“Hence his curiosity. You still have family there, warlock?” Blackship asked.
“Indeed. My father is not a part of the Council, but I have friends who are.”
“Who?”
“The del’Blyth family.”
Surprise flitted across Blackship’s face. “I believe it was that very man who incensed the people against the Chancellor.”
“What can you tell us of this, Branson?” Truman asked. “Can we use this to our advantage?”
Indeed, could they? He wasn’t too surprised Kole del’Blyth was involved. But he couldn’t see the man outright opposing the Council or the Chancellor. And what of the rest of the Broken Lands? Had word spread to the other cities? It was a small Land and word traveled fast.
“The Chancellor would have executed the perpetrators,” he said, and as he did, sadness for Graissa and Natashia filled him. They would be heartbroken when they found out del’Blyth had been killed. “But Vale will have returned to some semblance of normalcy by now. The wealthier families would have cleaned up the mess, and the Chaplains will be preaching against the sin of discontent. I would imagine not much has changed.”
“What of the rest of the Council?” Truman pressed. “Who will fill the vacant spot? And will they be for us or against us?”
“I am not as familiar with the ways of politics as I should be.” Regret followed his words, but he shoved it aside. “There are several men who will be pushing themselves forward to be named to the Council. But how it plays out? Anyone’s guess.”
“I think I would like to meet this Chancellor,” the King said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. He looked at Branson. “If Rafe was unable to convince them, would they be more inclined to listen to me?”
Rypen del’Barron’s stern face and dominating demeanor filled Branson’s mind. “He is not easily swayed. Unless you are willing to unseat him and take power for yourself...” he trailed off.
“What were the defenses like? In the city.” King Voltaire looked back to Rafe.
“The walls are high, and the border is well protected. They were distracted by Vale, yes, but when we passed back through to the Green Lands, the armies were amassed in large numbers. The Chancellor is no fool, Pol.”
“Just a second ago you were complaining about his intelligence,” Truman said, raising an eyebrow at Rafe. “Which is it? Is he intelligent, or not?”
“He is convincing,” Rafe muttered. “There is a cunning to him that we would do well to watch out for.”
The King sighed, throwing his napkin and continuing with the feast. “We follow behind the armies of the Voltaire’s, and the knights of the Lord’s estates. More will come and flood to our banner every day. Word has spread that I am a Warlock King.” He bit into the brag, juice rolling down his chin. “I would think the Broken Lands would tremble and hide from my might. Leave this del’Barron brick to me.”
***
Branson shifted as the King talked with his Generals about the next step. Word had reached them that the Jattalians were making their way through the southern towns and villages of the Bright Lands, harrying the forces of the Flatland King, disappearing into the night and hitting more villages at random.
The King was not pleased. Branson could see why.
The crackling flames in the giant fireplace gave off a strong smoke that drifted through the hall. The King stood before it, and with a wave, sent the smoke back into the chimney. The Deep burst to life within the King, and not for the first time, something close to fear rose in Branson at the amount of power at the King’s control. The General’s didn’t seem to mind, or even notice.
“The Jattalians are trying to make a point.” General Ungold, massive and muscled, with a mustache dangling from his upper lip like a walrus’, frowned at the King’s back as Voltaire continued to wave the Deep around the flames, making it writhe in different patterns. He must be bored and using the Deep to amuse himself.
“Of course they are.” A knight stood to the side, hard face lined with scars and wrinkles. “They will not advance north to the Hovering City until they are certain we come to their aid.”
“Fools,” King Voltaire muttered, turning from the flames to glare at those assembled. His eyes landed on Rafe, who had thrown his leg over the side of a chair and was playing with the hilt of his weapon, the blade imbedded point down in the rug. “Chieftain Tralaga will have some explaining to do.”
“I hear it is the work of the Hooded. He leads the forces,” General Ungold replied. “I can’t say I blame them.”
“They wreak havoc yet make no real advancement!” the knight snapped. Several more knights nodded and voiced their disapproval.
