by Mark Anthony
A paper nailed to a post caught his eyes. Was it one of their commandments? However, as he drew closer, he saw it was a battered Wanted poster, the same as the one he had found in the back of the saloon. WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE. TYLER CAINE, THE MAN-KILLER.
Travis tore the poster off the nail, folded it up, and tucked it into his shirt pocket. He considered swinging by the jail to make sure Durge was all right. Then again, Travis doubted there was much lawbreaking for the knight to take care of. He was starting to think there was nobody left in Castle City.
Then he saw the small gathering of people and the black wagon.
Travis found himself moving closer. The wagon had halted to one side of Elk Street at the mouth of an alley. It was a rectangular vehicle with one small round window in its side; its black-lacquered panels were dusty and blistered. At first Travis thought it must be a stagecoach. Then he considered the shape, the color, the smallness of the window, and he knew the vehicle had been designed to carry passengers, not in a seat, but in a coffin.
Two swaybacked horses were hitched to the vehicle, heads bowed, looking like they didn’t have enough life between the two of them to pull the hearse ten feet, let alone over a mountain pass. The crowd of about twenty gathered in a half-moon around the wagon didn’t look much better. By their shabby clothes they were miners and washwomen. They gazed up with grimy faces that were too haggard for hope, too weary for despair.
Just as Travis reached the edge of the crowd, the wind turned, and that was when he heard the voice. It crashed and rolled like thunder out of a clear sky. Recognition flashed through Travis. He circled around the throng until the speaker came into view.
The door at the back of the wagon had been thrown wide, and the man stood in the opening, at the top of a set of wooden steps. He looked exactly as Travis remembered him. His skin was like yellow parchment stretched over his bony frame, and the black suit he wore looked as if it had been freshly stolen from a grave. The man held on to his broad-brimmed pastor’s hat with one long hand, while the other was balled into a fist and shook in time to the cadence of his speech.
“...and there’s no point in hoping things will get better,” Brother Cy was saying in his booming voice. “Hope caught the last train to Denver, and she didn’t look back. You’re all on your own now, and there’s no one who can help you.” A sly look crept into the preacher’s black-marble eyes. “That is, unless you all decide to help yourselves.”
“But what can we do?” one of the miners shouted. “I can’t swing a pick anymore. My lungs—it’s like they’re on fire all the time. Only if I don’t work in the mines, my wife and children are going to starve.”
“What can you do?” Brother Cy roared, drawing himself up to his full, terrible height, and the crowd fell back a step. “Why, you can spit in the face of Death, that’s what you can do. You can pick out the plot for your own grave, then dance upon it. You can laugh as long as you’ve got a breath, and when your breath is gone, then you’ll know at least you put every bit you had to good use.”
A woman raised her hands. “Well, that sounds fine, but how will it put bread in our bellies?”
Brother Cy laughed. “It won’t, madam. It can’t. Nothing I can possibly say will heal you, or feed you, or make you wealthy, or give you something you don’t already have.”
“Then why should we be listening to you at all?” a man shouted, shaking his fist.
“Because,” said a soft, lisping voice, “he tells the truth that most people in this town fear. Only you have dared to come forth and listen to it.”
The murmurs of the crowd fell silent. Brother Cy descended the steps to the ground, and a girl and a woman appeared in the back of the hearse. The girl’s hair was as black as her dress, her face was a cherub’s cameo, and her eyes were purple. The woman wore a dress like the girl’s, high-necked and severe, but her hair was wild and red, flying like fire about the oval of her face. She stared with stricken eyes.
The girl folded her small hands together. “Only a deceiver offers hope when there is no hope to be had. Only a devil takes your hand to guide you down the path to joy, when the only path from this world is barred with thorns.”
“Child Samanda speaks wisely,” Brother Cy said, his voice a low rasp, but commanding no less attention. “All I’m saying is that you’ll all have plenty of time to be dead soon enough. So don’t start acting like you’re dead before you are. That’s not why you were granted this life. I can’t take away your sickness. I can’t give you money. But I can help you find the truth, and in these days that’s more precious than gold, and more welcome than water in the desert.”
