The Last Steward

by Janelle Garrett

  The Captain didn’t halt, and Branson lengthened his strides to keep pace. He would stare later.

  Down the corridor, redwood doors were flanked by six guards, who opened them with haste as the two men arrived. They must have known they were coming. Branson had little time to see into the room before he was ushered through.

  General Forde cut an imposing figure as he stepped into Branson’s path as soon as he entered. Branson halted as the man came to stand in front of him, blocking his view of anything else.

  “Why does the King send you, de’Gaius? Have you turned traitor? Bruil says nothing of this and claims ignorance.”

  Branson tried to form words on his tongue as thoughts of confusion streaked through his head. They had spoken with his father about him? Why? Is that why he had been taken to the constable, so they could stall?

  “I offered to come, General,” he managed to say, putting strength and authority in his tone. He was a warlock, after all. The right-hand man of the Triumphant King. He deserved to be here. “I would have the ear of the Council, as I do of King Polbine Voltaire.”

  His words seemed to stifle whatever the General was going to say next. He opened his mouth and then shut it again, narrowing his eyes and edging closer to Branson until they were almost nose to nose. Branson held his gaze, trying not to look away.

  “Why, by the Liar’s teeth, does a wealthy, loyal son of Vale turn tail and join the side of someone like Polbine Voltaire?”

  “I think I could shed some light on this.”

  The voice that shattered the silence was all-too-familiar. Branson took a step back, stilling the racing of his heart to take a look over the General’s shoulder. Graissa sat at the table, flanked by Moriah and an unknown woman whose aura emanated the Deep. A Sister, but not Helen.

  Graissa’s face was open and perplexed. She frowned at Branson, hair falling down her shoulders in waves. She was beautiful, still. There was something about her bearing that had changed. She seemed confident, more certain and in control.

  The General glanced at her, then back at Branson before stepping aside and gesturing him forward. “I will let you take this one, Reader.”

  Graissa nodded at the General before standing and coming around the table. Branson swallowed, unsuccessfully trying to stop the heat from crawling up his face as she drew near. Creator, her eyes were like sapphires that tugged at his soul, swirling with depth. The last time he had seen her she had been bound and gagged by the domai. That she had escaped and made it home warmed him like nothing else could. The shock of her presence was both disconcerting and pleasant. He needed to focus and not let her derail why he had come.

  “What are you doing, Branson?” She stopped before him, face still wreathed in a frown. “Why do you wear the enemy’s colors?”

  “Enemy?” he asked. Why was he so surprised? For all she knew, he had been in a dungeon, or killed. So of course she would see the King as an enemy. “You have it all wrong, Graissa. Polbine Voltaire is not the enemy.”

  “Then who is?” she asked, crossing her arms and glaring at him. “Please, don’t tell me he has fooled you. Please tell me you haven’t swallowed his lies.”

  The way she said it made him wish he could tell her what she wanted to hear. But that was the old Branson, the one that still loved her. He was a new man, now. A man with a mission.

  “If you would give me some time, I could explain to you –”

  “There is no explaining that needs to be done!” Her eyes lit with fire, her tone firm. “He sank his claws into you, Branson, and you need to be freed.”

  She thought she knew everything, as usual. He almost laughed.

  “Come, hear my side before you judge me, Little Girl.”

  She took a step back, shaking her head. “Those times are past.” Was she referring to his pet name for her? Graissa looked to the Council and he followed her gaze. They were all there. Wait, no. The Chancellor was missing. What was going on?

  “You walk a dangerous path, son,” Kole del’Blyth said from the far side of the table. His eyes were full of compassion. “Strip yourself of this foolish pretense and come back home where you belong.”

  Ire rose forth at his words. What, did Kole still think Branson was going to follow his word just because he said so? He could get away with that when Branson was a lad, swayed by Kole’s opinion of him because he was pursuing his daughter. But now?

  Branson stiffened. “If you will not hear my side of the tale, then at least listen to the tidings I bring from King Voltaire. You sent Blackship away with nothing. No decision, twiddling your thumbs and hoping you wouldn’t have to choose a side. But his patience is over. Join him or suffer the consequences.”

