“Look!” said Theeta.
Six figures emerged from the blizzard, running across the snow more quickly than Tarlan thought possible. They wore thick outfits made from overlapping plates of some material he couldn’t identify, giving them an oddly reptilian appearance. On their feet they wore broad shoes that prevented them from sinking into the drifting snow.
“I didn’t know there were people out here,” said Tarlan, suddenly afraid.
“Wastelanders,” said Nasheen.
“Cannibals,” said Theeta.
“Madmen,” said Kitheen.
Tarlan stared at the third thorrod. He spoke so rarely that, when he did, it was quite an event. He and the other birds waited to see if there would be more, but it seemed their black-breasted companion had spoken his fill.
“Well,” said Tarlan. “Whoever they are—whatever they are—we’re not going near them. Come on, let’s—”
A cry rang out across the Icy Wastes:
“Help me!”
The voice had a liquid, purring quality Tarlan had never heard before. Glancing to his right, he saw a bulky shape battling through a deep drift of snow. At first he thought it was a child crawling on all fours, then he saw it was an animal. The creature’s thick fur was striped blue and white, camouflage against the icy terrain.
A tigron!
Years earlier, he’d seen a pack of these rare and ferocious beasts from a distance, prowling the foothills below Mirith’s mountain. This one looked small, just a cub.
“Help! They’ll kill me!”
It was the tigron that was shouting. He could hear it, understand it. Its voice was high and wavering, and he knew instinctively it was a female. He’d always taken for granted his ability to communicate with the thorrods: Mirith had been able to do it; why wouldn’t he?
But in all the times he’d wandered the mountains, watching the whitebears lumbering from their lairs, the winter rabbits grazing on the heather, he’d never heard such creatures speak. Only the thorrods.
And now a tigron.
What does it mean? Why now?
“We go,” said Theeta, wheeling away from the Wastelanders, who by now had spread into a half circle and were closing in on the tigron cub.
“No,” said Tarlan, gripping her neck ruff firmly. “We save her!”
The thorrods came in low, from behind. At the last moment, the Wastelanders turned. Tarlan saw their outfits were in fact plates of bone, with tufts of white fur protruding from the places where they overlapped. Scaly hoods covered their heads, the openings studded with hundreds of teeth, so that their weather-beaten faces seemed to be peering out from inside the jaws of some monstrous lizard.
The Wastelanders unsheathed long bone spears and launched them at the attacking thorrods. The giant birds dodged them effortlessly. Theeta cut low over the nearest man and raked her talons down his back, penetrating his bony armor with ease. He screamed something in a language Tarlan didn’t understand and fell face-first into the snow.
Kitheen was making straight for another Wastelander when two more men rose up out of the ground like the buried dead brought back to life. They shook off the snow beneath which they’d been hiding, presumably, thought Tarlan, as part of the operation to ambush the tigron. Both were carrying heavy bone axes.
It was too late for Kitheen to pull out of his dive. He screeched, cycling his wings in a desperate attempt to avoid them. The two men drew back their axes.
Nasheen appeared from nowhere, slashing the first man’s chest open with her beak and knocking the other to the ground with her tail. He dropped limp into a spreading pool of his companion’s blood.
Three of the remaining five Wastelanders had reached the tigron cub. The other two stood guard, swinging long ropes in circles over their heads. On the ends of the ropes were heavy, spiked weights.
“Help!” screamed the tigron, thrashing helplessly in the snowdrift as one of the men thrust a sharp bone knife toward her throat.
“Closer!” Tarlan shouted. Reaching under his cloak, he snatched up the bow he’d stolen from the ice fortress. As Theeta swooped low over the snowdrift, he jumped. In midleap, he nocked the arrow into the bowstring, drew, and loosed. The arrow pierced the Wastelander’s throat just as he was about to deliver a killing blow to the tigron cub. With a gargling gasp, the man dropped dead in the snow.
