Endling #2

by Katherine Applegate

  “Are there fell creatures in this forest?” Tobble wondered.

  “Oh, some of the fellest,” Khara said, but her tone was light. Indeed, she seemed unusually relaxed.

  It was slow going, riding through the trees. The witch oaks spread horizontally, their thick branches often right at face level. We had to constantly duck and detour. But all the while, Khara seemed to have a clear idea where she was going.

  Then a flit! sound cut the air and an arrow appeared in a tree, quivering. Gambler growled and Renzo wheeled his horse around, looking for an enemy. But Khara rode casually over to the arrow, which had passed just inches from her head, and pulled it out to examine it.

  Speaking in an elevated voice not meant for any of us, she said, “Look at this. Now you have a bent arrowhead. Another minute’s patience and you could have fired into that pine just up ahead.”

  Two men and a woman slipped into view, where seconds before I’d have sworn there were only trees and bushes. The three wore jerkins and leggings cunningly dyed in green and brown, so that the clothing blended in perfectly with the forest. All three carried bows with arrows nocked, but not drawn.

  “You have your next breath to explain why you have entered this land.” This was from one of the men, a blond-bearded, middle-aged man with deep-set eyes.

  “Well, Archer Maccan, if you can’t recognize me, I have to assume your eyesight is far too weak for you to be running around the forest with a bow.”

  The archer gaped and slowly lowered his bow. “Lady Kharassande?”

  Khara slid lightly from her horse, took two quick steps, and leapt at Maccan, who caught her and twirled her around, both of them laughing.

  “Oh, you’re much heavier than when I last saw you,” Maccan chided. “I can barely spin you around without breaking my back!”

  “And you’re even more bald than the last time I saw you, old man. With a bit of beeswax I could shine your head to make a mirror.”

  “Oh, you spoiled little—”

  Khara shoved him hard. “Where’s the respect I’m owed?”

  “I apologize,” Maccan said, displaying a sweeping bow. “I’d taken you for a poacher or perhaps a tramp.” Then his wide grin faded. “I am glad word reached you. The baron has little time left, I fear.”

  Khara grabbed his arm. “What are you saying?”

  “You don’t know?” His eyes widened. “Ah, you don’t know. Your father, my lord Baron Donati, has taken ill, and”—he looked away—“and I am sorry to say . . . the physicians do not expect him to live.”

  Khara blinked. “His heart?”

  Maccan nodded sadly. “In the last month he has had two heart seizures and is much weakened.”

  “My mother can tell me the rest,” Khara said with urgency. “Where is the camp?”

  “Your mother?” Maccan repeated.

  “Yes. Isn’t she tending to him?”

  “We haven’t seen the baroness in many months.”

  Khara’s fists were tight balls. “I don’t understand. Where is my mother?”

  “We do not know. The baron will not say.”

  “Enough of this. Point me to the camp,” Khara said.

  “You know old Humber’s meadow? Follow the stream north from there. I would guide you, but . . .” Maccan waved his hand toward the forest behind him.

  “Your duty is here,” Khara said, patting his shoulder. “Mine is with my father.”

  Without a further word to us, she dug her heels into her horse’s flanks, and we hurried to catch up. She did not gallop—that would have endangered the horse in these woods full of exposed roots and shrew holes—but she moved quickly, urging her horse on. We came to a meadow of tall golden grass, rippling in the wind like a gentle sunrise sea. From there, we followed a small stream.

  Khara had talked from time to time about her family, the Donatis. I knew they had once been a great and powerful family with extensive lands and a fine castle called Watersmeet. I knew that they had resisted the rise of the first Murdano and had been dispossessed.

  Given all that, I don’t quite know what I expected, but I certainly did not expect what I soon saw.

  We rode beneath gnarled, thick witch oaks, and it was a while before I looked up and realized, to my amazement, that the trees bore platforms and rope walkways. Hammocks hung from branches, and rope lines carried fluttering laundry, all in the eye-fooling green-and-brown livery we’d seen on Maccan and his people. The forest pushed right up against a large rock outcropping so tall that it poked out of the forest canopy.

