Gearspire: Advent

by Jeremiah Reinmiller

  Lastrahn ignored them all and kept riding.

  Ryle had seen his share of burned villages, ruined lives, and tragedies that still haunted him. Hex, he’d helped cause most of them. Yet, nothing was equal to what he saw here. Two years had passed since Murden and Xaviel’s last conflict, but these people remained here in squalor and desperation. How was this possible?

  “Why doesn’t Del’atre do something?” Ryle asked. “They can’t be fifty leagues southwest of here.”

  “The Del’s reach is not once it once was. I’d be surprised if you saw any of their banners flying.”

  Ryle hadn’t seen any banners. The closest thing was a dirty scrap of what might’ve been a man’s knickers hanging from a broken chimney. “If not Del’atre, Sir, someone must still control this land.” Ryle’s mind tried to pull up the last map he’d seen and pinpoint this town’s location.

  Lastrahn shrugged. “I’m sure someone still claims this land on their map.” He chuckled to himself, but the sound was far from humored. “We fight wars over maps if you hadn’t heard.”

  Ryle winced at the words, at the dark depths of the sound his new master had made. He tread dangerous ground, but frustration built inside. Maybe from his own failures. Or maybe from the bleak scene around him. Like the ones he’d caused at Kilgren’s side.

  “What about neighbors?” he asked. “Shelling’s not ten leagues behind us. Someone there could help.”

  Lastrahn’s eyes fell hard on Ryle. “I’m sure those towns would welcome them with open arms. Look at them!”

  On the next corner a thin woman sat slumped against the remains of a foundation. A child on her lap suckled disinterestedly on one of her shriveled breasts.

  Two years. How could anyone live like this? How could anyone leave them here? “Someone needs to help these people,” Ryle said.

  “This is the way it is! If you think you can make the world a better place, get the hell off your horse and get to work!” Lastrahn heeled his charger into a sharp canter and rode away, leaving Ryle frustrated, confused, and raging inside.

  He’d never seen a need so clear, and the champion acted as if they didn’t exist. Then again, had Ryle ever done any different? He and his father had taken what they wanted and rode away. In the back of his mind he’d always figured someone would come and put things back together. If not the Directorate, then someone else.

  Had all the places they ruined stayed in this state? Were all the wounds as raw and unhealed?

  Guilt gnawed its way up through Ryle’s chest. He thought this was why The House of Reckoning existed, why the Directorate sanctioned their actions. They were supposed to solve problems too far west to fall under the Seven Cities’ influence. It was one reason Ryle had sought them out. Why he’d pushed through five years of pain to try to reforge himself. He desperately wanted to find Kilgren, but he also needed to set things right if he was to ever to escape the darkness inside. And he needed Lastrahn’s help. Yet Lastrahn, a hundred paces away now, showed no sign of slowing. If anything he’d increased his pace. Exequor rode high across his back, pommel bright in the sun.

  Swords, not hammers. The thought came cold and sharp, but Ryle immediately knew the truth of it. They weren’t here to rebuild anything, because they were too late. Their job wasn’t to fix this, but to prevent it from happening. To stop the men who’d ruined so many lives.

  This truth was no comfort, but as Ryle clenched his jaw and followed the man on the black horse, he had to hang on to it. He had nothing else.

  The rundown gray sea of poverty continued unabated. Some minutes later, at a nondescript intersection between garbage strewn lots, Lastrahn turned them south.

  Here Lastrahn withdrew a leather breath filter from his coat and settled it over his nose and mouth. He then pulled his road goggles down over his eyes. Without asking Ryle produced his own set from a saddle pouch and did likewise.

  Where the hex was Lastrahn taking them to go goggled and masked? They weren’t riding through the Blasts.

  “The horses?” Ryle asked, his voice strange in his own ears.

  “No need.” Lastrahn cinched his filter tight. “They’ll be fine.”

  A block later, a thin twisting mist, stinking of sulfur and rot, sprang up despite the shining sun. The acrid stench soon filled Ryle’s nose, choking him even through the mask. He hoped the horses would be okay as Lastrahn had said.