Brother Cy fell silent.
“But what is it?” the man who had shouted before said, lowering his fist.
“What is what?” the preacher snorted.
“The truth you’re going to give us.”
Again Brother Cy grinned his cadaverous grin. “I didn’t say I was going to give you the truth. I said I was going to help you find it. And so I have, if you’ve been listening. Everything you can ever possibly have is already inside of you—be it love or fear, laughter or sorrow, madness or peace. No one else can give you those things, not man, woman, child, or god. They’re in your blood. They were born with you, and they’ll die with you. No matter what life dishes out, no one can take those possibilities from you.” Brother Cy’s grin vanished, and with a start Travis realized the preacher was gazing at him. “And that’s the truth.”
“The wind!” Sister Mirrim called out, her eyes wide and empty. “The wind is changing. I can see it!”
At that moment, a gust raced down Elk Street. Dust devils sprang to gritty life. The people turned their backs and hurried away, hanging on to hats and hands, and then—as if the wind had blown them all away—they were gone. The air grew still; the dust settled. Travis stood alone in front of the wagon.
He blinked his stinging eyes to clear them. Child Samanda and Sister Mirrim were gone; they must have retreated into the wagon. Brother Cy stood like a crooked post, watching.
“Who are you?” Travis said. But didn’t he already know the answer to that? He took a step closer. “You’re Old Gods, aren’t you? The ones who helped trap Mohg beyond the circle of Eldh. Only you got trapped there with him.”
Sadness filled the preacher’s black eyes, but he smiled. “It doesn’t matter who we are, son. All that matters is what you’re going to be.”
Travis didn’t let go. “But how did you get here?”
“A way beyond has been opened. The world has been cracked.”
“What are you talking about?”
Brother Cy brought his spidery hands together. “Two things can’t be in the same place, son, you know that. It was the only way it knew how to fix things, to make an opening, to give one of the two a direction to retreat. The Stones are powerful, but they’re not really all that clever, if you know what I mean.”
Travis reached into his pocket, feeling the smooth shape of Sinfathisar. He had felt it, like far-off thunder, when his Sinfathisar had touched Jack’s Stone. Hadn’t Melia and Falken talked about a rift? One that had allowed the New Gods to transport Grace to Eldh—and had allowed the Pale King to send his minions after her. It was his fault; he was the one who had caused the rift.
“All I ever do is break things,” Travis said, anguished.
The preacher shrugged. “Some things ought to be broken.” “Not an entire world. I can’t do it. I won’t. I won’t break Eldh.”
“What if it’s your fate?”
He met the preacher’s hard eyes. “I don’t have a fate.” “Everyone has a fate, son.”
“Not me.” Travis held up his hand. “See? It’s smooth. No lines, so no fate.”
The preacher sighed. “All that means is you don’t know what your fate is. And don’t you see what a gift that is? It means your fate can be anything you choose it to be.”
That first time they spoke, that night in the revival tent, Brother Cy had talked about
choices. And at the Rune Gate, Travis had learned that it was better to choose the wrong thing than to choose nothing at all. Still, dread filled him.
“I didn’t want this. I don’t want to break the world.”
“That’s good, son. Because if you did, you wouldn’t be any different than he.”
Somehow Travis knew whom Brother Cy meant. “You said a rift has been opened. That’s how you got here, to Earth. And that means Mohg is here as well, isn’t he? And from Earth, all he has to do is find an open gate to get back to Eldh. That’s his plan. Or it will be.”
Brother Cy nodded. “My brother must be what he must be. It is his nature. And what will you be, son?”
Suddenly it was so clear. Determination replaced dread. Brother Cy was right; there was no use hoping, so he might as well do something, anything, while he still had a breath to breathe. He pulled the poster from his shirt pocket and unfolded it. His own face stared back at him from behind wire-rimmed spectacles.
