The Last Steward

by Janelle Garrett

  The threads blazed until he shut his physical eyes against the burn. He pushed, sending the Deep with a roar toward the glare. It sizzled out. The threads melted under the power of the blue light, and Brate pulled back. Star forbid he would melt Malok’s mind with it.

  Just in time. The last thread extinguished, and underneath was Malok’s own consciousness, rising from the depths as if dead. It was only a projection, but Brate’s heart hammered with surprise. A cloud of oily black ascended, and the Deep called to Brate. He stepped away into its flow, leaving Malok unhurt. Pulling even more, until his body was full and ready to burst, he called the darkness. It shot out with a force so strong that Malok’s body elevated from the bed. Garron cried out, falling from the chair. But it was as if physical reality was secondary, like a smoky haze. This other reality was crystal clear, more tangible than what he could touch.

  The black force slammed into Brate, and he fell back as ice slid into his veins. Thick, viscous fluid rushed through his body, and he willed the ebbing to cease. It was as if the substance dissolved, melting into nothing.

  What in the Liar’s teeth was that?

  A pulsing took residence in Brate’s chest. It wasn’t the Deep. A new awareness, perceptive, as if it was brooding. Brate had seen it with his eyes, and now he felt it in his very being. Shaking, he stood tall and released the Deep. It wafted away, the tide receding. In its place, the Rift stood.

  What was it the King had said? Every accessor had the ability to touch both the Deep and the Rift?

  Somehow, it was inside of him. Sucked from Malok’s mind, and from the domai at the Voltaire Palace. It now pulsated as if it was a second heart in his chest.

  “Malok?” Garron said, standing to his feet and rushing to Malok’s side. The Seer groaned, rubbing his face and opening his eyes. Instead of the vacant, expressionless look he had shown for weeks, there was awareness. Reason. Self-sufficiency.

  “Garron?”

  The two embraced, and Brate smiled. The Rift receded slightly, and although its presence was disconcerting, he was glad Malok now seemed whole.

  ***

  Together, Malok and Brate stood before Anyia and the Mothers. The women gazed on them with terse expressions, faces tightened by worry, anxiety, fear, or maybe all combined. Brate waited, eyes wandering, then settled on Mother Justice. His mind flashed to the fight in the barn, where she defended them with her blade. He had never seen bladewielding like that; it had been like a dance. Her wounds had nearly killed her, but Isa had healed her with a touch.

  She raised her lips in a half-grin, nodding at him. He nodded back and looked to Anyia.

  “Why?” she asked, brows lowered in confusion. “Why now? Of all the options we have, why must you leave to tear down the web?”

  “I have seen it in my mind,” Malok responded easily, crossing his muscled arms across his chest. He had lost weight, but not enough to diminish his well-maintained physique beyond a few pounds. “It comes down in every single vision. Brita knew it, Branson knew it, and the King knew it.”

  “But...” Mother Aryol, jowls dropped in confusion, shook her head. Her cheeks flapped in the wind. “It makes no sense. If that is so, why can’t you decipher a way to win this war before it even begins?”

  Malok’s gaze hardened. “I died a thousand deaths, lived a thousand lives. Saw a million futures. Spun a centennial sphere, and watched it burn until nothing remained. Then it was reborn, and started all over again, spinning on an axis of silver and gold.”

  What was he talking about? Brate could tell he wasn’t the only one wondering. Bafflement etched the Mothers’ faces. Maybe Malok didn’t even know. His tone was mechanical, emotionless.

  “If you would have me See, I would tell you only this: there is no set future where all goes according to plan. For the plan differs from mind to mind, and the future is written in the skies of possibility, only to sink with the flaming dusk. It emerges again, to burn another thread across the body who waits, and acts, and impulses, and seethes with unmet desires and loves. Acting with cowardice and courage, hatred and passion, boiling points of impact spanning for another million years.” Malok took a breath, his gaze still unblinking on Mother Aryol, who fairly melted into her chair.

  “Malok, would you tear down the web for the betterment of all Lands, or simply because you have seen it come to pass no matter who you saw?” Anyia’s voice was calm. Malok’s answer hadn’t seemed to bother her in the least.