  Lastrahn’s form wavered in the swirling mists and he stopped at the edge of a wood of skeletal trees, the branches strangely bare for early autumn. “I’m meeting someone. You stay with the horses and keep your mouth shut. Don’t be shocked when you see her. Don’t say anything. And whatever the hell you do, don’t give her your name. I warn you now, talk and it’s your ass.”

  “Yes, Sir.” Ryle forced the words past the burning in his throat.

  Thicker mists filled the world as they left the village behind and rode between the skeletal trees. Brittle twigs, and dry, long-shed leaves crunched beneath their horses’ hooves. The trees around them stood strangely bare for early autumn. Their discarded foliage already crumbled as if abandoned months before.

  A crone, Ryle deduced after a minute’s consideration, and then the twisted setting around them made more sense. His mother had once told him of crones and their eccentricities. They dwelt in bleak, decrepit places such as these. They were also known, on occasion, to dole out wisdom to those clever enough to earn it. Wisdom, or maybe clues, but they’d have to stay on guard.

  Snippets of his mother’s dark and grotesque tales clenched Ryle’s stomach. She’d once told him of a crone with three eyes. The extra one liquefied the brains of people that displeased her.

  Of course he’d think of that now. Ryle took another foul tasting breath and tried to ignore how slippery the reins felt against his damp palms. Or the way not a single sound but their horses’ hooves filled his ears. He swallowed. The sound was loud inside his mask.

  Lastrahn’s shoulders were back now, his spine stiff as they moved among the trees. Ryle wondered if similar dark thoughts ran through his head.

  A half hour later, the mists parted and they entered a broad clearing. There, Ryle lay eyes on the crone’s dwelling. He was not prepared.

  Atop a gentle rise, beyond the reach of the mists, a small mansion rose from manicured green grass. Whitewashed siding gleamed in the morning light. Deep black trimmed the shutters and eves, and a wide porch extended before the front door. A turret rose above the highest gable, topped with a weathervane in the shape of a huge raven. Or Ryle thought the bird was iron, but at their approach, it pulled free and flapped away south over the trees. From its size it was a huge raven or something closer to a vulture. Neither idea provided any comfort.

  They eased their horses onto the white gravel path that led to the house. The stones beneath the horses’ hooves crunched like breaking bones in the still air.

  Grey shivered beneath her rider as they stopped before the house. Ryle knew the feeling.

  Deep in the shadows of the porch, a woman sat in an ornately carved rocking chair.

  Lastrahn took a breath then stripped off his goggles and mask. Ryle followed suit, but the air felt no fresher outside the leather confines. The stench of sulfur clung to his sinuses. He wanted to snort and spit but restrained himself.

  After the slightest of pauses, Lastrahn dismounted, straightened his coat and hair, and addressed the woman. A sheen coated his forehead and scarred cheek. Shadows clouded his eyes. His grim expression sent a chill through Ryle’s chest.

  “Good morning, Madame Judith,” Lastrahn said, adding a small bow and an equally small smile to his words.

  The rocking chair emitted the softest creak as the woman rose. The dress she wore was the dark red of a good wine, the bodice and cuffs embroidered with twisting ivory lace. Her steps made precise clacking sounds on the wooden boards as she came forward. When she emerged from the shadows, her sharp-cut white hair caught the sun and gleamed.

  “Mr. Lastrahn.�
�� Her voice sounded like a breathy sigh at the back of her throat. “It has been some time. Since you went west I believe.”

  “Too long, Madame.” Lastrahn’s voice hitched, but he recovered quickly. “You appear well.”

  “I am, thank you,” she said.

  She looked more than well, Ryle thought. With her unmarked skin, she appeared younger than Lastrahn, but her hair and dark eyes suggested she was years beyond either of them. He kept his focus sharp, his center close, and his mouth closed, as instructed.

  “I need your wisdom, Madame,” Lastrahn said.

  “Of course, but first things must come first.” She paused, and her eyes swept past them. “Did you bring only one guest today?”

  “We come alone, Madame.”

  “I see.” She frowned and her voice sounded disappointed when she continued. “Who is this then? The replacement for the one you lost?” Then her eyes were on Ryle.

  He met her stare. He managed that much. His eyelids itched.

