by Dennis Foon
Suddenly her body spasms and she begins to shake with rage and fear. Brack. Raven. They were going to hurt her. And Ferrell—“Ferrell? Ferrell!”
Raising his hand to her brow, with a gentle pressure Willum relaxes the tension that’s seized Stowe. “Stowe,” he whispers. “Look at me.”
Stowe breathes deeply. Willum’s here. Willum will keep her safe.
“Stowe, for the moment, Ferrell sleeps.”
“Asleep—for how long?”
“You must rest. Rest.”
Stowe’s about to protest but her eyes are heavy, and as Willum gathers her up in his arms, his breath’s steady pulse drags her back into sleep.
Stowe hurts everywhere. Fingers poke at her neck and she bats them away angrily.
“Be careful, the wound needs tending.”
It’s the fair-haired woman who’d been cowering behind Willum. Her tone is imperious, her touch invasive, and Stowe dislikes her instantly.
“This is Alandra,” Willum says, towering over the woman at her neck. “She gave you the tonic that has temporarily immobilized Ferrell.”
And she should be grateful? Well, at least they’re out of that horrid tunnel—Stowe can feel fresh air on her face. Peering past the people around her, she sees light and smells the forest beyond it. This must be the mouth of a cave.
Alandra…the name is so familiar. Alandra! An Eater, no less!
“Alandra,” Stowe says sweetly. “Raven told me about you. You knew my brother.”
“Yes.”
The Eater’s startled. Good. But just then a third face hovers into view, distracting her. Irritated, Stowe blurts, “And who exactly are you?”
“I am Mabatan.”
Looking at the dark-skinned imp’s dancing eyes, Stowe instantly remembers. “You were the young girl in that theatre troupe. With the drum.”
“The day you saw your brother. I promised him I would help find you.”
Stowe raises an eyebrow—as if Willum needed a waif to guide him! But Willum nods with such seriousness that Stowe forces a smile and squeezes out a very quiet thank you.
“This looks like a knife cut. Is it?” asks the Eater.
Stowe stares unabashedly at Alandra. She doesn’t understand why an Eater would be helping them, but if Willum doesn’t consider her a threat, Stowe can’t see much harm in recounting the facts. “Raven was trying to perform a little operation on me. The gift of an enabler. They were going to make me their slave so they could use me as a weapon. I think I may have hurt them.” She looks from one set of downcast eyes to another. “Are they dead?” she says innocently, but she already knows the answer, she knew it the moment she screamed.
Willum looks back at her, obviously unconvinced by her guileless act, but before he can speak, Stowe shifts her attention back to the healer and asks, “Eater, do you know Ferrell?”
“He was one of my teachers,” Alandra replies.
“Oh?” Stowe’s lips curve into a knowing smile. “Aren’t you finished?” she says, careful to inject as much menace in her words as possible. She wants this healer’s hands off her now—a student of Ferrell’s will have to earn her trust.
“We must go,” Mabatan urges, and striding to the mouth of the cave she climbs onto the biggest black steed Stowe has ever seen. Shadowed against a haze of light, she extends her hand to the Eater.
After one last look at Stowe, the healer closes her bag and rises to take the elf’s proffered hand. Mabatan’s revulsion at her touch is palpable. So she does not trust Alandra either.
Stowe cries out as Willum lifts her. Her battle with Ferrell has left her so bruised and battered, there is barely an inch of her that does not scream with pain. He raises her onto a chestnut stallion and winds straps from the saddle around her legs and over her hips. “You are not strong enough to sit on your own. I will hold you but you need to be secured, in case there are any…events.”
“Where did we get the horses?” she asks. There certainly were no large animals in that dark cramped chamber with those fanged ghosts.
“The Hhroxhi have loaned them to us,” Willum says, settling himself on the horse behind Stowe. “The tunnels would be safer but our friend, Mhyzah, was unable to secure our passage.”
“The fight we witnessed.”
“Yes. All the Hhroxhi once believed in the prophecies, the ones that told of a boy and his sister, and how they would open the way. But now they are divided. Many do not believe. They see themselves as separate and want nothing to do with humans and this human story.”
