The Last Steward

by Janelle Garrett

  Garron shook his head, but then stopped. Something came over him, and he squared his shoulders. “Very well.”

  Wherever this newfound courage had come from, Anyia was grateful. He stood to his feet, took Myra’s hand and raised her to stand before him. “Think of something I could not have known about you. A memory from a bygone time, before you even came to pass through the web. Then tell the others what it is. I will wait.”

  Myra raised her eyebrows, then shrugged, pulling the rest of them out of Garron’s hearing distance. “My favorite place is an orchard in Rollvear, where the sun filters through the apple trees. I used to climb the trees to pick the fruit, then sit beneath the shade and practice accessing without permission, where no one could catch me.”

  Anyia coughed to hide a laugh at the expression on the Mothers’ faces. Myra was holding back a grin as she strode to Garron. He took her head in his hands as he closed his eyes. He stood that way for several seconds. A spark in his chest flared to life in Anyia’s awareness, a flickering of the Deep that had not been there before. Where had it come from? How had no one sensed it within him?

  The ripple was faint, but unmistakable.

  Garron was an accessor.

  Myra gasped, her eyes shooting wide and body stiffening. Thin tendrils of blue, nearly invisible, snaked from his fingertips and into her head. Garron let go, stepping away.

  “I saw a tree, with red and yellow fruit. I have never had it before, but I believe the fruit is called apples. You were resting underneath and eating, while doing something you weren’t supposed to do.” He looked at them as if to gauge their reactions.

  Anyia could barely breathe. Silence stretched on after his declaration. Something like satisfaction raced across Myra’s face.

  “How...?” But Mother Bray stopped. “You learned this?”

  “Like I said, it is an innate ability that some can achieve easier than others. Malok is a natural, whereas I had a much harder time learning.” He glanced between them, crossing his arms. “I once thought it was science. But now? After what I have seen and learned? I think the Brotherhood has been keeping a secret.”

  Mother Bray snorted, shaking her head. “That is an understatement, my boy. This is unprecedented.”

  “The question is this: what do we do with this knowledge?” Mother Anniston shook her head along with Mother Bray. “This could change everything.”

  “One small problem,” Anyia interjected, raising a finger. “We can’t get through the web.”

  “Myra can, as well as Garron and Malok.” Mother Dor’stala turned to the Jin’tai. “What say you? Do you think you can speak to the Brotherhood? Who leads them, anyway?”

  Garron laughed. “For one thing, no, we can’t speak to them. There are too many, and there is no centralized governing authority. Each Library in each village or town is responsible for that particular village or town. Information is passed along, but each Library is autonomous from all the rest. There are no large cities in the Scrape Lands. Everything is remote, and the people submit to the wisdom of the Elder Brother, elected from among the Brothers at each Library.” Something sad crossed his face. “Our Elder Brother was wise indeed. I saw his broken body as I stood at the edge of a cliff. He was forced to jump to his death by skrales.”

  That must have been awful. Anyia nearly shuddered. She had her own run-ins with skrales and never wished to again. She had broken her vows because of those monsters.

  “So, what you are saying is that there is no government in your Land?” Mother Bray asked, skepticism written all over her face. “That is impossible.”

  “Not when you are impenetrable from outside invaders,” Garron replied with shrug. “Like I said, each village is self-contained as far as authority goes. The Elder Brother, with the assistance of the rest of the Library, solves disputes, heals the brokenness of someone’s mind, and educates the acolytes. The people love it. There is peace, because no one can get away with anything. And those that try, who are violent or thieves, for example, are ostracized from the community. Which, in the barrenness of the mountains, means death.”

  “But that’s madness,” Mother Bray argued. “Where or to whom do you pay taxes? What if there is a famine?”

  “I don’t see what any of this has to do with the Deep,” Garron replied. “If you are wanting to simply insult my culture, I will take my leave.” He started to do just that, but Anyia gripped his arm as Mother Bray spluttered, her face turning red.