  Her look carried a weight he’d not felt since he stood beneath the Professor’s gaze. Doing his best to follow Lastrahn’s example, he inclined his head, and broke the stare. After looking away he still felt her watching him. His scalp itched as if a cold breath hissed across it.

  A part of him wanted to find out how long he could’ve held her gaze. Another part, perhaps with the Professor’s voice, murmured that it was unwise to look away from someone like this. He ignored both voices, and kept his head down.

  “My new aide,” Lastrahn said.

  Ryle suppressed a wince at the title.

  “Do you have a name, aide?” Judith asked.

  Ryle’s mouth fell open and words ached to form on his tongue. Horrified, he snapped his teeth shut. He didn’t know whether he was more concerned that he’d almost violated Lastrahn’s command, or that he’d felt so compelled to speak. He redoubled his concentration.

  “Aiden will do if you need to address him,” Lastrahn said.

  “I like to know all of my guests,” she said, “But of course, that will serve.”

  Her eyes left him. He felt it without raising his head, and he sighed. All those tales of crones and their powers didn’t feel so remote any more.

  “So you came seeking something. Information? Advice? Both perhaps, Mr. Lastrahn?” She nodded as if he’d answered. “Both of you come inside, and I’ll see what I can provide you. I already have a kettle on,” she said.

  “Thank you, Madame. but his place is out here with the horses.” Lastrahn unslung his giant blade. “Aiden, take my sword.”

  Oh, chaff. Ryle dismounted, hands shaking.

  “Oh, no. I wouldn’t feel right for your man to remain out here in this blazing sun. Have him join us inside, I’ve made plenty of tea for everyone.”

  “Madame is too kind, but he will be fine out here watching our horses.”

  “There is no need. No one will lay a finger on them while you are within. Besides, today is the Day of Fellowship. I wouldn’t feel right leaving him out here alone. And I’m sure you’ll be more comfortable having him by your side should you need anything.”

  Something in her tone at the mention of the festival made the idea seem more like a bad joke than a kind reminder. Whatever was about to happen inside, Ryle doubted it would be in the spirt of fellowship. Not like the relationships the day was supposed to celebrate.

  Lastrahn paused. A wind blew up billowing his coat and flicking his golden hair about his face. Ryle swallowed. Judith stood still as a painting, her hair and dress unmoved in the slightest.

  Muck, muck, muck.

  Lastrahn inclined his head. “You are too kind. We accept.”

  “Excellent.” Judith opened her front door. “Come inside both of you. I shan’t bite.”

  For some reason Ryle didn’t believe her.

  CHAPTER 11

  Ryle and Lastrahn sat on a silk couch in Judith’s parlor.

  Dark hardwoods gleamed under their feet, detailed floral designs stood out across papered walls, and molded plaster coated the ceilings. Art and antiques rested everywhere else. The vast number seen during their short walk from the porch to the parlor was staggering. Every wall, every corner held rare valuables worth more coins than Ryle had ever seen. And all of it spotless, as if no dust dared enter her domain. Even the air smelled fresh, with a hint of unfamiliar spice he couldn’t identify.

  Despite their surroundings his mind whispered of spiders and flies. He couldn’t let the idea go, and he wondered who they were dealing with.

  Judith sat across from them in a high backed chair. Heavy curtains behind her blocked out the world. A low table between them held a teapot and a pair of unused cups and saucers upon a silver tray. Lamps on the walls cast the room in a warm, if not comfortable glow that shone milky through the fine bone china cups and saucers in their hands.

  Rarely in his life had Ryle felt so out of place.

  “How’s the tea?” Judith asked.

  The dim light in the room shadowed her dress, turned it the color of old blood.

  There’s a lovely thought.

  “Wonderful,” Lastrahn said, taking a sip.

  Ryle’s cup and saucer remained in his lap. Despite his growing thirst, he had no plans to drink anything she’d provided. The names of likely poisons dashed through his mind at a breakneck pace, but Lastrahn’s look told him abstaining was not an option.