  The soldiers ringing the room grew stiff, and Branson nearly embraced the Deep, eyeing the Sister. He was shielded, of course, but that wouldn’t stop her from sensing the hostility making the air thick with tension, and pull in the Deep herself. But she stood calm, unfaltering eyes never leaving his face. She made no move to use the Deep.

  “He would attack Vale?” The disbelief tinging General Forde’s voice showed on his face. He stood tall, legs planted firm on the ground, arms at his sides, fists clenched. “He has no quarrel with us!”

  “His quarrel is that you remain neutral!” Branson turned his gaze to the Council, glaring at them each in turn. Uttred del’Waile sweat, droplets glistening on his forehead. Franc del’Niope rubbed his chin as if in thought, eyes staring into Branson’s soul. Beside him, Jorkin del’Grayson’s fingers were steepled, his body on the edge of his seat. Would they see reason? They must!

  “Neutrality is no reason for invasion.” Graissa sat down in her chair, shaking her head. “What has happened to you, Branson? Are you under an enchantment?”

  “I make my own choices.” His stomach burned at the look of regret in her eyes. Surely she would come to his side when she heard his story.

  Her eyes filled with tears, and Branson looked away. He could never bear to see her cry. Some things don’t change.

  “You are gone.” Her words were soft. Forlorn. Grave. “You are gone, and you don’t even know it.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Graissa del’Blyth

  The room cleared at Graissa’s request, everyone leaving save herself and Branson. Was he so foolish, so easily swayed? Vivian glanced at her as she left, gesturing with her chin toward Branson.

  Graissa Read her.

  Would you have me try to detect any enchantments placed over him? Vivian asked.

  Yes, but he will know that you do. Try to do it discreetly. If not, wait.

  He is a warlock? Vivian’s voice was surprised.

  Yes. He is shielded.

  The doors closed, but Graissa could still see through Vivian’s eyes as she walked across the corridor to enter a sitting room. She glanced at the other Councilmen, who gathered to talk in hushed tones.

  “Graissa must convince him to give up this charade!” Kole said, jaw clenched.

  “If anyone can, she will,” del’Niope answered, face firm, tone stalwart. His trust in her warmed Graissa’s neck. Or was that Vivian’s neck?

  I will wait, then, Vivian projected.

  Graissa let go of the Reading, coming back to herself. She waited, but the dizziness didn’t come. Instead, Branson raised an eyebrow and came to sit beside her.

  “You command them.” His voice was filled with what she thought was pride, a grin playing at the corners of his mouth. “Look at us, Little Girl. I walk at the side of the King, and you demand the attention of the Council!” He chuckled, shaking his head. “Are you the new Chancellor? What happened to del’Barron?”

  Graissa hesitated. How much should she tell him? “That is not important, and I’m scared, Branson. What has happened to you?” She took his hand, hoping the feelings he still had for her softened him. Her love for him wasn’t the same as it had been, but she still valued his friendship. She hated seeing him like this. He was under an illusion.

  “I don
’t understand what you mean.” He took her hand and squeezed it. “You misunderstand the King’s intentions, as do most people. He only wants what is best for accessors.”

  “By opening the Rift?” She took her hand from his, frowning. “What lies has he told you?”

  “They aren’t lies! He has no desire to open the Rift, Graissa. He only means to use it until he can defeat the Flatland King.”

  “Were you there?” Graissa stood, unable to sit still. Anxiety gripped her in its thrall, and her heart raced. “Did you see what he did to the Sisters? Branson, he steals their power for himself.”

  “I know,” he replied, and at his words, Graissa’s heart stopped. He knew? And yet he still followed him? “They were traitors, Graissa. They deserved their fate. They plotted against him, wanted to steal what was rightfully his. They spread lies about his cousin, claiming D’nie Voltaire is the real heir to the Throne. Look... listen! You must believe me.”