  We stopped beneath a witch oak so thick that ten men holding hands could not have formed a ring around it. A young man sank from the branches above, silent as a spider dropping on a line of silk.

  He bowed to Khara and said, “I will see to your horses, lady.”

  “My father—?”

  “He is abed. Will you ascend?”

  Khara nodded. Instantly a rope with a loop on one end was lowered from the tree above. “Come with me, Byx,” she said. “Please, everyone else, food and drink will be brought to you.”

  Khara set her foot in the loop and gripped the rope. I did the same, and we rose through dense foliage. We passed a platform surrounding the great tree, patrolled by bowmen, continued aloft through a hole framed by timber, and stepped onto a rectangular platform.

  The platform was wide and long enough to accommodate a sizable house. But instead of a fixed building, I saw three tents, one twice the size of the other two. All were tall enough for a human to stand erect inside, but with mere inches to spare.

  “We build nothing permanent,” Khara said, by way of explanation. She hesitated at the opening to the central tent. “At any time, we can break everything down and move within an hour.”

  “I understand,” I said. “It was a little like that for my pack.”

  Khara’s expression was opaque, her voice flat, but I knew her too well to be fooled. I saw the flexing of her jaw muscles, heard the shortness of breath and the uncertain beat of her heart.

  “My father . . . ,” she began. “My father . . .”

  “You don’t have to explain anything.”

  Khara nodded. “Just know that he was once the strongest, wisest, and kindest of men. He may appear—well, you heard that he is ill.”

  I understood. Khara did not want me to be disappointed by what I saw. I put a comforting hand on her shoulder and gave a small nod.

  We pushed aside the canvas flaps and stepped inside. It was quite warm, with a fire burning in the center of the tent under a chimney hole cut in the top. A bed, fashioned out of rough-hewn branches lashed together with vines, sat near the small blaze. Beneath a pile of furry animal skins I saw a head with thin, straggling gray hair.

  Two older women acting as nurses bowed to Khara and stepped back. I stood with them, hidden in the shadows, feeling like an intruder on an intensely private moment.

  “Father. It’s me, Khara. I am here with a friend, Byx.”

  The old head rose from pillows and I was shocked, not by how ill and decrepit he looked, but by the sense of what he must once have been.

  Khara’s father was much reduced, his cheeks hollow and colorless, but I almost laughed on seeing his eyes. They were sharp, intelligent, and unwilling to suffer fools. In short: Khara’s eyes. And he had a jaw that spoke of iron determination. The similarity between the sick old man and the healthy young girl was undeniable.

  “Kharassande,” Baron Donati said, trying for a robust tone that was subverted by a wheezing cough.

  Khara bent over and hugged him, her head on his chest. Her father wrapped thin arms around her.

  “I feared you were dead,” he whispered. “The last of the Donatis.”

  “No, Father, I live.”

  He wiped away tears with the back of his hand. “It is good to see you, my child. You have been much missed. I only wish your mother could be here to share my joy.”

  “Father,” Khara said, “where is she?”

  Th
e baron glanced my way, clearly worried about speaking openly in my presence. He squinted, and I sensed that his eyesight, too, was failing.

  “I would trust Byx with my life, Father.”

  He nodded. “Your mother is in a safe place.”

  “A safe place? What does that mean?” Khara stood, hands on her hips. “I know my mother. Sabrinei Donati would never willingly leave your side.”

  Her father managed a small smile. “No one said she was willing.”

  “Meaning?” Khara tilted her head, waiting.

  “Sabrinei is in the Western Uplands with a handful of servants and guards.” He sighed. “She is slower than she used to be, unable to travel without assistance. But her powers of theurgy have grown stronger. And her tongue is every bit as sharp. I convinced her—with great effort—that she was slowing us down.” The baron gave a rueful laugh. “And look at me now.”

  “At least she is safe,” Khara said. “That’s a comfort.” She wiped quickly at a tear and squared her shoulders. “Well, then. I have much to tell you, Father. Much indeed. Let me begin by introducing my traveling companion and friend, Byx.” She paused. “Byx the dairne.”

