They did, the three of them looking at Brate with worry. Malok saddled his horse, waving away the groom who came over and saddled Brate’s. Brate leaned against the stall, hands clenched at his sides. What had just happened? Where had that irrationality come from?
“You must control whatever ails you.” Malok pat his horse on the side and looked at Brate with sad eyes. “When you healed me...” his words trailed off, and another expression passed over his face. Brate couldn’t quite place it, but Malok turned back to his mount, saying nothing else.
They were soon on the road, the stars bright in the sky. It still wasn’t enough light, since the trees shoved forward against the road as if reaching to stop the travelers. Brate let Malok take the lead, searching his soul.
Malok had been hinting at something. Brate had a fair idea what it was. Isa had done something very similar; sucking the darkness from Brate is if embracing it into himself. Brate had done it with the domai in the King’s palace, and again with Malok. Was that affecting him? And if so, was Isa somehow immune to the cost?
Yet he was not there to ask. Brate had been left on his own. Not only that, but his reputation would spread. People will think he was a liar, a cheat, using his powers for his own gain.
But it was true, wasn’t it? There was a part of him that liked manipulating people. The very thing he hated the most about the Sisters, he was doing to others. Was that their influence on him? Or had it been there all along?
Intense longing for Anyia filled him, striking the very core of who he was. She would know what to say. Would soothe his questions away, take charge when he felt weak. Not let him blunder into a situation like the card game, making a fool of himself. He glanced toward the sky, vision suddenly blurred by tears. He wiped them away with a fist and grit his teeth. Somehow, he needed to figure out how to control the Rift and the toxic way it played with his sentiments before he ruined himself.
Chapter Sixteen
Malok Mountain Keeper
The writhing, swirling caluths yanked on the lifekey, severing all feeling and pain from Malok in one foul swoop. He screamed as the torment was ripped from his body, only to snuff out when numbness overtook him in waves. It was a relief. Why had they culled him, instead of continuing with this farce of a trial?
No, not culled. Malok glanced down and saw the rope of light that leeched from his own soul, knotted and twisted into a lifekey that Truman now held. What had he become? Was he no longer a man? Truman laughed, walking away and nodding at the Triumphant King who had an amused expression on his face. He held his right arm, burned to a crisp, with his left hand.
“You are mine, now.” The King’s eyes were dark voids of madness, all-encompassing, drawing Malok in like a vortex. He struggled against the pull, turning and trying to run away. But further in he sank, until all he could see were the chasms etched into the King’s face, pulling, always pulling...
“He is mine.”
The voice cut like a knife, and the Triumphant King jerked away. Isa stepped forward, a smile on his face. Malok gasped as the spell lifted. Truman screeched, but it was too late. Isa raised a hand and called the lifekey to himself. It was yanked from Truman’s grasp, falling end over end until Isa caught it. He pushed outward, and the lifekey hit Malok square in the chest. He absorbed it, shaking as his soul, spirit, essence returned. It was like the night being overtaken by the day, or the first gasp of air after being under icy water for hours.
“You will pay for this!” Polbine Voltaire barked, tone laced with hatred.
“I already have.” Isa barely looked at the King. His eyes flicked back to Malok, and he saw in his gaze the knowledge of a billion Lands...
“Malok!”
He gasped, turning and rolling from his blankets. Garron grasped his arm.
“Easy, friend.” Garron chuckled, standing and reaching down to help Malok to his feet. “That must have been some dream.”
Malok rubbed his weary forehead, taking in the encampment. Brate was standing far off, staring at the road. A fire crackled, Myra beside it, smoke drifting into the breeze. Dried meat was being warmed in a tin. Boiling water bubbled, softening the meat.
“Best I could do,” Garron said when he followed Malok’s gaze. “We didn’t have time for anything else. We only slept for a few hours and overslept at that.”
“You did well,” Malok said, laying a hand on Garron’s shoulder and squeezing. He strode over to Brate, who hadn’t moved, arms still crossed and eyes steadfast on the road. What was there to say? Was he still irrational, following his emotions wherever they led? Malok stirred, scratching his neck. There was danger down that path. When a man followed every whim of his heart, his head could not override it. Passion would do well to be subservient to reason, but not everyone had that ability. Brate clearly struggled to maintain both.
“I’m sorry.” Brate’s words cut through the silence, carried away by the wind blowing from the west. “I don’t know what is wrong with me.”
Malok turned his gaze to him, compassion stirring. “I think I do, Hightower. I know what it is like to be held in thrall, unable to save yourself. It looked different for me, I know. I wish I could take this burden from you as you did for me.”
Brate’s shoulders tensed, his jaw clenching. “I don’t know if I can do this, Malok. I don’t have the strength to be on constant alert, watching our backs and controlling whatever this is.” He sighed, shaking his head. “The Creator should have chosen a stronger man.”
Malok paused, choosing his words carefully. Best to say the right thing, or Brate could bend and break under the pressure building inside of him. “I once read a book written by a philosopher from the Raized Domains. His theory was the mind had power over the emotions and over our physical bodies. Many of the Brotherhood embraced this idea, for it fit into their views in a neat, comfortable manner.” Brate focused on Malok. A good sign, for it probably meant he was listening. “The farther I have traveled, the more I have realized that not everything can be categorized or organized to my satisfaction. There are unexplainable mysteries about the Deep, the Rift, the Creator and the Liar, that cannot be explained by mere words. Our experience must meld with our understanding.”