“I’m going to be an outlaw,” Travis said.
And Brother Cy’s booming laughter rose to the sky.
54.
Aryn was far more relaxed at supper than the previous night. Her plans with Aldeth had narrowly avoided discovery by the king—thanks to the unlikely help of Teravian. She tried smiling at the prince on a few occasions, but he was back to scowling now. He gazed at the shadows in the corners of the hall, almost as if he was searching for something there.
She spent most of the meal chatting with the visiting earls who sat around her; they were a universally dour lot. Not that she could fault them for it. All spoke of the rumors of war in the Dominions, and one—whose lands were not far from the borders of Brelegond—claimed to have seen a troop of men in black armor riding black horses.
Melia’s seat at the high table was empty, and no one seemed to know where the lady was. Aryn supposed she was working toward purposes unknown. Or maybe she just felt like staying in her chamber and working on her embroidery. Even Melia enjoyed simple things. After all, if one had to do something mysterious and important every day for two thousand years, it could get a trifle exhausting.
Unlike the previous night, Boreas hardly spoke to Ivalaine at all. Instead, he glared at no one in particular, eyes stormy, while the queen often bent her head to murmur something to Mirda. Aryn wondered what it was the queen said; she even fancied trying a spell to find out, but even as she thought this she felt Mirda’s calm gaze upon her. She hastily raised her wine goblet and discarded the idea.
After supper, she ventured to Melia’s room to check on the lady. Aryn didn’t bother to knock on the door, but instead waited for the clear voice to call out, “Come in.”
“How do you always know when I’m at the door?” Aryn said, sitting in one of the two chairs near the fire.
Melia smiled. “I’m not a witch like you, dear, but I do have my talents.”
That was an understatement. Just as Aryn had supposed, Melia’s embroidery lay on her lap. However, it didn’t appear she’d made much progress on it. Dark circles clung beneath the lady’s amber eyes, and her face seemed uncharacteristically pinched.
Aryn spoke before she thought better of it. “Are you ill, Melia?”
The question was absurd, of course. Melia was a former goddess. It wasn’t as if she could fall prey to a head cold. Then again, she could fall ill. They had seen that in Spardis, after Melia touched the marble bust of the Necromancer Dakarreth, which had contained a grain of the Stone of Fire. Aryn knew that certain kinds of magic—like runes, and the Great Stones— caused the lady distress.
Melia sat up straight. “Thank you for your concern, dear. I’m quite well, really. It’s just...”
“What is it?” A tiny black fluffball pounced into Aryn’s lap, demanding attention with a mew. Absently, Aryn stroked its soft fur. “Please, I wish you would tell me.”
Melia gazed at Aryn, as if studying her, then she nodded. “It’s hard for me to describe in words. In a way, it’s a feeling like being watched. Only when you turn around and peer into the shadows, you can’t see anything there.”
“Do you think it might be the Little People?”
“And why do you say that?”
Aryn considered it a moment, then told Melia everything— about hearing the sound of bells, and finding Aldeth, and even how she had asked the Spider to keep watch on Ivalaine. If she had expected the lady to be shocked, then she was disappointed. However, curiosity shone in Melia’s eyes.
“I wonder if I shouldn’t have a conversation with Ivalaine,” she mused, hand beneath her chin. “The queen and I haven’t always been the best of friends, but there is a certain...understanding between us. Perhaps Ivalaine senses the same disturbance I do, and that is part of the cause for her distress.”
It was a good theory. Certainly Ivalaine’s behavior seemed unusual, no matter how torn she was between her duties as witch and queen. But if Melia were to tell Ivalaine...
The panic in her eyes must have been evident, for Melia gave her a reassuring look. “Don’t worry, dear. I won’t reveal the presence of our little friend the Spider to her. If there’s a spy in the castle, it’s far preferable to have him working for us, so you certainly did well in that regard.”
