Gerard set down the parchment and stood. Sighing, he turned back to the body on the bed. It had melted to dust, the shape of a human form almost indiscernible. How was accessing done again? Something about embracing? Or drawing as if from a well?
The Deep nudged his mind, and Gerard opened himself to it. Reaching a hand forward, he grasped it, pulling it into himself in a small amount. Just enough to light the darkness of the room with blue light. Spinning his fingers, he forced the light to shoot to the ceiling in blue and gold. It made the dirt and grime that much more noticeable. No matter, it fit with his mood. How long had it been since he had done that? Years. Ten at least. Yes, ten years, one-hundred and six days, sixteen hours, and twenty... twenty-one ...twenty-two seconds.
Ten years since he had left the Scrape Lands. Ten years since he had sworn never to be a warlock. Ten years he had wandered, until finding a home in Rollvear.
Adella. Her name rolled around his brain. That woman of fierce intelligence, rare beauty, and a heart of gold. Where most saw a dirty, old, bedraggled man, she saw greatness. Or, saw something to be pitied. But that came with being family, right? She had run, too. He had just followed the path she had already paved.
Greatness. If he had been destined for greatness, he would have followed Brate Hightower. Or stayed in the House. Or made something of himself like Adella, instead of wandering in his own mind, hiding from humanity unless they fell into his lap. Bearing the effects of the madness of the web.
Brate. Where was he now? Last time he had seen him was eighty-four days ago, fourteen hours, eleven minutes and nine... ten ...eleven seconds.
His knees could no longer bear the memory. He slumped to the ground, leaning his back against the bed where his father’s body was dust. His mind escaped reality to the comforting presence of silence. But this memory? It was terrifying. And consoling. And it came popping back in regardless of his desire for it to stay away. Hidden.
He had followed Brate. At least, for the time he had been in Rollvear. Gerard had seen him kill those soldiers. Then seen him again, this time trying to hide from the King. Why hadn’t Gerard stuck with him? Fear? Yes. The belly-melting kind that invaded your intestines and turned them to water and bile. The same kind of fear that accompanied anything new and unusual.
The same kind that was there now, sitting in this room with a rotting corpse. Why didn’t he just leave?
He knew why. No more deception. For all that he tried to avoid it, he was his father’s son. One can’t escape the bonds of blood. He was a warlock and must carry on the knowledge of Grole’s House. The sphere depended on it.
A trembling took his hands. His body. His legs. His heart. Core alight with distress, Gerard scrambled to the corner, grabbing the parchments to his chest and rocking. Crying. Swearing. Raging.
It wasn’t fair. Liar take the man who spawned this wretched excuse for a human being he had become. He would have been a better man if given the chance. He would have done the right thing.
But not this time. Longing for the Lord Jubair’s wall filled his whole being. His wall. Where he could sit with it against his back as the throngs passed by. Where he was anonymous. He had done a good thing, coming here to see his dying father. But what of his wisdom and intelligence? The Stewards had the witches, and their own brains. Let them save the sphere.
The fear eased.
Yes. He would go home. Sit, and watch, and think. Leave courage to those who were born with it.
Satisfied, he nodded off, still clenching the parchments to his chest. Sleep. Dreamless, fearless, sleep.
Chapter Two
Graissa del’Blyth
“Kole del’Blyth?” Graissa’s heart jumped into her throat. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. He will be hanged at dawn.”
The guard’s words rang out like an indictment on her soul. Graissa couldn’t help but gasp. Sister Vivian, straight, long hair blowing in wafts around her waist, frowned at the guard and then looked at Graissa. Blinking, Graissa leaned back as if distance would change what the man had uttered.
“My father will die at dawn?”
No. She must have heard wrong.
“Your father?” the guard asked, removing his helmet, brown hair plastered wet to his skull. “You are Graissa del’Blyth?”
How should she respond? She only looked at Vivian, who turned to the guard. “She is.”
