, then stormed the building, crashing into Ibsen’s flat to find it empty.
Or rather, abandoned. The furniture had been scattered, cupboards left open, drawers half pulled or emptied onto the floor. Most of the kitchen remained untouched, some food left rotting on the shelves. The bedroom looked as if it had been tossed, the straw from the mattress littering the floor. Only one of the ley globes that remained worked, its light fitful, cloaking the entire flat in strange shadows.
Hagger began spitting curses as soon as they entered. Allan scanned the room once, his gaze narrowing on the old fireplace in the center of one wall. He moved toward it, dismissing the rest of the flat.
“Search it!” Hagger ordered with a gesture, then crouched down beside Allan at the mouth of the firepit. “What have you got?”
“Scraps of paper, probably burned when Ibsen left.” He drew a few of the scraps out of the ashes that filled the grate carefully, trying not to smear the soot or damage the paper further. He held up the largest pieces to the flickering light and the stray streams of sunlight that filtered through the boarded windows. “It looks like some of the same cryptic messages we found at the other locations.”
Hagger grunted and stood. “Doesn’t look like there’s much left.”
“No, nothing we can use.” Allan stared at the long-dead fire, then the rotting food. “I’d say Ibsen left as soon as he heard that Sedric had been taken. A few days at least, probably more like a week. He hasn’t been back here since. Who knows where he’s hiding.”
“Not us Dogs, for certain.”
Allan turned, something rough and dangerous coloring Hagger’s voice. He found the old Dog standing in the middle of the room, staring down at the floor, a strange smile on his face.
Hagger stooped down, straightening again with a scrap of cloth held in one hand. “Not us Dogs. But we can use the Hounds.” He motioned with the cloth. His smile twisted, turning nasty. “They’ll be able to find him, no matter what cesspit he’s tried to crawl into, as long as it’s still within Erenthrall. All they need is his scent to follow, and now we have it.”
A cold sweat broke out across Allan’s shoulders and he stood to hide his discomfort, aware that some of the nearest Dogs who were scrambling through the debris of Ibsen’s life had paused, were listening intently. Allan didn’t like the Hounds’ . . . intensity. They didn’t appear any different than the Dogs, or anyone else in Erenthrall, but their sheer presence was disturbing.
And they were hard to handle. He’d seen the aftermath of one that had gotten out of control, bloodlust taking over. He shuddered at the memory.
He didn’t want to deal with the Hounds unless he was ordered to.
“Ibsen is pretty low on the food chain,” he said.
“He’s the only lead we’ve got at the moment.”
Allan managed to keep from frowning. “What about the papers we found? There was one coded note that wasn’t outdated. It referred to the issue of The Ley that’s coming out two days from now.”
Hagger scowled.
“It could be significant,” Allan retorted, knowing his voice sounded too defensive. “It could be the location of a meeting, or perhaps another attack.”
“And it could be nothing! They know we’ve captured Sedric and his papers, and they’ll know we’ve raided Ibsen’s place, even though he’s already run. What makes you think they’ll even use The Ley again? What makes you think they’ll follow through with it?”
“Because over the last four years we’ve been closer to them than this before and they’ve always followed through. They aren’t afraid of us. And they don’t know we’ve figured out their code.”
“They should be afraid,” Hagger huffed. He glared at the scrap in his hands, stuffed it into one of his pockets, then met Allan’s gaze and said grudgingly, “We’ll see what this news sheet has to say, but we’ll sic the Hounds on Ibsen as well. The Baron wants answers, and I intend to give them to him.”
He stalked toward the door and one of the younger sentries they’d left outside. “Douglass! Send word to the Tower. I want one of the Hounds ready to track by the time we return.” He spun toward the rest of the Dogs already inside. “The rest of you, rake this place. I want everything Ibsen could have touched or worn collected and ready for the Hound within the hour.”
Allan watched as the elder Dog began pacing through the flat himself, tossing tables aside and scouring beneath for anything of importance that might have been left behind. Uneasiness washed through him at his partner’s energy, frantic and skittish, laced with excitement and adrenaline. He frowned, thought of Moira and Morrell as he’d left them that morning, Moira already in her amber clothing for her return to work at the Tower, the wet nurse who’d care for Morrell cooing to the child in the background. The two images clashed. He suppressed a shudder, shook himself, and forced himself to begin searching the flat as well, although he stayed clear of Hagger.
Two hours later, they left Ibsen’s flat, a ley cart loaded with what little they’d found trailing behind them, escorted by the Dogs. The citizens in the street parted before them, those within Eastend with furtive glances behind as they ducked into alleys or shadowed doorways, those in Shadow stepping to one side, gazing at the contents of the cart with hooded curiosity. In Grass, the Dogs and the cart were studiously ignored.
Back at the Tower, Hagger gestured sharply for Allan to follow. Passing through the main hall, another training bout in session, t
hey descended to the interrogation rooms below, two other Dogs following them at a look from Hagger. He spoke briefly to the two Dogs on watch, then moved to one of the doors, stepping through without hesitation.
Allan halted inside the door, the other two Dogs moving to either side of him. Hagger stood in front of Daedallen, the captain glaring down at him.
“I’ve brought a Hound,” Daedallen said, and Allan realized with a start that there was someone else in the room, standing against the far wall, near the corner. He hadn’t noticed him, the dirty-blond-haired, nondescript boy barely coming up to his shoulders, no more than fourteen years old, possibly a few years younger. He wore street clothes, like anyone within Grass would wear, but his face was plain, his hair slightly unkempt. Like all of the other Hounds, everything about him appeared normal. His most unusual feature was his eyes, a cool gray that met Allan’s evenly. No emotion showed in the Hound’s face or flickered through his gaze, but the uneasiness that had begun in Ibsen’s flat with Hagger’s actions intensified. The most disturbing thing about the Hounds was their ability to blend into the background. When Daedallen shifted slightly forward, drawing Allan’s attention away, the Hound vanished, as if the boy weren’t truly there, even though he was easy to see if Allan concentrated.
“I’ve brought the Hound,” the captain said again. “What I want to know is what for?”
Hagger stiffened. “We raided Ibsen Senate’s flat. He was no longer there. He’d tossed the place, burned any evidence that could have been useful, and fled, probably the moment he knew we had his Kormanley accomplice in custody. But he left behind a few things.” He pulled out the old swatch of cloth and Allan realized he hadn’t let anyone else touch it, here or at the flat.
Allan watched the Hound. As soon as the cloth appeared, the boy’s attention fixed on it and he drew in a deep breath, nostrils flaring. Tension thrummed through his body, as if he were a harp string that had been lightly plucked. But he didn’t move, his gaze shooting toward Daedallen, his eyes narrowing, then swinging back toward Allan as if he sensed the Dog’s attention.
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