  38

  Another Kind of Endling

  The baron managed a wan smile. “For a moment, I thought you said ‘dairne’! I haven’t seen one of those creatures in many a year.”

  “You heard me correctly, Father.” Khara crooked a finger in my direction.

  As I approached his bedside, the baron gasped. He clutched my forearm with his hand, and I could feel his fingers trembling. “I’d thought dairnes were nothing but a memory, thanks to the Murdano’s father. Are there many more of you, Byx?”

  I shook my head. “We know of only one other living so far. But there are rumors of a colony near the Pellago River.”

  “A dangerous location, it would seem.” The baron squeezed my hand. “But let us hope the rumor is well-founded.”

  Khara’s father was a weak and dying man, but his curiosity was still strong, and once he had heard his daughter’s lengthy story, he asked sensible, perceptive questions.

  “Ferrucci betrayed you?” he asked. “That saddens me. We trusted him as a scholar and a confidant.”

  Khara had gone to Ferrucci in the hope of finding an ally who could help protect me—the presumed endling dairne—but he had been far too afraid of the Murdano and his Seer.

  “That the Murdano’s father,” the baron continued, “was behind the attempt to annihilate the dairne species—well, that I have long suspected. The felivets”—he paused as a cough racked his thin frame—“will be next. Nor does it surprise me to learn that the young Murdano would belatedly discover the advantage in having a dairne or two of his own—so long as no one else has one.” He shook his head. “As for this tunnel with the terramants . . .” He grimaced, trailing off.

  “Yes. It’s very bad,” Khara said. “I don’t believe anyone in Nedarra is aware of it. It seems preposterous, and yet we saw a portion of the tunnel. If—when—they finish it, they can attack with complete surprise. And send thousands of terramants ahead as a vanguard to terrorize any defenders.”

  “A Dreyland victory is not an outcome to be desired,” the baron said dryly. “Unfortunately, a victory by the Murdano would be as bad for us.” He tilted his head and looked shrewdly at his daughter. “You are always welcome, dear Khara, but you have not come here simply to keep me informed. Open your heart to me. What is it you wish?”

  Khara started slowly pacing, arms crossed over her chest. “I don’t know, Father. I know only what I would do if I were older. And a man.”

  The baron coughed for a while before sputtering, “When have I ever taught you to limit yourself to womanly things, Khara? You are the Donati.”

  “No!” Khara said too loudly. Then, in a calmer voice: “No, Father, you are the Donati.”

  “I will not last a season,” the baron said. “And I will never again lead good men and women into battle. The world will not wait for me to die and for you to adjust to your new role. War is coming, a war that will kill not thousands, but tens of thousands. The world has no use for a sick old man, nor any patience with those who can still act to stop this madness.”

  “But Father, I have with me a thief, a felivet, a wobbyk, and two dairnes. Am I to face and defeat both the Murdano and the Kazar with an army of six?”

  “You know what you must do, Lady Kharassande Donati.”

  Father and daughter looked at each other, both so full of suppressed emotion, both so aware of unspoken words and unacknowledged fears.

  “Will I be challenged?”

  “Yes.”

  “By whom?” Khara asked, voice like lead.

  “Your cousin Albrit. He is captain of the guard. He’s a fine warrior, but he lacks the temperament for a leader. He’s proud, though. And he will challenge you.”

  In an aside for my benefit, Khara said, “Albrit is practically twice my size. And a brilliant warrior, an expert with sword and bow.”

  The baron nodded. “Yes, Albrit is mighty.”

  “I would not wish him dead,” Khara said.

  “You will not convince him, and thus will have to accept his challenge. And Khara”—the baron’s voice quavered—“you may be killed, and Albrit Di Tarzo will rule what remains of the Donatis. He will form a new dynasty on our bones.”

  Khara was silent and so was her father. I waited, feeling small and irrelevant, a minor character witnessing what could well be a momentous decision, a decision on which the fates of two nations might turn.

  But even as I tried to absorb their words, all I could think of was how I simply could not bear to see Khara die.