  “We don’t mean to offend.” He relaxed, perhaps because of the earnestness in her voice. Garron’s eyes danced to Myra’s and again something passed between them.

  They were hiding something. But what?

  “He’s right,” Mother Anniston said with a wave of her hand. “What’s important is convincing the Brotherhood to join our cause.”

  “Which is what, exactly?” Myra asked, raising an eyebrow. “There are three of you up for election, and three different opinions about how to approach the current situation we find ourselves in.”

  “I think we have heard enough from the lad.” Mother Dor’stala gazed on him with something like fondness. Ah, yes. Mother Dor’stala had essentially nursed him back to health when he had been on the verge of death. Another interesting thing to keep tucked away. “Let’s continue with the vote.”

  ***

  Anyia tried to still her hands, but the tension was going to break her. She forced herself to sit still, waiting, silent. The other chamber was full of Sisters casting their votes while the contestants were forced to wait in another room. Mother Bray appeared cool and calm, but surely it was a schooled expression from years of leadership. Mother Anniston paced, but it didn’t seem to be from anxiety. Her face was serene, and her footsteps were light and controlled.

  Anyia had done what she could. Creator, maybe she wouldn’t even get the vote. That would help take the pressure off her shoulders. She would be the youngest Benefactress ever to take the mantle, but was she ready? Was Brate the only reason she had even made it this far? Maybe the Sisters thought she should lead because she was closest to him, and he seemed to listen to her. Or was it actually because they liked her plan and direction for the Sisterhood?

  She had been the only one to suggest changing the vows. It had been hard to tell how the others had taken it. Well, for the most part. Some were outright livid, but most of the faces had been inscrutable. Mother Justice had smiled, nodding a head in support. But other than that, Anyia hadn’t been able to tell which way the tides would turn.

  She had also been the only one to suggest they take a direct stand against the Triumphant King. Mother Bray had been in favor of sending an envoy to discuss terms in hopes of patching up what she termed ‘miscommunication.’ That way they wouldn’t have to choose a side. Mother Anniston had suggested they abandon the Covens all together and form one large Hidden Coven until things had ‘smoothed over.’

  They seemed to have forgotten what that monster Voltaire had done. What Myra said she experienced. What Brate saw him do: murdering Sisters. Pulling their very souls from their body. Leaving the Seer a mindless fool.

  Even thinking about it made her tremble with rage.

  The door opened, and the Recorder, Tatiana Kellan, stepped inside. “The final votes have been cast and counted. Come.”

  Anyia’s stomach turned over and her heart raced. Standing as tranquil as she could, she followed the other two from the room behind the Recorder. As they entered the audience chamber, it was quiet. All eyes followed their every move.

  After what seemed like an eternal march to the front, Anyia stood staring into the eyes of Mother Dor’stala. She gave nothing away.

  “Sisters, there were two-hundred and six votes cast, from all Sisters across the Lands. The final tally is as follows: Mother Calliope Bray received fifty votes.”

  Anyia tried not to look at her, but she couldn’t help it. Mother Bray’s face was a thundercloud. Something close to pity filled Anyia. That was a large margin to lose by
.

  “Mother Anniston Numataka and Sister Anyia Shallowgold each received seventy-eight votes.”

  A loud gasp echoed throughout the chamber, followed by the hum of voices.

  Wait, what did it mean? Who would cast the final vote? Her lungs contracted, making it hard to breathe.

  “This isn’t the first time this has happened!” Mother Dor’stala raised her hands for silence, shouting to be heard. The room quieted. “In such a case, the losing candidate gets to cast a vote for the remaining Sisters.”

  Mother Bray nodded, and Anyia’s heart fell.

  Well, she was hoping not to get elected, after all. Calliope had no love lost for Anyia and everyone knew it.

  “I must say, the remaining Sister and Mother could not have more opposite opinions on what our next steps should be,” Mother Bray said with a wry smile. It was followed by nervous laughter throughout the chamber. “How long before I have to decide?” She turned to Mother Dor’stala.

  “That one and only time this happened, the Mother was given one hour.”