Joining Mabatan and Alandra, they ride into a forest of serpentine trees. The slow canter of the horses and the lilt of Willum’s voice take Stowe back to the comfort of her childhood, her father rocking her, telling her stories. Perhaps traveling in dank tunnels with fanged albinos seems to carry less risk to Willum, but from Stowe’s perspective it’s much nicer to be rocked by a horse’s steady gait, nestled against a warm body, and have a heartbeat, strong and steady in her ear, to reassure her. Nothing can disturb her now that Willum is here. Even the tree trunks, winding around each other like crazed vipers, do not discomfit her. But they remind her. Yes. They remind her of the Keeper of the City, his reptilian eyes peering out of that translucent face, so like a living skull…no, better not to think about Darius.
“Where are we going?” she asks Willum, hopeful that his answer will distract her.
“To your brother.”
“Is he angry with me for running away?”
“Roan loves you and wants you well. We will see that he gets his wish.”
With a gasp, Stowe stiffens, her body racked by spasm after spasm. Ferrell is scratching and grating his way up from her stomach into her throat. “You can’t hold me!” he screeches. Against her will, Stowe’s arms reach out and grab the reins from Willum. But the bindings he’s placed on her constrict her movements and Willum’s arm swiftly draws her back.
“Hello, Ferrell,” Willum says calmly.
Ferrell wraps his mind around Stowe’s, smothering her, suffocating her. “I’ll make her scream. I’ll kill you all.”
“Stowe, resist him. Breathe.”
As Stowe struggles against the murderous cry rising in her, a creaking, whistling music slides over Ferrell like liquid. It’s as if the entire world is whispering, and that whisper is putting up a wall between her and Ferrell, separating his consciousness from hers. It drags him down into the darkest corner of her being and there he is still. Perfectly still.
Dozens of white crickets perch on her shoulders, her arms, her heart. The largest of the crickets, nearly the size of her thumb, climbs up her chest. Its multi-faceted eyes lock on hers, commanding her to rest, to sleep. They spin, iridescent like jewels, the entire world whispering it loves her, and finally she feels secure.
Stowe’s jarred awake. They’re galloping. Through bleary eyes she sees a fast-running stream before them. The horse, gathering speed, is about to leap over it.
With a suddenness that winds her, Willum pushes her forward, the side of her face hugging the horse’s neck as it lands heavily on the other bank. An arrow passes a finger’s width from her scalp.
“Fandor riders,” Willum whispers. “Keep your body close to the horse.”
Stowe does not need to move to see half a dozen riders, brandishing swords and bows, the stream behind them. She burns with a desire to strike at them with her voice. “Let me.”
“No.”
But she can see Alandra and Mabatan’s horse is already starting to tire, its mouth foaming from exertion.
“Do not move. Do not speak.” Willum stops the horse and swings to the ground. Without taking his eyes off the Fandor, he presses his palms to the earth.
Stowe senses a power, potent like nothing she’s ever felt from him before. The Fandor’s horses sense it too, and slow to a canter despite being brutally whipped across their flanks by their riders. The Fandor, however, seem immune. When they come to a halt only a few paces from Willum, they spring from their
horses’ backs, swords ready to slash him to pieces.
Do not move, do not speak—that is what Willum said. She has to trust him. She has to. She will not; she will not scream. But how can she stop herself? She so wants to make them sprawl on the ground, blood bursting from their ears. Willum must not die. Stowe feels…tears? Tears! How can she bear this helplessness?
His movement is so swift she does not see exactly how he gets close enough to touch them. But deftly evading their slashes and jabs, he makes contact with each Fandor. His hand covers each face like a claw until they all stand looking benignly at him, like simpletons.
“Sleep,” Willum orders.
And without hesitation, every Fandor lies down on the ground and sleeps.
This display of Willum’s has aroused the Eater’s suspicions. Like a bony scavenger, she scurries over to examine the snoring men. “What did you do to them?” she demands.
How dare she! If Stowe could stop crying, she would hurt her. From a corner of her consciousness, she hears Willum respond calmly, “I’ve simplified their minds. Tomorrow they will wake up feeling entirely refreshed, with no memory of today’s event. Perhaps you would like to forget it also?”