  Branson stood and came toward her. Suddenly, his presence brought forth a fear in her that it never had before. He was not in his right mind, that much was clear. Should she Read him?

  No. He would know, and he would hate her for it.

  “You saw it, didn’t you? Saw what he did, and you still trust him.” The words choked her, but she kept her composure. “Fool!”

  Branson’s eyes darkened, and he halted his advance. “Fool, am I? You think so little of me?” He clenched his fists. “You think I’m blinded? Who is the one who is blind, Graissa? Being the Reader has gotten to your head. You think you know so much more than the rest of us?” He spread his arms wide. “Read me and see for yourself. I hide nothing. Everything I say is the truth.”

  His offer stalled her misgivings. Something about his look and tone made her think that perhaps he really did believe what he said. That was worse than him simply being blinded.

  Branson wasn’t the same. Perhaps he would never go back to who he was. Sadness swirled inside her, but so did resolve.

  “Even if what you say is true, you don’t know the whole story. Brate Hightower saw it, and Constance Rei’cain suffered and died for it. Shia will attest to it, if we ever see her again. She was held captive there, Branson. Right under your nose, your childhood friend was imprisoned by your King!”

  Branson’s mouth dropped open, but he shut it again with a snap. “He must have had a good reason. Did she plot against him, along with the Sisters?”

  “What plot? The plot to free the Lands from this monster?” Anger seethed within her, anger at the King, and anger at Branson. How had it come to this?

  “He is not a monster!” Branson’s raised voice matched his red face. He seemed to realize he was yelling at her, for he stepped back and ran a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Graissa, I shouldn’t yell.” He stepped forward on swift feet, gripping her arms. It took everything in her not to yank away, repulsed. He saw her reaction, the stiffening of her spine, and released her with a sad sigh. “We won’t see eye to eye on this, will we?”

  “Never,” she replied, shaking her head with a slow, sad quiver. “You have chosen your lot, as have I.”

  “This is it, then.” His eyes bore into hers. “I love you, Graissa. I always have.”

  His admission didn’t surprise her, but it also didn’t move her. If anything, it made her sadder. “I know, Branson. And I’m sorry, too. Sorry that I can’t give you what you want. Sorry that, for this choice you are making, you are ostracizing yourself from the rest of us. From your people. From me.”

  “But...” he stopped, rubbing his fingers over his eyes. “What will the Council decide?” He stood tall, dropping his hand. He seemed to accept her words, moving back to the topic at hand.

  “Give us some time, and we will let you know. Go. The soldiers will show you to a place where you can wait for us to discuss this.” She sighed, taking his forearm. “I know you are still there, Branson. Underneath it all, I know you are a good man.”

  Her words changed something in him. She saw it across his face, the change from soft to hard. Eyes of steel replaced eyes of gentleness. “Maybe good isn’t what is needed.” He bowed, and then turned and left the Council room.

  Graissa sat down on a chair and stuffed down the tears, down where they couldn’t distract her. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe he was beyond saving.

  ***

  It was decided. Graissa shuddered as Branson clenched his jaw, gave a swift nod, and left the Council. He didn’t even look at her as he did.

  War. What had they done?

  The General dispatched several soldiers to race with the news. Fortify the trenches. Spike the walls. Gather the troops. Prepare for an invasion.

  From what their spies could tell, the forces of the King were large but not unmanageable. If lucky, Vale could hold under siege for at least a couple of weeks. But that could not be said about the other cities. Perhaps he would pass over Vale and head straight for the Bright Lands, or perhaps he would head for the smaller, less defensible cities. But there was little in it for the King to do that, unless he wanted to teach them a lesson. He seemed to be the type to focus on one thing, set his mind on one task.

  One could hope and pray.

  Graissa went home, packed what little belongings she had, and with one last look, left her childhood home for what was perhaps the last time.

  The fields slipped by through the carriage window. What had she done? What she had set out to do. But it was too late. With enough time, perhaps they could have formed a stronger front against the King with the help of the Sisterhood and the Flatland King. Even now, birds raced across the skies with letters and information, begging for help. But little could be done, now. Vale was reeling. The Chancellor was a traitor, and the people were aflame with restless energy. The Council did what they could, but there was only so much they could try before it was futile.