Tarlan hit the snowdrift and rolled clear in a flurry of white powder. He staggered to his feet, spitting snow from his mouth. His hands were empty; he’d dropped the bow.
Two Wastelanders were sprinting toward him, faces furious inside their tooth-lined hoods. In a flurry of snow behind them, Nasheen and Kitheen were grappling with the remaining men. Theeta was wheeling around, still recovering from her dive, too far away to come to his aid.
Both of the men advancing on Tarlan hurled their upraised spears at the same time. His feet paddled uselessly in the soft snow as he tried in vain to dodge them.
Something heavy slammed against his hip. Air exploded from his lungs in a crisp cloud. He flew sideways, limbs flailing, skidding over an exposed patch of icy ground. Recovering, he lifted his head, expecting to see one of the thorrods standing over him. Instead he found himself looking into the face of the tigron.
“You helped me,” gasped the cub. “So I helped you.”
The little animal slumped against him. Blood oozed from a long gash in her flank. Enraged, Tarlan clambered to his feet, retrieved his bow, and turned to face the oncoming Wastelanders, but suddenly they began backing away from him.
“Come on!” he yelled. “Are you scared?”
They didn’t look scared. Nevertheless, they continued to retreat, until they reached their companions. The four men stood back-to-back, armored plates drawn tight around their bodies, weapons held high, so that they resembled a single organism, spiked and deadly. Kitheen and Nasheen circled them, jabbing with their beaks and claws, unable to make a proper strike.
“Theeta!” Tarlan called, but she was already there, towering over him. The men had been retreating not from Tarlan but from his thorrod friend.
“Come,” said the giant bird.
“I’m coming,” Tarlan replied. Wincing with the effort, he heaved the wounded tigron cub onto his shoulder. “And so is she.”
They left the surviving Wastelanders in the snow and struck out into the wilderness. Tarlan had no idea which way they were going, nor did he care. He just wanted to get away.
“High,” said Theeta as she led the other thorrods up through the whirling clouds of ice.
Lacking the strength to object, Tarlan concentrated on keeping the tigron warm under his cloak. The cub was panting rapidly, obviously in pain, but her pulse was strong.
At last, the thorrods climbed out of the storm. The ice clouds were spread below them, a seething ocean of crystals. The air was bitterly cold and very thin, and Tarlan found it hard to breathe. But for the first time in what seemed an age, he felt safe.
“Filos,” said the tigron, poking her blue-striped snout from under his cloak. “My name is Filos.”
“I’m Tarlan.” Though he spoke the Toronian tongue, she somehow understood him.
“They killed my pride. My family. They are bad men.”
“I’m sorry.”
She nuzzled him, her eyelids drooping. “You are good.”
Soon the tigron was asleep. Tarlan spread half his dwindling supply of black leaf on her wound, then dabbed a little on his shoulder, which ached terribly.
The thorrods flew on. Now that they had cleared the storm, Tarlan could see exactly where they were. Behind them, the sea of cloud melted into the white mountains of Yalasti, his home. In front—very near, in fact—the clouds dissolved to reveal a world so green he thought his eyes were deceiving him.
The sun was low to his left, heralding the end of the day and confirming what he already knew: ahead, to the northwest, lay Ritherlee. Tarlan had heard of this land of pasture and plenty but had never seen it. It looked . . . beautiful.r />
At last everything was clear: the air around him, the thoughts in his head. Ritherlee was far from the elk-hunters, far from the painful memories of Mirith’s death, far from everything that had caused him pain. Somewhere he might make a new start, and finally find his place in the world.
Somewhere he could begin his search for Melchior.
CHAPTER 13
Elodie wandered between the tents, her head tilted back, staring up at the morning sky. The clouds hung low over the forest clearing, corking it like a bottle. She felt trapped.
She’d lain awake most of the night, fretting about her decision to stay in the Trident camp. Was it the right thing to do? It didn’t seem like she had any choice. And it was such a long way from home.