  Mother Bray nodded her head again, lips tight. “I don’t think I need that much time. In my opinion, action is better than inaction. I cast my vote for Anyia Shallowgold.”

  For a brief moment it was as if Anyia heard her wrong. Small cheers erupted from the chamber, probably from those who had voted for her. Justice strode forward to clap Anyia on the back, and then she was surrounded by Sisters offering their congratulations. It seemed as if someone else was standing in her body, receiving the compliments with decorum and grace. Anyia glided through the next few minutes, watching herself react.

  She was calm and collected, smiling. But at the first chance, she exited and fled to her room. Banging open the door, she stopped as Brate stood to his feet, questions filling his eyes.

  “Well?” he asked as she closed the door.

  Her knees collapsed, and Brate leapt forward to grab her. If only she had his ability to will herself to feel normal. Strengthened. In control.

  “I’m the new Benefactress.” The words were strained, coming as from another person’s throat.

  “Uh, well done, I guess?” he asked, face falling. “This means you won’t ever –” but he stopped. Anyia reached forward and gripped his face in her hands, bringing it down so she could kiss him. He seemed surprised, but it didn’t take long for him to get over it.

  Like it or not, she must give him up. But not now. Not in this moment. For once, Anyia shoved aside what she ought to do and gave in to what she wanted to do. He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her close and tilting his head to kiss her deeper. She didn’t resist, and by the Star, it was the only thing she wanted to remember from this day.

  When he stumbled backward for the bed, taking her arm, she followed.

  Chapter Eight

  Branson de’Gaius

  Sweat dripped down Branson’s face, obscuring his vision. Eye stinging, he focused even harder on the hay-filled dummy standing upright twenty feet in front of him.

  He must focus. Pretend it was an enemy, bent on killing him.

  But he was too tired. Exhaustion threatened to take him to his knees. Taking a ragged breath, Branson pulled more of the Deep, as much as he had ever held. It was dangerous, but the sweet temptation to drag it in until it consumed him was all too familiar. Enticing.

  Just this once. All his troubles would disappear. He could forget and fall into eternal bliss.

  A light exploded from his hand, enveloping the dummy with blue heat. It burst into crackling, searing flames, white and blue sparks flying. Branson fell as the Deep evaporated from his core. He coughed and reached up to wipe away a tickle from his nose. He pulled his hand back, heart hammering when his fingertips were red with blood.

  Too much. He had drawn in too much.

  A loud clap, slow and building strength, echoed through the chamber. He pushed himself to his feet and turned as the Triumphant King, Polbine Voltaire, grinned like a proud father and clapped his hands. At his side was Truman, dressed in his usual flamboyant style, carrying a ledger.

  “You are getting stronger, Branson. Keep practicing.” The King’s voice was deep and smooth, pulling Branson to believe him, to follow him, to worship him. Branson didn’t resist. The King was a magnificent man, and deserved Branson’s loyalty.

  “I pushed myself too hard,” he responded, raising bloody fingertips to show the King.

  “I always said that if I didn’t bleed, I didn’t work hard enough.” King Voltaire shrugged, his right hand reaching to clasp his left. It had become a gesture he seemed hardly aware he was doing these last weeks since he had been burned. Underneath the cuff of his sleeve his arm was a mess of fused flesh.

  The disappearing carpenter had destroyed and burned the King, saving the Bender. For now.

  “You never bleed.” Branson grinned. “Teach me your ways.”

  The King strode forward and clapped Branson on the back. “Not until we can find more accessors and give you their power.” Branson blanched, and the King laughed. “What, still not convinced that is the right way? Even after all you have seen and heard?”

  “I think they deserve death. But leaching the soul from their bodies and stealing the Deep for myself? It’s one thing for you to do it. It’s another thing to take part myself.”

  The King cocked his head and appraised Branson with a cold eye. “Not changing your mind, are you?”

  “No, of course not.” Branson’s tongue fell over itself as he hastened to declare his loyalty. “I still stand with you. Just give me time to wrap my mind around it.”