  Malok reached into his pocket and pulled out a metal rock, smooth and small, barely larger than a coin. Something in Brate was drawn to it, like a moth to flame. It glistened. Was that frost on the surface?

  “This would bring it down,” Malok said, palming it, then closing his fingers. “This, and me, and Garron. And the Bender, in some cases.”

  “Very well.” Anyia stood, taking a step forward to lay a hand on Malok’s arm. “I would have you reach out to the Brotherhood, in whatever way you can. Unite them, call for a council, whatever you have to do to communicate our desire and need for their help. Brate will help them see reason. They must cast their lot with us, or the Triumphant King will burn the Lands, theirs included. Myra will accompany you. We, and Ezra Carp, will stay behind and try to find Isa, and await word from Priva and Graissa. I will dreamwalk with Myra to keep you informed.” Her eyes shot to Brate but didn’t linger. She turned and sat.

  “Anyia – Benefactress – are you sure?” Mother Dor’stala stood, hands clasped in front of her. “Sending the Bender and Seer on such a mission will only detract from the true mission they face.”

  “On the contrary. For I sense a new day is coming. I don’t know how, or when, or why. But the Rift will not close if Polbine Voltaire lives. He will do all that he can to keep the chasm open, and if that means killing and lying his way to the Stone Throne, and taking over the Chancellorship, and busting down the web to annihilate any wisdom that would stop him, he will do it.”

  Anyia was right. Brate had seen it, and heard it, and experienced it. Even now, the Rift pulsated in him. He dare not tell the others what was available to him. It would be too much. And Anyia would never trust him again.

  “I will do as you ask.” Malok nodded. “Be wary, Benefactress. I have seen your face in my visions, and they are unclear images. Something stalks you, and for once, you have not run from it, but have embraced it.” He turned to Brate, eyes and face inscrutable. “One path leads to destruction, and the other to happiness.”

  Anyia once again glanced at Brate, but she only nodded and returned to her seat. “Prepare. Leave in the morning.”

  That night, Brate pulled Anyia close and let her weep into his chest. “I send you away as if you were a mere puzzle piece. I use you, I use Malok, and Myra.” She shook, sobs wracking her body. “Brate, what have I become?”

  “What you must,” he responded. “Just as I have.” She raised her tear-stained face to look at him, eyes drawing him into their depths like a bottomless sea. “I became a Steward to save the sphere. You became the Benefactress to save the Sisterhood.” He paused, sighing. “We do what we have to do.” Bending, he placed a kiss on her forehead.

  She raised her mouth, and he took the invitation. If he only had one more night with her, he would make the most of it.

  Chapter Ten

  Priva Car’abel

  It was dark in in his chamber, and the silence overtook Priva as the Dreadwood had only a few months ago. Images flashed through his head, memories of hanging in the night, limbs splayed out, fighting for breath as the sweat trickled from his brow. A slight sound outside his door invaded the stillness. Who would be visiting him at such an hour?

  A timid knock shattered the hush, and he rose and padded to the door. “Who is it?”

  “Josslea. Open up, Priva. I have something of import to tell you.”

  He sighed. More than likely, she sought a sexual encounter. He could be killed for dallying with his father’s wife. “I will not. Go back to your chambers, Maja.” Besi
des, he had no desire for her. Strange, how the fact of his usefulness only extending as far as the King’s dictate dissipated any other pleasures to find in life.

  That isn’t entirely true, a voice shattered his mind. It sounded like Constance. You were made for more, Priva Car’abel, make no mistake about that.

  What, now he was hearing two different women in his head? Graissa wasn’t enough? Speaking of, why hadn’t she contacted him for what, weeks now? But then he felt it. Something niggled at the back of his mind, sliding in like a whisper of wind.

  “I only wish to warn you, Priva. Please, I could be caught. And then...” her voice trailed off, and with a sigh, Priva opened the door a crack. She pushed through, and he let her, resignation rolling from him. She was dressed modestly, for once. A robe hung to her ankles and covered all areas of visible skin save her face and hands.