  Muck it. Ryle took a sip, burned his tongue, but forced a smile. The liquid tasted strange, smoky, but smooth. It might’ve been his now damaged taste buds, but it wasn’t the worst thing he’d ever drunk. If she were poisoning them, it was with a flavorless variety, so they’d never feel it coming.

  “Excellent,” Judith said, “It’s a blend from the southeast. Quite rare.” Lamp light softened her features, made her look like a grandmother. Except for her eyes. She could’ve shared them with a raven. “Won’t you have a cake as well?”

  She lifted a crystal plate piled with sugared pastries.

  Ryle thought perhaps he could get away with passing on the treats, but he looked down to find one of the delicate cakes resting on his saucer, his fingertips white with powdered sugar. His memory of the last few seconds was a blank wall. His pulse quickened.

  Judith smiled. It wasn’t pleasant.

  What had just happened?

  Lastrahn bit into his own pastry, and despite his churning stomach Ryle made himself follow suit. Like the tea, it tasted better than he’d feared. The light treat dissolved on his tongue, and left his mouth watering for more. He’d taken a second before realizing what he’d done. He smiled and with an enormous amount of will, set it beside the cup on his saucer.

  Judith smiled back, her ruby lips curling, eyes flat and black.

  She returned the plate of cakes to the silver tray, leaned back into her chair, and took up her own cup and saucer from a gleaming side table.

  “Your house is lovely as always,” Lastrahn said. “I see you’ve added some new pieces to your collection.”

  Judith smiled and took a small sip of tea. “Oh, if something interesting comes by I scoop it up. There seem to be fewer and fewer curiosities these days. I have to acquire what I can. Perhaps you found something interesting during your recent travels?”

  Ryle wasn’t pleased with the way her eyes rested on him as she spoke. He held firm and didn’t squirm in his seat despite a distinct itch along his spine.

  “Perhaps,” Lastrahn said, ignoring the bait. “The village doesn’t look so well.”

  Young lips with old wrinkles pressed together. “This place is about used up. I may have to move on soon.”

  “I’m sure that would sadden the villagers greatly.”

  Judith’s face twitched into something between a smile and a glare. “What can I do for you, Lastrahn?” she asked. “What questions do you bring to my doorstep?”

  Lastrahn, ignoring her tone, finished another cake before speaking. “I thought perhaps this time, I would tell you a tale.”

&nb
sp; Judith’s hard eyes lit with something that might have been actual amusement. “Is that so? The great champion turned storyteller?”

  Lastrahn shot her the smallest smile. “As I’ve only recently returned, perhaps you’ll indulge me this once.”

  “By all means,” she said. “By the by, just how were the hosts for your stay?”

  Lastrahn took another sip of tea, but his hand trembled the slightest bit.

  Ryle did his best to stop a frown from forming as he scrambled to keep up with their conversation. Entire tales lived in the spaces between their words.

  “You know well enough how little changes in the Lagaan courts,” Lastrahn said.

  A cup rattled against its saucer, and Ryle realized it was his own. His master was using their native name, but he still meant Praeters. The mysterious people from the blasted Western expanses. They were a constant threat to every life along the frontier. And that was before Helador.

  Most survivors of the failed peace summit said the Praeter delegation had suffered as badly as everyone else. And that was a concern. Because the Houses on this side of the border, while bitter and paranoid, didn’t possess mysterious abilities. Powers it was said the Praeters had gained from weathering the Rending above ground. Powers which went well beyond what even ongineers could do.

  Ryle knew all too much about such powers. About the Praeters’ bloody raids across the frontier. About their gleaming bald heads and dark eyes eliciting waves of fear that made him want to carve his own heart from his chest.

  Chaff sucking, backstabbing bastards.

  Judith was speaking again. “Indeed. The Derelict Children are nothing if not steadfast to their traditions. Nonetheless, I’m sure they made you comfortable.”

  “I won’t bore you with details. My stay was trying. I left,” Lastrahn said.

  “Oh I’m sure,” Judith said, looking at Lastrahn’s scarred cheek.

  Lastrahn shrugged, but it didn’t look casual. “My trip back was unremarkable.”

  “This must’ve been some time ago,” she said. “The storm’s fury is strong this year. Beyond recent memory. I don’t think even you could stroll through that.”