“By the Creator! The Reader!” He lurched forward as if to grab Graissa’s foot but stopped just before his fingers touched her. “You’re...” he paused, licked his lips. “It is by the Chancellor’s command, Mistress.” He gripped her horse’s bridle as if he wanted to do something with his hands but didn’t know what.
At his words, fierce anger pounded in Graissa’s head. “I will see the Chancellor, then.”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Sister Vivian’s voice was soothing. “We need all the facts, first.”
That was easy enough. Graissa opened up to the Deep, drawing it in with pulls of strength, letting it invade her entire being. The waters were placid, as if no one else in the area was using it. But at her touch, it rippled and responded. The light was invigorating, and Graissa could feel the inner being of those around her, hear their thoughts, and sense their moods and emotions.
But which to choose? Who was thinking about the past few days?
There.
Graissa dove toward a soldier at the gate of a mansion, wrapping his mind with her own. The Reading was at first disorienting as she melted into him, seeing through his eyes and becoming him.
“...not that I mind,” she said, turning to the other soldier by her side as they chatted the shift away.
“Nonsense, Gruff. Of course you mind. It was your sister.”
Price. Sadness filled her. Why had Price done it? She snorted to hide the insecurity at her name. “She deserves it. Upsetting the Chancellor like that! Causing the bloodshed we’ve observed and taken part of, I might add.” Gruff shook his head. No, Graissa shook her head.
“She was pretty. It’s a shame her neck will be stretched until she turns blue.” Boll shifted in his mail, the clank ringing soft in the shuffle of people passing before them.
Gruff grimaced inwardly. She was his sister, after all. Shouldn’t he defend her? But she had gone against everything the Midlands stood for! “She always told me she was going to do something incredible one day. Even as a child she spoke out against the plight - her term, not mine - of the Mools. I’m not surprised she is going to hang at the end of a rope.” Then why the sadness tugging at his throat? Why did he disguise what he felt by the stern exterior he projected? To save face. To appear as if he didn’t care, so that he didn’t have to feel.
“She shouldn’t have started the revolt, regardless of her personal opinions. The Mools can’t take care of themselves. They are born to serve us humans. Why can’t everyone see that?” Boll scoffed, then spat on the ground. “Damn upstarts. Making the rest of our lives difficult.”
“She wasn’t the only one!” Gruff was quick to defend. “That Lord del’Blyth did nothing to stop her.”
“Damn right! Creator’s bosom! Who would have foreseen that a Lord would demand legislation for the Mools’ freedom? What could he possibly be thinking?”
“It was more than legislation, I hear. Word has it that he allowed the forging of the weapons used in the battle. Smelt at his own factories! That’s why the Chancellor has decreed his death. Treason.” Gruff tightened his grip on his poleblade as a passing Mool raised its eyes to him. But it darted its head back down and hurried on.
“You going to the hanging?” Boll looked at Gruff with something close to compassion.
“Maybe,” Gruff managed to answer around the tightening in his throat. “She deserves at least that much.”
Graissa snapped out of Gruff’s mind, head pounding. The heavy weight of his mail still felt burdensome around her shoulders. Hunched in the saddle, she waited until the last vestiges of the Reading faded. She cle
nched her hand as if still holding the poleblade.
“Graissa?” Sister Vivian’s voice oriented Graissa to reality. Straightening her spine, Graissa turned to the soldier who gripped her horse’s bridle. His eyes were wide, shifting from her to Vivian.
“How did you know I was the Reader?” She projected as much strength into her tone as possible.
“Everyone knows. Lord del’Blyth has been telling the whole city about you. Saying that you agreed with his assessment of the situation, and if you were here, you’d call for reform. His words were ‘If the Reader knows this is so, then why haven’t we changed anything yet?’ The rest of us... well, Mistress, I think time will tell if you are who it seems you are.” He cocked his head. “Are you?”
Graissa steeled herself. “Well, you tell me, soldier. Or should I say, Guardsman Black. Your mother wouldn’t approve of the thoughts you are having of me right now, I don’t think.”
His face turned bright red, and he let go of the horse. Kicking the mount forward, Graissa didn’t wait to see if Vivian followed.