  The King nodded as he turned on his heel. “Come. We must discuss strategy. Rafe will be here soon.”

  Branson followed on weak knees. It would be days before he was strong enough to try again. Days, and then it would be a real enemy.

  ***

  Rayford Blackship arrived after Branson washed and changed.

  They had taken the Lord Valen Predence’s estates for their own. It was on the border of the Broken and Green Lands and was a vast holding with sprawling green hills. Truman had informed Branson the Lord Predence had been stripped because he had evaded taxes for four years, lying about it to the throne and therefore liable for his crimes. He had been executed, his body tossed into an unmarked grave and his estate given to a trembling, terrified son who looked as if he wanted to kiss the ground whenever the King approached.

  That very son, Claudio, stood outside, not much older than Branson himself, twisting his hands together and staring at the King with both fear and adoration. Beside him were his mother and three sisters, as well as an array of servants. There were even some Mools. Why were they here? It was only a Midlandian custom to have Mools in the household. Perhaps the family paid them? Or they had somehow escaped the Broken Lands?

  In the distance a procession approached, standard of the King waving in the breeze. The front guard were riding mighty stallions, helmets glinting in the sunlight, followed by a carriage and the rear guard.

  Branson’s stomach clenched. For weeks the King bemoaned his friend. Something close to jealousy tightened Branson’s shoulders. With Rafe’s return, would the King soon forget Branson?

  He was being an idiot. The King of the Green Lands owed him nothing. He was privileged to even be in his presence.

  The procession finally halted before the mansion, and the King rushed forward to embrace a man who descended from the carriage. His auburn hair was thick and wavy, face cut as if from granite. He was handsome, and jealousy surged through Branson’s breast.

  They talked and laughed for several moments, and then the King dragged Blackship forward and past Branson into the mansion. Branson and Truman followed.

  “What, you already replaced me?” And Blackship’s head turned to take in Branson as he strode beside the King.

  “That is another warlock, Branson de’Gaius.” The King winked at Branson and turned back to Blackship. “You will like him, don’t worry.”

  Th
ey were soon in an audience chamber, a dais dominating the back wall where tables and food awaited. The rest of the family followed, and Claudio hastened to order the servants to serve the King.

  The Lord Braith already awaited, standing when they entered and wiping his brow with a handkerchief. He was the wealthiest Lord in the Green Lands, and his daughter, Amaris, had been married to the King before she met an untimely death on her way to baptize her daughter, Brita, in the Southern Ocean. It had been a catastrophe, her retinue attacked by bandits. Only the Princess Brita escaped with her life. The rest of the company had been slaughtered.

  Braith bowed low, but the King ignored him, still in conversation with Rafe. Branson waited to the side, unsure where to sit. Close to the King? Was that too presumptuous? Away from the King? Did that portray weakness?

  Truman saved him when he crooked a finger and indicated a seat beside himself, two seats down from Voltaire. Relief surged through Branson. Blackship sat to King’s left, a smile not having left his face since he arrived.

  “So, tell me,” King Voltaire said, digging into the cooked brag set before him. “How is my dear friend, Chancellor Rypen del’Barron?”

  “The man is impossible. An idiot. A rake.” Rafe’s smile changed to a twisted frown of disdain. “He will not stop you, but he will not join you, either.”

  “Nothing new, then.” The King gave a sage nod. “What is this I hear of an uprising in Vale?”

  “Ah, yes. Something minor, I am told. No less than a day after I left, we heard the same. Tidings in the city were tense when I was there. Apparently, a woman and a Councilman led it. The Mools were involved, as well as some of the common folk. I hear tell it was suppressed rather quickly.”

  Wait, what? Shock coursed through Branson. His home city, uprising? Not Vale.

  “Ah, do you have any more information?” Branson asked shakily. Rafe leaned over to look at him with an unreadable expression as he sipped wine.

  “Branson is from Vale,” King Voltaire informed Rafe, who sat back in his seat and finished the glass of wine with a loud sound of satisfaction.