Aryn’s cheeks flushed, and she bowed her head, although not before she could conceal a smile. However, after a moment, the smile faded. Something about Melia’s words troubled her. Why was it they seemed so familiar?
Then she had it. Tharkis, the mad fool—and former king of Toloria—had whispered something similar to her just before they found him hanged by the neck, something about how the eyes in the shadows had watched him. And there had been something else. The fractured, singsong words echoed again in her mind.
Fear the one alive and dead, for you cannot escape her web... But what did it mean? She told Melia everything she could remember about her conversation with Tharkis.
“That is rather strange,” Melia said. “Then again, Tharkis was mad. There’s no reason to believe what he thought he saw has anything to do with what I’m sensing now. After all, Ar-tolor is nearly fifty leagues from here.”
Aryn gazed at the fire. No doubt Melia was right. Tharkis’s ramblings couldn’t mean anything. Unless—
She looked up. “When did you start feeling as if you were being watched, Melia?”
The lady frowned. “Let me think. It was yesterday, I believe. In the morning. Yes, I remember it—I was taking my breakfast, and it came upon me so suddenly that I spilled my cup of maddok. Why do you ask?”
Aryn’s mouth had gone dry. “Because yesterday morning is when Ivalaine arrived at Calavere. From Ar-tolor.”
“Ah,” Melia said, eyes gleaming.
They spoke more as the fire burned low, but they came up with no more ideas about what it might be Melia was sensing. All the same, it felt good to be talking like this. Not like equals; they certainly weren’t that. But rather like friends.
“Perhaps your little spy could help us,” Melia said.
The same thought had occurred to Aryn. “I’ll tell him about it. But Aldeth’s only working here inside the castle, and Tharkis saw the shadow when he was out riding. So I think we need someone to keep watch outside the castle as well.”
“And who did you have in mind, dear?”
“A friend,” Aryn said with a smile.
She found him the next morning in the upper bailey, in front of the stables, checking the saddle of his charger. Tarus looked up and grinned as she approached. He was dressed in riding gear of leather and wool. The day was gray and blustery, and shards of ice blew on the wind. However, she had spied him from a window, and she had dashed out with only a shawl thrown over her gown. Already her teeth were chattering.
“Is it your particular intention to freeze yourself this morning, my lady?” he said cheerfully.
She clutched her arm about herself, shivering. “No, that’s just a happy accident of coming out here to see you. But at least it will keep me from having
to suffer the agony and humiliation of donning an orange wedding gown.”
He scratched his red beard. “Is that supposed to make any sort of sense?”
“Not really. Can I talk to you? Alone, I mean.”
She glanced at the other men who saddled their horses nearby. They were members of Boreas’s guard. Tarus hesitated, then nodded and drew her aside, into the shelter of the stables. The scent of horses hung thickly on the air.
The knight’s expression was curious. “Is something wrong, my lady? Or have you decided to try another spell on me?”
“Yes,” she said. “I mean no. To the second one, that is. But yes to the first.”
“I think the cold’s addled your wits.”
“More than likely,” she conceded. “Where on Eldh are you going in this weather?”
“Out.”
“That’s conveniently vague.”
“My lady—”
“Never mind, Sir Tarus. I honestly don’t care what errand the king is sending you on. But there’s something you have to know, something about me. About us, the Witches.” She paced back and forth on the straw, speaking fast, but it was the only way to get it all out. “You see, we aren’t enemies. We’re not on different sides at all. I can’t tell you exactly why just now. The fact is, I don’t understand everything myself. But it’s true.”
His expression was alternately stunned, then wary, then relieved. “I’m glad to hear it, my lady. I never wished for the Witches to be our foes.”
“But they are,” Aryn said. “I mean most of them are. They’ll do anything they can to hinder you and the Warriors of Vathris. You see, they think—”
He waved a hand. “Yes, yes, we know what they say about us. They think we’re going to help destroy Eldh in the Final Battle.”