“Send word, then!” The King waved another hand, this time toward Truman. “Tell their Hooded to stop bricking around and keep up their end of the bargain! We will attack at the border, they will attack by sea.”
“We are still two weeks away from even making it there,” another knight said, a complaining edge to his tone. “Why did we wait, my King?”
“Let me think about that.” The King looked to the ceiling, reaching to grasp his injured arm. “Oh wait, yes. I was burned near the point of death, had a daughter born, my wife was killed. Got in a battle with the Bender, learned of the existence of another hidden warlock, searched for the escaped Sisters...” his tone grew darker and darker the longer he continued, stalking up to the knight until he was face to face with him. The knight swallowed and shrank back. “My cousin comes for my throne. I lost a unicorn.” He turned on his heel and stalked back to the flames. “Go flay yourself on the Liar’s teeth, Sir Winston.”
No one moved. Branson edged toward the King. “I might say something, Your Highness.”
“Please, let it be sensible, Branson,” the King responded, the anger disappearing from his face and replaced with weariness.
“You plan to bring the Lands under your banner, yes?” He waited until the King turned his gaze to him. “Send Rafe back to the Forest City to rule in your place, just for now. The people need to see that you don’t leave them to their own devices. He can continue the search for the Sisters, the Bender, the carpenter, as well as Ezra Carp. Truman can assist him. Then, you and I can approach the Chancellor one last time. And combined, I think we can force him to submit.”
“The people don’t even know I have left the Forest City,” the King said, but it didn’t sound argumentative, mostly plaintive. “And I already have my domai searching high and low for the others you mention. What good is sending Rafe and Truman away?”
“Only that it’s a matter of time before word gets leaked you are gone. The Bleak Continent already wars with the Underground, and your daughter becomes a target for assassins, kidnappers, and Creator knows what else. The Land is well secured, but the people will want to know that you still care about them, and not just defeating the Flatland King. Look, I am certain you can bring the Chancellor to your side. But it will take a strong King, one that knows his only recourse is to have the full support of his own people, to bring the uniting banner of the Voltaires over the whole of the Lands.”
“I still don’t see how this involves Truman and Rafe,” the King said, narrowing his eyes at Branson.
“Rafe can be the Princess’s warden. Truman will rule the Kingdom as you see fit. Together, they can roam the Green Lands introducing the Princess to her people, raising morale, and instilling confidence that the Sisterhood, though fractured, will not divide the Westlandians. And that the Stewards will close the Rift. Let it be made known that you stand with the Stewards, and that you are keeping them in hiding for their own protection.”
Finally, the King turned to Branson with a nod. “You would have it be known that the fracturing of the Sisterhood and the Stewards going into hiding were meant to happen.”
“Yes. That way, rumors will be quelled that you are losing control of the Green Lands. And that as you march east, your victory is more assured because everything that has happened until now was part of your
plan.”
“He speaks sense,” Blackship said as he sat straighter in his chair.
“I second this idea,” General Ungold replied, looking at Branson with a quick glance of respect.
“Let it be done!” the King barked with a grin.
Good. If he made himself indispensable, the King wouldn’t forget he was at his side. Something in the back of Branson’s mind nagged at him. Why? Why did he feel as if he must be part of the King’s circle? Was it respect? A respect that bordered on love, even though Branson was himself Midlandian? Was it the belief that the King was the only hope the Lands had?
The thoughts bothered him, so much that it kept him awake into the night long after the meeting had adjourned. Branson got up and threw on his clothes, leaving his chambers to pace the massive mansion halls.
He felt for the Deep, but the fatigue kept it at bay. He could only pull a sliver into his hands, enough to calm his racing mind and hammering heart.
They were about to enter a war. And him? Branson de’Gaius, spoiled rich child, using his powers to kill. But it was for a good cause. It was for a man whose vision was to unite and not tear apart.
He meandered to the courtyard, looking up at the heavens. For some reason Graissa came to mind and a pang shot through him. What would she think of him? Would she be proud? Happy that he was standing up for what he believed in? Why did he still care what she thought, anyway?