  “What is it?” he asked, closing the door and rubbing his eyes with his fingers.

  “A conspiracy, and you are at the center, dear Priva.” Her face held no deceit. Smooth hazelnut cheeks were tinged red with what seemed like fear. “Your siblings will not stand for Arinbjorn to pull the Stone Throne down with his antics.”

  By the Liar, was she ever not causing a stir?

  “What do you mean? Father only does what he thinks is best for the Bright Lands.” Even he knew that, and he had been away for a long passing.

  She sat on the edge of his bed, running her fingers through her hair. “I am not a good wife,” she began. “At first, I had my sights set on you.” She flicked her eyes up to him, taking in his bare chest and short trousers. “You would not have me.”

  “My Father forbade me from taking any wives,” Priva told her with a wave of his hand.

  “Whatever the case, I soon became involved with Jasper. He was clearly going to be named Inheritor. And to my shame, I only craved power and prestige. It was easy to convince Jasper that I loved him. But one night, the King set his eyes on me, and I took the opportunity it afforded. We married not many weeks afterwards, and Jasper never forgave me.”

  “Is this leading somewhere?” Priva asked, impatient. The silence seemed preferable to Josslea’s drama.

  “Jasper dug into my past, and his spies came back with reports of who I really am. Priva, I am no clan Maja. I was brought over on a slave ship and managed to lie my way to where I am now.”

  “So what? What does this have to do with me?”

  “I...” she ran a hand over her lips, hand trembling. “I have slept with most of your brothers. They do not take kindly to Jasper being named Inheritor. He has changed, Priva. He acts strangely, but none of us can put our finger on it. The brothers would have you named instead, since you remain aloof, uninvolved, and therefore pure.”

  “I am an accessor!” Priva retorted. “You lie. My brothers would not have me take the Stone Throne.”

  She hesitated, a frown furrowing her brow. “There is much you don’t know, Priva.”

  He snorted, shaking his head. “I will not forfeit my duty to the sphere.”

  “If you really cared about the sphere, you wouldn’t still be here, going on an impossible mission.”

  “The mission is the reason the Lands will not burn. Father would sign with the Sisterhood and join their ranks to defeat the Triumphant King.”

  “You really think Arinbjorn will keep his word?” Her face was a mixture of incredulity and sympathy. “Oh Priva, you are naïve.”

  “He said so in front of a clan Elder, the High Finder, and his brother. He will not go back on his word. I will leave tomorrow with Callum and end this.”

  “Think reasonably, you oaf!” she snapped.

  “Why are you coming to me?” he responded, raising an eyebrow as her face went tight with anger. “My brothers would not send you in their stead. A slave, after all.”

  “Yes, a slave. But a slave who knows what lies in the distance, building and building to swallow the Lands. Not just the Rift, Priva Car’abel. The Dragons.”

  “You speak of the Raized Domain.” He folded his arms, laughing but without mirth. “The Underground will not come to the Lands. We are full of accessors.”

  “Are you so sure about that?” she raised an eyebrow. “I am Raizani, Priva. I grew up on that soil, heard the tidings from the Epaths, saw the fear as the ground shook with sounds of war. Then I was taken. Once freed, I kept in contact with my family. Already the Domain has fallen, and the Dragons sit above the ground on the Epath Column. They are even now looking to the Bleak Continent and the Sultan’s Palace. It will not be long before the sultanate is fallen, along with the whole Continent itself.”

  “The Sultan will not be so easy to topple as were the mystic Epath’s,” Priva scoffed. “They were a soft society.”

  “You speak of my countrymen!” Her eyes flashed. “Our religion –ʺ

  “Means nothing, now that the Dragons eat your people’s flesh.”

  Rage slashed across her face and he tensed, ready for her retort. He did not regret his words, however. Religion, mysticism, it was all nonsense, and led to bloodshed without fail.