  What was the point of being the Reader if she couldn’t even help her own countrymen? And why did she care so much now? Perhaps because she could see, for the first time, just how corrupt the Chancellor had been. How treasonous, how poisonous. He had pulled the wool over their eyes. Well, everyone except Father.

  Pride blossomed in her chest. Father. He had been the only one with courage enough to take a stand. She had fled, gallivanting off to leave the hard work to him. She hadn’t known it at the time, of course. But still...

  “You will stay?” Moriah’s voice cut through the silence.

  “I won’t leave them again.” Graissa turned. Moriah’s eyes were glum, dark. What did she think of all the change taking place?

  “Your mission has been accomplished,” Vivian interjected. “Now, your responsibly is to your Stewardship.”

  She had a point.

  Graissa gazed out the window. “You would have me go where, exactly?”

  “Take Gerard and go bind the pithion.” Vivian’s voice was low, calming. “Do what only the Reader can do.”

  “I wouldn’t even know where to start.” Graissa banged her forehead against the side of the carriage before turning her gaze to Vivian. “Everyone needs me. Vale needs me. The Watchers need me. Creator’s bosom, all of the sphere needs me!”

  Moriah’s soft hand fell on Graissa’s knee. It surprised her, the show of affection. Moriah had never tried to comfort her before, at least, not by something as human as a soothing touch. “I have seen you solve problems when there seemed to be no hope. I’ve seen the conviction in your heart that all deserve to be free. Your spirit will not give up, Graissa. You weren’t made for that sort of thing. Your inner being is alight with courage and bravery, and where you go, I will go.”

  Graissa’s throat clamped. She cleared it, raising a finger to wipe away the tears forming in her eyes. “Thank you, friend.” She straightened. “You are right. If anyone can help me figure out the riddle of getting the pithion’s lifekey, it would be Gerard.”

  “Then let’s fetch him,” Vivian suggested.

  Graissa shrugged. “One problem. I have n
o idea where he is.”

  ***

  Gerard Redstone

  He found a wall. His back did. He watched, and waited, and read, and talked in Mool tongue. The wall wasn’t as comfortable as the one in Rollvear. It suited Gerard’s purposes; mainly, to disappear. No one noticed him in Vale. He was just one more beggar clogging the streets.

  He dreamed, and in his dreams Adella’s face morphed. It widened, turned lighter, lost the clay and oil that accentuated her features. Her hair went from dark to blonde with hints of red, and when he awoke, Graissa’s face was what he saw. A new loyalty filled him. A new obsession. A new task.

  Not an obsession. Love. But not as a lover... as a subject. She deserved it.

  How many days had passed? Three. And fourteen hours, twelve minutes, and thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two seconds since he had last seen her. Would she heed his words? Could she listen past his stumbling lips to see the heart of what he was trying to say?

  She was the Reader, after all. She could just Read his mind, see what lay therein.

  Maybe she would find him. Sense the burden. See the need. The Stewards must succeed.

  He grew restless. Where was she? His fingers twitched, his ears burned. Soon, he would need to find her, because she clearly hadn’t understood what he was trying to say. The pithion, it must be bound. That was her mission, regardless of what happened here in Vale. Word spread that the Chancellor had appeared before the tribunal, confessed his crimes. The streets were alight with change, with fevered eyes and wrinkled brows. Mools looked up from the ground, daring to search the faces of their human oppressors. Beggars converged into groups, gesturing and speaking in animated tones. Guards prowled, breaking up the crowds, forbidding any gatherings where speakers could talk of change. Like Price had, they said.

  Then the Triumphant King was discovered at the border. The wind shifted, bringing unease. Fear. Gerard watched, listened, tasted the air with his tongue. The Reader left, they said. She would come back for him, but still, his chest squeezed. She would, right? She knew, she had heard what he had said.