The gardens were visible through the door that led to the front of the mansion. Branson’s wandering feet took him to the pathway through the bushes, set up like a maze. In the center, what seemed like a muffled shout drifted. Frowning, he took off, grasping for the Deep but finding nothing. He was also unarmed. Hesitant, he paused, listening. Another cry, muffled as if someone had their mouth clamped over, made him dash toward the sound.
In the middle of the garden, a fountain trickled as if the night was serene. But against the edge, a tall man pushed a woman down, forcing her backward. All in a moment, Branson took it in. Rafe turned with a look of menace, the eldest daughter of the Predence Lord trembling, fighting his grip on her arm and around her mouth. Her eyes begged for help.
“What is the going on?” Branson demanded, both rage and fear rising inside. Rafe was close to the King. If he interfered, Blackship would hold it against him and more than likely speak ill of Branson to Voltaire.
“Nothing of consequence. Just a walk through the gardens with the Mistress Blaine.” Rafe grimaced at Branson. “Move along.”
Undecided, Branson’s eyes shot from Blackship to the woman. Blaine. She was terrified. And it was obvious what was going on. Branson had never been in this situation before. What would Graissa do?
It was obvious.
Branson stiffened his spine and walked toward them. “Mistress Blaine, are you okay?”
She shook her head, and Rafe tightened his grip on her arms. Her eyes leaked tears as she shot her gaze from Rafe to Branson, and back again.
Branson sighed. “Rafe, let go of the lady.”
He snarled, handsome face twisted into something altogether unpleasant. “Think on what you ask, de’Gaius. Think long and think carefully. I would make a very disagreeable enemy, and a pleasing friend. The King would be most upset to hear that you plotted against him and tried to loop me into your treason.”
“You wouldn’t dare!” Branson took three quick steps forward until he was directly in front of them. “You think it is that easy to lie to the King? You’re a fool, Blackship.”
“Who do you think he would believe?” Blackship drew Blaine against his chest, caressing her cheek while keeping one hand over her mouth. “You and a woman? Or me, his best friend?”
Indecision crept into Branson’s mind. The right thing to do was clear. Stand up for the woman’s honor. But in the long run, what would be better? For the King to have Branson at his side, or for Branson to forfeit it all for a woman he didn’t even know?
“Yes,” Rafe said, hand moving down from her cheek to cup her breast. “In fact, why don’t you join me?”
Branson took a step back, shaking his head. “Watch yourself, Rayford Blackship. Some things aren’t worth it.” Then he turned and left the garden.
Chapter Nine
Malok Mountain Keeper
Eat. Sleep. Reel through the visions. Stop, go back. Grasp the thread, follow its path. Try it again, and again, and again. Merge with the conscious. Become the soul. Eat. Sleep.
He was Polbine Voltaire, marching the Lands with a blonde man at his side, Brita in his arms.
He was Brita, celebrating her tenth winter day, racing along the coast on her new mare.
He was Truman, studious and tempered, making a thousand decisions that led to innumerable outcomes.
He followed them all, unweaving the threads and immersed in their lives. War, blood, and battle. Tea, books, and tomes. Dancing, learning to sew, painting, and riding. Now he was a little girl, and then he was a man. The horizon flashed in dizzying days of red and yellow, now out in the sun, then hunched by candlelight. Sleeping with a woman in his arms, wrapped up in her ebony skin and scented hair of coconut and lime.
Food was tasteless. Someone pushed it into his mouth, expecting him to chew. So he did, but his eyes ever looked to the future. He accessed the Deep, felt it swirl in his being, then reached for the Rift, chanting the words that brought fire and red. Blue mingled with crimson, at once working in tandem yet warring for supremacy in his core. His arm was aflame with remembered pain, and the carpenter’s face bent into molded flesh as he imagined what it would be like to rip the lifekey from his soul.