  “Father, you’re wise in battle, as in all things.” Khara tilted her chin and drew in a breath. “Do you believe there is any chance that I can defeat Albrit?”

  Her father stretched out a bony hand and touched hers. “With the Light of Nedarra? Yes, of course I believe you have a chance.” He smiled through tears.

  With that, the baron’s lids dropped, and he fell asleep without another word.

  As we walked away, I asked Khara, “Do you want to know whether he was telling the truth?”

  “About my chances against Albrit?” Khara barked a short, bitter laugh. “No, Byx. I already know.”

  “And yet you’re thinking of accepting this fight?” I asked, trying to rein in my panic.

  “What choice do I have? I’m the last Donati. I owe it to my family. But far more important than that is the fact that my father doesn’t think Albrit is ready for the fight we face.”

  “But . . .” I had nothing more useful to say.

  Khara shouted down for our friends to join us. “It seems, Byx,” she said, “that I am a sort of endling myself. The last of my family, if not my species.” Instantly, she winced at her own words. “Forgive me, friend. Your pain is infinitely greater, I know.”

  “Don’t apologize, Khara,” I said firmly. “There are many kinds of pain.”

  Even as I spoke the words, I shook my head in disbelief. Little Byx, the runt of the litter! A few months ago, would I ever have dreamed I would know so much about the world?

  We slept that night in one of the smaller tents that shared the baron’s platform. There were comfortable cots for each of us, appropriately sized for human, dairne, and wobbyk. Gambler rested on a bed of soft branches and silken leaves.

  In the morning, as we drank tea and ate a cold but filling breakfast, we heard the sound of heavy footsteps. A moment later, the tent flap opened on a rather imposing fellow. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his dark hair threaded with gold. I immediately guessed his identity.

  “Albrit,” Khara said, embracing him. They smiled at each other—not enemies, at least not yet.

  “You’ve grown taller and stronger since last we met,” Albrit said.

  It was true enough, but Khara was still a head shorter than he, and barely more than half his width. I could not bring myself to think about the two of them in b
attle.

  “I’ve been on a long journey,” Khara said. “How are your wife and your sons?”

  “Fiona is as beautiful as ever,” Albrit said, “and my sons are nearly grown now.”

  We listened as they chatted about shared experiences and common acquaintances, but it was obvious that they were only going through the polite motions. Finally, it was Khara who broached the topic on both their minds.

  “My father is dying, Albrit,” she said, in a strong, clear voice. “I mean to claim the leadership of the Donatis.”

  Albrit nodded. He seemed to be suppressing a smile. “You are brave and clever. But you are only a woman, Khara. The Donatis have never been led by a woman, and these are perilous times.”

  “Yes, they are perilous times indeed. I will open my heart to you in this, Albrit. I do not wish to fight you. I would far rather have you as my strong right arm. But I intend to rally the Donatis, make peace with the other exiled families, and move to stop this war with all the power I can assemble.”

  “You would go to war to stop a war?” Albrit smiled skeptically. “Why should we not welcome this war? Let the Murdano fight this rogue Dreyish felivet! Let them destroy each other.” He spoke with passion, and as yet I’d detected no falseness in him.

  “I know what you do not, Albrit. I’ve been to Dreyland. I’ve seen preparations for war that will bring untold slaughter and misery to Nedarra.”

  “Not here,” Albrit said flatly. “War between the Murdano and the Kazar will unite the exiled families. Together we can hold the Cruacan Pass and make a new kingdom here in the west. A more just kingdom.”

  “With you as king?” Khara asked.

  “Perhaps.”

  “I would not see tens of thousands torn apart by rampaging terramants.”

  “Terramants?” Albrit frowned.

  “There’s much you do not know,” Khara said.

  Albrit shook his head sadly. “Your plan is foolish, and your readiness to face me in battle is insanity. You cannot defeat me, Khara.” He nodded down at the sword hilt protruding from Khara’s scabbard. “At least let me loan you a decent weapon. I’d hate to prevail simply because your shabby sword snapped in half.”