  “The Sultan, if word has it, is weak. The drought kills his people, with no need for the Dragons to even slither under the Continent sand.” Her words were clipped, face still tight. “Don’t be a fool, Priva. Neither your Father nor Jasper are up for the challenge of navigating those waters. The Passage Tide will dump the invaders under our soil with no trouble. Then what? The Fortress will fall. And there will be nothing left but half-men and half-lizard, mating with our people and creating a whole new species to die.”

  “Not if the Rift closes,” he stated, keeping his voice steady. Her words, however, caused a stir of uncertainty inside him. “All know that those creatures are in service to the Liar.”

  “Yet there is no barrier keeping them from society, as the Dreads are.”

  If she was right.... No. He pushed the thought away. “What would you have me do, Maja?”

  “I would have you convene with your brothers in secret to overthrow your Father and Jasper.”

  He laughed out loud, this time with genuine amusement. “With a foreign enemy on our soil? You are mad. Impossible.”

  “I speak of a later time, when the Jattalians are sent back to their island to toil away under the sun. Do what you must, Priva. Defeat the Hooded, let your father either go back on his word or sign the treaty with the Sisterhood. When you return, there will be an overthrow. It is already planned. A coup, if you will. Your brothers know you wield the blade, speak sense, and will take care of the coast. They are not afraid of your accessing if it reins in your Father and Jasper. After you sit on the Stone Throne, you can petition the Dreads to take away your powers. All know you despise the Deep.”

  Used to despise the Deep. But he didn’t bother bringing it up.

  He sighed. “I will sleep on it.”

  She hugged herself, nodded, and stood to her feet, seemingly uncertain. Then, a light came into her eye, and she glided forward, laying a hand on his bare chest. He stepped away, and without a word, she got the hint and left his chamber.

  Graissa? He asked, and the stirring in his mind answered.

  You knew I was here.

  You are getting better, but not good enough to fool me, Reader.

  She projected amusement. She was beautiful. Why did you send her away?

  Surprise jolted in his mind. That was not what he expected her to say.

  I only joke, Priva. Calm down. What will you do?

  I am unsure. What do you think?

  She sighed. I don’t envy your position. I know what it is like to face this much pressure.

  How so? He asked, settling into his bed, surprised at how familiar it was to speak with her. It was comforting. She seemed pleased by his awareness of it, and something like embarrassment invaded his being.

  Things are unstable in Vale. She chose to ignore his embarrassment, and Priva was grateful. The Chancellor tried to execute my father after he had a hand in an uprisin
g. I aim to unseat him. But there is something else. A strange beggar man, a warlock, who holds information that is both dangerous and useful. A document that states how the Stewards can fully wield their power. And it tells me how to bind the pithion.

  Isn’t that only able to happen once, and you couldn’t? he asked.

  Somewhat. I need the pithion’s lifekey to be able to do it again, and this Gerard has a manuscript that mentions how to do this. He showed me. It’s written in Mool tongue, of all things. Change is in the air, Priva. This document could change the tide.

  Her excitement was rubbing off on him. He smiled, chuckling as she continued. I would have free elections across the whole of the Broken Lands. I would free the Mools. I would – she stopped, sighing. First things first, though. We must convince the Council to side with the Sisterhood.

  You seem to be closer to your goal than I am, he muttered, frustrated. I only see defeat and death.

  Don’t talk like that! The Creator gifted you for a reason. Hold tight to that hope, Priva.

  He pondered her words, even as she took her leave and melted away from his consciousness. The Creator cared nothing for the affairs of man. Yet why did something stir in his chest, a longing for what he didn’t even believe?

  ***

  Priva glanced at Callum, who remained quiet as they left the stronghold behind. How often had Priva done this over the years, set off on a mission with an uncertain end? Enough that he no longer felt the adrenaline pumping his heart and stirring his stomach, but only a sense of acceptance. He set his face south. He had faced Dreads and survived. Surely he could take down a Hooded.

  Who was he fooling? This was next to impossible.

  They had decided it was best to not bring anyone else with them, save for two soldiers disguised as traveling companions. Both Priva and Callum donned plain attire, and the Greigan warriors Nigel and Perion also dressed as commoners. They wore the patch of a lowly clan further south, one that not many people would know. With luck, it would be a good disguise for any travelers on the road.