He relieved himself out of mechanical necessity. But in the mind, he was traveling the Green Lands, itching the back of his neck where the feather dusted and tickled, a baby screaming in the carriage behind him. Creator, why did babies wail so loud? Did they ever shut up, unless they were at the breast? Fatigue rocked his limbs, eyes itching at sleepless nights spent awake, listening to the Princess cry and cursing Branson for this so-called brilliant idea. Yet when he spoke, the people listened. They fired their questions like arrows, and he grabbed them midflight and set their minds at ease. The King had not forgotten. He would return triumphant as his name declared, bringing peace.
Malok slept, and in his consciousness... she groaned. The nanny once again wouldn’t let her practice accessing. It was too dangerous. The witch had not given her permission. What was the point, then? She was six years old, far old enough to learn to access the Deep. It burned in her soul, alight and begging for release. Father would teach her when he had the time, but that was rare. She wanted to be the most powerful accessor to ever walk the Joined Lands. But something else was there... a spark of red. What was it? How could she dig it out of her chest? It wasn’t the Deep that much she was sure of.
Malok was led through the dark halls underground, then emerged to look up, and beheld a sky of purple and pink before turning his attention to the line of battle-hardened soldiers who marched through the Bright Lands. He had done this. He had saved them, and the satisfaction oozing from him was at once bolstering and disturbing. What type of man murdered, all for the purpose of peace? Blaine’s face flashed through his mind, the begging in her eyes, the tears on her face. He shoved it aside. What was it to him, anyway? Why was he continuously haunted by that decision? He was not responsible. It was not his fault.
“He is restless,” a voice murmured. The sound was disorienting. Someone was speaking to Branson? To Brita? To the King? To Truman?
To Malok. He was Malok.
But the thought slipped away into another remembered vision. Followed by another, and then another, and then another. He was the King. He was Truman. He was Brita. He was Branson.
***
Brate Hightower
“He is restless,” Garron said, reaching a hand to wipe Malok’s fevered brow. Brate hesitated. It was time to try again, but the darkness in Malok’s soul seemed almost defiant. Brate’s will was strong enough to pull the void into
himself. But what would that mean? It had taken him weeks to regain his wits from the domai’s darkness. Anyia had all but forbidden him from trying again.
“I don’t know if I can do this.” But he had to try, right? He couldn’t just leave Malok like this.
Garron turned, pleading. “He suffers so much. You are the Bender....” He wiped a hand across his brow as tears brimmed in his eyes. “Please heal him, Brate. He’s all I have.” Crestfallen expression on his face, Garron turned back to grip Malok’s hand, trembling.
Brate’s throat tightened. Anyia had never displayed such loyalty for him, although he certainly felt that way for her. His mind wandered to the night before; his blood stirred at the memory. It had been special. It had meant something. There was a first time for everything, and that first time... he would never forget it.
He must focus. The Seer needed him.
He opened to the Deep and pulled it into his embrace. It came in a torrential rush of power and energy, infusing his body with both peace and madness. Borne up on a wave of rippling strength, Brate fought to contain it, pushing down with his hands and then grasping it like a rope. Gentle, firm tugs brought it to the center of his being, and Brate reached out with his will toward Malok.
The feeling was at once alien and familiar. Malok writhed on the bed as the Deep touched him, and Brate’s will fought the rising tide of images and darkness racing through the inner being of the Jin’tai. Within Malok’s soul was a maze of tangled threads, all leading in different directions. They eventually tied off, only to shoot different ways yet again. He couldn’t make sense of it. Projecting, he forced the tangle to cease its images and clamped down on the threads. They snuffed out like flames on a candle.
He worked on instinct. If he could force the images to stop firing in Malok’s head, maybe all he would have to do is pull the darkness afterward.
The visions fought back as if they had a mind of their own. Or was that Malok trying to keep a hold on them? The threads reared up, burning brighter, almost sentient. In his head shouts echoed, calls of protested anger. Gritting his teeth, Brate pulled in more of the Deep. It responded, foaming and tossing the waves on the surface as he reached underneath to the cool, tepid underside. It was like reaching for a shell under the surf at the beach. The water splashed and rolled over him, and he scrambled to keep himself upright in the flood.
The Last Steward Page 9