Stowe laughs at the sight of the Eater’s stunned expression. She laughs and laughs, gulping for air, unable to stop. Willum’s mind, ever so gently, touches hers. A time of grieving will come but it is not now. Now you must rest. And then there is nothing but the sound of his voice repeating over and over, Soon, though. Soon you will be home.
Willum gently nudges Stowe awake, then points to a village gate in the distance. The purple haze of sunset glints across its surface as if off a mottled gem. “This is where I spent the summers of my youth,” Willum says, “with my sister. Some of her people, my people, are still there. We will be welcomed.”
“You never told me you had a sister.”
“There were moments I feared you might never learn anything about me.” Willum’s eyes sparkle and he’s smiling broadly. Why is he so happy? It’s unsettling. “It’s good to return here,” Willum says, as if reading her thoughts. “It’s been almost fifteen years.”
As they draw closer, Stowe can see that the town’s walls are fortified with scrap metal—rusting car fenders, steel barrels squashed flat, angular pieces of iron plate. From a battery of watchtowers, helmeted warriors aim crossbows at them. But when Willum looks up, they lower their weapons. One whistles loudly. The gate slowly opens and the four dusty travelers ride in from the plain.
Several of the tower guards leap from their posts and rush toward Willum. Tugging off their helmets, Stowe sees that the soldiers are tall, muscular women. And they all know her guardian well. Very well.
“Willi Boy!” A broad-shouldered woman with plaited hair is giving Willum a good-natured poke in the ribs.
Boy?
“Torin! It’s been too long.” Willum’s poking her back while his other arm wraps around yet another brawny warrior. “Resa!”
This one hugs him so tightly, Willum groans in pain. “Whoa, Resa, you don’t know your own strength!” he says and as soon as she releases him, he punches her hard in the arm.
They’re giggling. Like silly schoolchildren. Appalling.
“Let’s get you and your friends cleaned up and fed,” Torin says, giving him a good pound on the back. “We have a lot of catching up to do.”
As Willum lifts Stowe from their horse, she asks as casually as she can, “Those women…are your ‘people’?”
“Yes,” he answers with a wide grin.
“They seem quite strong,” Stowe comments wryly.
“They are Apsara,” says Willum, his eyes penetrating hers. “They are the descendants of the rebels Darius set the plague upon.”
“Only the women survived it,” adds Mabatan, as she moves past Stowe. “Rage and sorrow and necessity forced them onto the path of the warrior.”
If these are his people, Willum is Apsara. That means Willum is descended from the rebels who escaped Darius’s clutches. What is she to him, then? Simply a means to attack his enemy? Stowe’s breath catches in her chest; her heart beats wildly.
Gently placing Stowe on the ground, Willum bends to look inquiringly at her. “There is no need for anger.”
“I am not angry!” shouts Stowe, desperately trying to remain standing as Willum meets her glare with a smile. “Smile all you want, Willum, I am not a child and I will not be charmed. If you have betrayed me, if your Apsara are using me, I’ll…I’ll…” But her head spins wildly and as dozens of Willums reach out for her the world fades to black.
AN UNEASY ALLIANCE
MANY THREADS BOUND ROAN TO THE BROTHERS: HIS PAST BOUND HIM TO SAINT; HIS SWORD BOUND HIM TO WOLF; HIS SCAR BOUND HIM TO STINGER; AND HIS DESTINY BOUND HIM TO THE FRIEND.
—ORIN’S HISTORY OF THE FRIEND
ROAN HAS TO ADMIT, Kira’s quarters in the Caldera were the sensible choice. Saint had been her mate, and she’d kept many of his things, mementos the Brothers revered. Feeling their Prophet’s presence will make Wolf and Stinger more comfortable. If they are at ease, the meeting will have a better chance of going smoothly.
Or so the theory goes.
Inside the black stone walls, Wolf, acting head of the brethren, and Stinger, their authority in matters of the spirit, are seated under a mural of the Friend, god of the Brothers. Both are studying the map Lumpy and the Apsara draftswomen have been laboring over these last few days.
“The northern territory provides the City with coal, iron, and wood,” says Lumpy, proud of his research. “The south focuses on agriculture; that’s where the City’s food is coming from. The west: sulfur and salt and what little oil they can produce. East is where the Masters go for the children they…” Lumpy sighs. Gathering his composure, he continues, “We need to drive a wedge between the Governors and the City. Interfere with their production, interrupt their transport. If we can control—”
Lumpy stops abruptly. Brother Wolf is no longer looking at the map. His eyes are riveted on Roan, who stands stock-still at the threshold, with Ende and Kira equally solid at his side.