Cackle, her ever present demon companion, glared at the soldier with something close to protectiveness as he loped beside the horse. Still silent, ever watching, he had become almost a solace to Graissa. Dependable. Those red eyes could be at once both compassionate and teasing, angry and belligerent. If one could get over the slobbering jaws and black fur, he was cute. In a weird sort of way.
Moriah, her Mool friend, gripped Graissa’s hips as the horse trotted beneath them.
What should I do? Graissa projected to her.
What you always do. Change one heart at a time.
Even if she hadn’t been Reading Moriah, Graissa would have known she referred to the Chancellor.
***
Rypen del’Barron
“I’m not sure what else you want me to do!” Rypen rolled over, threw the blanket to the floor, and stalked to his clothes. Dragging them on, he grit his teeth. Damn Mools from his estates had all abandoned him. Otherwise he would never be forced to dress himself. Fool Price, causing the uproar that had left his home in disarray.
“Surely there is some sort of sentence you can decree except death?” Friana del’Blyth rose from the bed just enough to glare at him. “I know that you hate my husband, but please–ʺ
“I don’t hate him,” Rypen growled, yanking on his pants. But that wasn’t entirely the truth. He both hated and admired Kole. But he also wanted him to see reason. For the sake of their friendship, or what it had been, at least. Something close to guilt shot through him when he turned to look at Friana. His wife, Delstana, didn’t know. Could never know. She wouldn’t understand.
“Then why are you insisting on his death?” Friana rose from the bed and grabbed a robe, slipping it on. “I know this might sound strange, seeing where things are at....” She stopped, looking at herself and then at Rypen with a raised eyebrow. “But he’s still my husband. And the estates are without an heir.”
“They will fall to you. What does it matter?”
“And then what? Am I to bear a son in my old age?”
“You aren’t old, Friana,” Rypen replied with a chuckle, striding over to grip her arms. “You are devastating.”
“What a compliment,” she said with a wry expression.
Rypen kissed her forehead. “Go home. Get your affairs in order. And then tomorrow you will have free rein of your estates. All will be well.”
He left her there, gesturing for Captain Mangan, who stood guard outside the door, to follow as he left his chambers. “Is Price still in the dungeons? Or has she been moved to the prison?”
“Prison, Chancellor. The constable–ʺ
“Yes, yes. He wants to exert his authority. No matter. I will go to her.”
“Sir!” Captain Mangan dashed ahead to ready the carriage. Rypen paused in his study to gather the confession he had written for Price to sign. Sighing, he glanced about at the disheveled appearance of his desk. No Mool to straighten it.
Creator! Why must he carry on like this? Hadn’t he done enough for those bastards? They had abandoned him the first chance they got. Liar, he would make sure the next batch of Mools were more firmly handled. Perhaps it would do good to bring back flogging.
The carriage waited at the front doors, and he ascended to sit beside Mangan. The Captain appeared restless.
“What’s wrong, Mangan?” Silly question, of course.
“Nothing, Sir.”
Good. He was still loyal, even though he felt bad for Delstana. Mangan wasn’t able to hide the fact that he didn’t approve of the new mistress, but he obviously knew well enough to keep his mouth shut. After all, the Captain had been the one to take Rypen’s wife to their northern estates to escape the rebellion, and the violence that came with it.
The carriage rattled through the cobblestone streets, the clopping hooves of the horses echoing in the alley they traversed. It opened to the main square, which in turn led down another street where the prison awaited. Rarely did Vale have any prisoners. Now, it was as full as a new wineskin.
Rypen wasted no time in entering the constable’s study, not bothering to knock at the door. The constable raised a surprised face before he clambered to his feet.
“Chancellor!”
“Vernstice. Take me to Price.”
“Sir, she’s–ʺ but whatever the constable was going to say was cut off as glanced at Rypen’s face. “Come.” He pulled a keyring from his desk, fiddling with it while he headed down a long, dark corridor. A guard waited at the end, tensing when they approached.