Yet when she thought about Castle Vicerin, and the courtly world she’d grown up in, that didn’t feel like home either. Not anymore. Surrounded by the darkness, cold and alone, she felt a sob swelling within her. She clasped her hands to her chest and pressed tight, not wanting to draw attention to herself.
And if I start crying, she thought, I might never stop.
Just before dawn, Palenie had risen, telling Elodie as she left the tent that breakfast wouldn’t wait. The princess had remained curled up on the hard ground beneath her rough fur blankets, feigning sleep. Now, as she walked empty-bellied through the dew-soaked grass, she wished she’d had the sense to eat.
The green tunic she’d put on was tight and ill-fitting. She had no choice but to wear it: during the night, her dress had been taken. It had better come back mended, she thought, fiddling with the laces on her tunic, or someone’s going to be sorry.
As she emerged into one of the open spaces between the tents, Elodie heard a cheer, accompanied by the loud clashing of metal against metal. Directly in front of her, a crowd of people was gathered around two men sparring with short swords. The combatants drove each other first this way, then that, grunting every time the weapon of one struck the shield of the other.
After a moment, they stopped, and a ripple of applause went around the watching crowd. The swordsmen pulled off the helmets that had been covering their faces. Elodie saw that one was an older man with a grizzled beard. The other wasn’t a man at all; it was Palenie.
“Ah, there you are,” Palenie said, knuckling sweat from her eyes. “You’re just in time. It’s your turn next.”
“I don’t think so,” said Elodie.
“It’s valuable training,” Palenie said. “I think you’ll be good at it.”
“I’d rather not.”
The bearded man hawked up a gobbet of saliva and spat it over his shoulder. “So, you want the crown?” he said.
“Yes,” said Elodie, drawing herself up to her full height. “Of course. It’s mine.”
“And you really think Fessan can get it for you?”
Elodie realized that this must be the man she’d overheard complaining as she left camp. “Who says I want any of you fighting for me?”
“Hah! If it comes to battle, it’s me you’ll want in charge. Trust me, Princess.”
A squat man seated at a grindstone nearby snorted. “Ah, shut up, Stown. No one wants to hear it.” He was sharpening swords, and broke off long enough to jerk his hand in an obscene gesture.
Palenie was still looking at her. “Well, Princess?” she said. “Will you let me teach you?”
A hush descended as the watching assembly waited to hear her reply.
Stown hawked and spat again, then grinned at Elodie.
“You’re a disgusting pig,” she told him icily. “I wouldn’t put you in charge of an outhouse, never mind a battle. And I can think of a thousand things I’d rather do than play fight here.”
Palenie came toward her, her brown eyes wide with concern, but Elodie turned away. She marched into the trees, keeping her head held high. Shouts erupted behind her, along with a jeer she guessed must have been Stown. Who cares what any of them think! Nevertheless, her eyes were stinging. These people said they were fighting for her, but only Palenie actually seemed to like her. And I bet it’s just because Fessan told her to be nice, she thought bitterly. Still, she knew someone who treated her properly.
The instant she passed into the Weeping Woods, she felt a welcome calmness descend. Even when the whispering began, she didn’t mind as much as usual. It was better than being in the camp, at least.
The voices murmured around her as she picked her way through the thick bracken, ducked under reaching branches, and jumped over moss-filled gullies, all the while heading deeper and deeper into the woods.
Scrambling over a low ridge, Elodie found her way blocked by a large boulder. Had she come this way last time? She couldn’t remember.
“Don’t get lost, little one,” hissed a voice in her ear.
“Be quiet,” she snapped back.
Looking closer, she saw the obstacle wasn’t a boulder at all but an ancient carriage. It was half-buried, almost completely covered in trailing ivy and pale patches of fungus. She could just make out a shattered wheel and some kind of armored cabin, a little like the turret of a castle. Sharpened spikes protruded from the turret’s base. She’d never seen a vehicle like it before.
“Don’t get too close,” said a voice above her.
“I told you to go away,” she replied.
“Who are you talking to?” said another voice.