Wolf rises from his seat. He looks more fearsome than ever, his shaved head gleaming, his hand falling almost lazily over his hook-sword. That sword had taken part in the annihilation of Longlight. It had been used to train Roan in combat. Once, Roan had even battled it for his life.
In a silence that quivers with tension, Lumpy clears his throat and grins nervously. “Roan, welcome!”
Kira and Ende smile at this effort but Roan cannot allow himself to acknowledge his friend with more than a brief nod. Wolf would interpret breaking his gaze as weakness, and Roan’s instincts warn against anything but a show of strength.
It is Brother Stinger, rising to stand beside Wolf, who breaks the impasse. Pressing his dusky palms together, he waits patiently until Brother Wolf also adopts the ritual posture. Observing the cost of this action on Wolf, the effort of control in body and voice, tells Roan a great deal about the predicament the Brothers have found themselves in—much more than the words that follow.
“In the name of the Friend, in the name of the Prophet, we swear our fealty to you, Roan of Longlight. We will follow you into battle. Give our blood. We will serve you as we serve the Friend, Brother Roan.”
The title cuts into Roan like broken glass. Words blurt from his mouth before he can stop them. “I will never be a Brother.”
Ende sighs, all too audibly. Kira grips Roan’s arm, as if to hold him back.
Wolf’s hands clench. “If you will not be a Brother,” he snarls, “why have we been summoned?”
“To join us in bringing an end to the City’s rule.”
“We do not join,” hisses Wolf. “We lead. And you were born to lead us, Brother Roan.”
Again it is Stinger who intervenes. “You have many reasons to feel hatred toward the Brothers—”
“The Brothers will always have my people’s blood on their hands.” Roan finds himself rubbing the starlike sc
ar he’d received from the Hhroxhi. From the moment he came into the room it has tingled uncomfortably.
“We do,” agrees Stinger. “Our actions caused you and your people great harm. But these deeds were fulfillment of a prophecy. The fall of Longlight—and its willing sacrifice.” Staring pointedly at Roan’s chest, he adds, “We are not the only ones who have been scarred by spilling innocent blood.”
Has Stinger read his unconscious worrying of an old wound as guilt? Or does he know the Hhroxhi? Mhyzah? Has he heard of the justice she and her kin exact for the murder of one of their own?
As Stinger’s eyes meet his, Roan drops his hand to his side, embarrassed that he cannot deny the Brother’s challenge.
“We adopted you. We trained you. We baptized you. You successfully completed every trial of your initiation. Whether you wish to avow it or not, you are a Brother.”
Roan looks bitterly at Stinger. “I did not complete the final trial. I refused.”
But Stinger has anticipated this response. Roan can see the satisfaction in his eyes, his sardonic grin. “You refused to put to sacrifice two Fandor. But you took the blood of the Prophet, and that action assured your ascendance as leader. After that moment, Saint began preparations for your rule. The Prophet’s last instructions were that we should set about the liberation of the Farlands, first and foremost by keeping its innocents out of the City’s clutches. This purpose, he said, would be one with your own.”
“You’ve seen the children here, Roan,” confirms Kira. “There are two sanctuaries in the north. We save all we can. Many more this past year with the Brothers’ support.”
Though Brother Wolf is still bristling from Roan’s affront, he bows his head and holds his hook-sword out to Roan. “In the absence of our Prophet, I have been leading the Brothers. I now cede my place to you.”
“I do not accept your place,” insists Roan. “I would not be as able a Captain to the Brothers. It is best that you lead our efforts in the Farlands.”
“Me? You mistake my abilities for those of Saint’s. He had the confidence of the Governors, gave their shipments safe passage through the Farlands to the City, protected their towns, resolved their petty rivalries. Now that we are no longer aligned with the City, I cannot defuse their panic. They are as afraid of us as they are of Darius and his henchmen.” Wolf pauses to snort in disgust. “They deal with smugglers. They bribe marauders. I cannot stomach them and I am no diplomat.”