“Price!” Constable Vernstice snapped. The guard hastened to open the door, and Rypen followed as Vernstice paused outside an iron-grated entryway. He unlocked it, swung the gate open, and marched down the corridor to the last door on the left. He let Rypen through and closed it behind him.
Rypen paused, gazing down on Price as she rose to an elbow from her bed and cocked an eyebrow. Her face was bruised, short hair matted to her head with dried blood. She hadn’t come willingly.
“What a pleasant surprise.” Her voice was alluring and deep, tinged with note of sarcasm. Her frame was boyish, and she was dressed in trousers and a loose-fitting shirt.
“Sign this.” He handed her the parchment. She sat upright as she read it. “This is detailing your confession, and subsequent recanting of all that has happened because of what you have said. You deny that you believe the Mools need freedom, you deny you ever called for an election for the common people, and you deny the rebellion had merit.” Rypen crossed his arms. “If you do, you will be allowed to live.”
Price stood to her feet and spat on his shoes. Rypen stepped backward with a grunt.
Stupid woman. Didn’t know what was good for her. He wasn’t going to offer anything more generous than that.
“Go to the Rift, del’Barron, and rot with the caluths and skrales! You will not quell the spirit arising in this city because of my words and deeds! The fight will go on, and the fire will not be put out even by my death!”
Rypen backhanded her across the face. Price fell with a cry, hand going to her cheek. She staggered upright, licking her lip as it bled. Tears sprang in her eyes, but they looked like tears of rage, not pain.
“There isn’t a spot far enough in the Rift for you, Chancellor. I’m sure the Liar has a special throne marked just for you.”
“My cause is the Creator’s cause,” Rypen remarked, the anger cooling, replaced with the knowledge that he was right. “Still, you will sign it. You will recant.”
“Force me!” she snapped, turning from him.
“I intend to.” Rypen removed his silver gloves from his hands and tossed them on the bed. Price frowned, eyes turning wary as Rypen pulled a knife from his cloak. “One finger at a time. Shall we?”
***
Gerard Redstone
It was the light that awakened Gerard, filtering through the dirty window to pierce his eyelids. He grimaced and split one eye open, closing it almost immediat
ely and shuffling away from the rays. The sack had fallen to his lap, parchment and books spilled on the floor. The letter from his father was still in his hand.
His father. Ash on the sheets, no longer resembling a human shape. It looked like someone had started a fire on the bed. Dust. Freedom.
Silence.
Fatigue filled his soul, and not the kind that made you want to sleep more. The kind that stayed with you until you died. When was the last time he truly felt alive? The last time he had seen Adella. Forty-nine days ago, seventeen hours, seven minutes, and fourteen... fifteen... sixteen seconds.
Creator, when would the fear ever leave?
The bustling city outside the window called for him to watch and listen. Gerard stood to his feet, stomach growling. Thirst tickled his tongue.
He left his father on the bed. What was he going to do? Sweep him up? The stairs groaned as he descended, pack of parchments on his shoulders. First things first.
People in front of him. Staring with curious judgement. Eating. Drinking. Watching to make sure he wouldn’t steal their belongings.
They could keep their stuff. He didn’t want it. Didn’t want ties to a Land that burned when one least suspected it.
Gerard snatched a roll here, a berry there, slipping them into his pockets when the faces turned from him. A serving girl bumped him, and he apologized, taking a muffin with him from her platter.
The accusations didn’t follow, and he slipped outside. Ate his prizes. Drank from the well. No one bothered him.
Where to, now? Back to the wall, of course. But how? He had two legs, tired from life. They grumbled at him as if they spoke.
Give us rest. Stay in Vale. Wait for the Reader, like your father said.
No. Stupid limbs could voice their complaint to someone else. But they dragged him onward, shuffled in the streets, and sidestepped the passing madness. A child ran across his path, stopped to stare. Held out a hand as if to touch him.
He recoiled. No, this wasn’t the time. He wasn’t ready to interact with a human being. The boy stepped closer, but his mother yelled and grabbed his arm, yanking him away.
The Last Steward Page 3