Elodie groaned. “I said get lost!” She whirled around.
Samial was standing right behind her. He lifted his hands as if to take her wrists. But just as before, he stopped at the last moment and backed away.
“Who do you hear?” he said.
“Oh, it’s you.” Elodie smoothed down the front of her tunic, trying to sound nonchalant. In truth, she was overjoyed to have found him.
“Who do you hear?” Samial repeated.
“I don’t hear anybody.”
“Yes, you do. I heard you talking to them.”
Elodie waved a hand. “Never mind that. I’ve had such a horrible morning, I can’t even—”
“Who do you hear?”
Elodie stared at the boy. She’d walked out of the camp to get away from people demanding things of her.
“Who says I hear anything?” she said, frowning.
“Nobody says it. But you do. I know it.”
“No, I . . .” The words melted away. Elodie had been hiding the voices for as long as she could remember, but now, looking at Samial’s sweet, earnest face, for the first time in her life she couldn’t think of a good reason to lie.
“I don’t know who they are.” Her voice sounded very small in the vastness of the woods. “But yes, I hear them.”
A weight seemed to slide from her shoulders, like dropping a heavy shawl. Elodie passed her hand over her brow.
“I understand,” Samial replied.
“Really?” A thought came to her. “Do . . . do you hear them too?”
“All the time.”
Amazement flooded through her. Little wonder she’d been so drawn to this boy.
“I’ve never met anyone like me before,” Elodie said softly.
She reached her hand toward his, but he jerked away again, pulling back as if her fingers were hot irons.
“Samial,” she said, puzzled. “What is it?”
His face clouded with sadness. “I’m not like you,” he said. “Not really.”
Elodie let her hand drop to her side. “What do you mean?”
Samial swallowed. He closed his eyes, as if he was struggling with something. But when he opened them again, he seemed to have shaken his sadness away. “Running away again so soon?” he asked.
The unexpected question made Elodie laugh. So you don’t want to talk about it. That’s fine; I understand. Maybe another time.
She sat down on a fallen willow trunk. “Running away?” she said. “Maybe. I don’t know.”
Samial sat at the opposite end of the trunk. Elodie looked at him seriously. She had trusted him with one secret; why not another?
“There’s something else you should know about me,” she began. “It’s why Trident took me from my home.”
Elodie told him everything then, pouring out all she’d experienced over the past two days, everything she’d learned about herself and about her destiny. Samial listened quietly as she told her tale.
“I’m just so sick of it,” she concluded. “First the Vicerins wanted to put me on the throne, and now Trident wants to do the same. What about what I want? Am I just some puppet, like Fessan said? I certainly feel like people are just yanking my strings, whether I like it or not.”
Samial was sitting quietly, clearly taking it in.
“Well?” Elodie asked. “What do you think I should do?”
“‘In Toronia, realm of three,’” said Samial, “‘a tempest has long raged.’”
“What?”
“The prophecy. I learned it long ago, when I was . . . when I was little. Have you never heard it?”
Elodie shook her head. Samial jumped up onto the trunk. His voice lifted among the trees as he recited:
“‘In Toronia, realm of three,
A tempest has long raged.
By power’s potent siren call,
Weak men are enslaved.
Too much virtuous blood has spilt
In this accursed age.
When the stars increase by three
The kingdom shall be saved.
Beneath these fresh celestial lights,
Three new heirs will enter in.
They shall summon unknown power,
They shall kill the cursed king.
With three crowns they shall ascend,
And true peace, they will bring.’”
“It’s beautiful,” said Elodie with a shiver. “And frightening too.”
“It’s about you,” said Samial. “I knew there was something special about you.”
She turned away. The voices that had plagued her were silent. All the Weeping Woods were silent, as if waiting for her to speak.
Somehow, in strange and subtle ways she couldn’t begin to comprehend, the world seemed bigger than it had been before.
“I thought it was what I wanted,” she said. “To be queen, I mean. But now . . .”
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