He lifted his hands and brought his fingers together to fit seamlessly. Then he dropped them, suddenly filled with a longing he couldn’t even put into words. If he couldn’t explain it, how could he tell Brate what he was feeling?
“I think I know what you mean,” Brate said, nodding. He glanced at Malok’s interlocked fingers before looking up again. “But what happens when they don’t make sense? When your understanding of the sphere collides with your actual experience?” Brate hunched his shoulders as the wind blasted, howling through the trees.
“One must win out over the other,” Malok responded with a grin. He poked Brate in the chest. “The question is: which one will you let win? Your heart is strong, Brate Hightower. You love passionately, but you also give in to your anger and fear in the same manner. Everything you feel, you follow, whether or not you have thought it through.”
Had he spoken too frankly?
But Brate laughed, shaking his head. “You sound like Anyia.” His face fell. “Sometimes, I cannot control it, Malok. I do not have a strong mind like you.”
“Strong mind?” Malok laughed. “Did you not see me as a raving lunatic, lost like a child taking the wrong way home?” Even as he said it, the colors surged in his head, cords and strings coalescing to form the futures of thousands of possibilities. It beckoned him to dive in, follow the intricate pathways, and unravel the truth. Be Branson. Be Polbine Voltaire. Be Truman. Be Brita.
He shoved it away, rubbing his forehead again. A headache was creeping in. The frayed edges of string whispered. All he had to do was grasp one, and he would be sucked in.
No. Never again.
“That was the workings of a dark power you could not fight.” Brate quirked his lips into a compassionate smile.
“Yet you did. And you won
.” Malok clapped Brate on the shoulder. “The Truth never makes mistakes, Hightower. He didn’t with you, that I am sure of.”
“If that is true, then why does the Rift exist in the first place?” Brate muttered, but he stood taller, shoulders confident. Turning, he strode toward the camp and the waiting breakfast Garron had prepared.
Brate’s question lurked still, haunting. Why indeed? Malok scratched his neck again. He could read a thousand books and scrolls and never be able to answer that question. The only one who could was the Truth Himself.
***
The layers of the future didn’t disappear; instead, as Malok’s headache intensified when they were back on the road, the strings called to him with almost audible voices. The colors were vibrant, reeling, forming an alluring pattern that begged to be explored. Now that the darkness was gone, would he be able to follow the threads without losing his mind?
Perhaps it was the same uncertainty plaguing Brate about willing them to the web. The unknown. Just earlier, hadn’t Malok been urging Brate to overcome his fear? Yet here he was, cowering away like a dog before his master who wielded a stick for punishment.
Brate took the lead, setting a fast pace. If pushed hard enough, the horses could make the journey in a week.
Malok grit his teeth and forced himself to focus on the road. How were they to destroy the web? Force the Brotherhood to see reason?
He reached into his pocket. The cool, frosted surface of the strange rock greeted his fingers. He knew how, in theory. The future had shown him. But the reality, as he had just discussed with Brate, could be much different. And of the thousands of choices they would have to make, there were endless possibilities of the outcome. Many ended in pain and tears and heartache. For many, many people. The whole Lands burned, in one vision. In another, every Land was safe, their children reading the ancients in schools built in every village. His heart pounded with excitement at the thought.
That was why he did this. Not for glory. Not for fame. For the idea that enlightened, formal education would be available for his children and their children.
Malok glanced at Garron, who frowned at Brate’s back. When he saw Malok watching him, he asked, “Is he going to be okay?”
“He must,” Malok responded, the swirling colors of the threads growing every brighter.
He must.
Myra rode ahead with Brate, and they talked in quiet tones. She seemed to be trying to comfort him. Maybe they should ask her about this new power bogging Brate down? But what would be the point? It would just worry her, surely. And she would send word back to the Sisterhood, and to the Benefactress. But maybe, in all Myra’s years in Grole’s House, she had come across some edifice of knowledge about what it meant? How it could be controlled?
Best to wait. For now, Brate seemed to have it under control.
The forested hills gave way to open spaces the further northwest they rode. But as they got closer to their destination, as the days passed and the miles were eaten up by the strides of the horses, the inklings of invasion could be seen. They avoided the army camps, naturally, but there was no mistaking the Lords sending their armies west, toward the Bright Lands. The Triumphant King was on the move.
Malok tried to stifle fear. Time was running short.
***
Myra Storm Wielder
“Quiet!” Garron hissed, sliding down an embankment where they waited. Myra caught his arm and helped him stay on his feet.
“What is it?” Brate asked, tone carrying a hint of both worry and excitement.
“A larger force, perhaps two hundred strong, not but a few hundred yards away.”
“What flag do they carry?” Brate asked, voice low.
A surge of fear invaded Myra. That close? Would the army know to watch for them? Surely the King would have his forces on the lookout for two Jin’tai and Brate Hightower. They probably carried a drawing of the three of them. Myra would be the only one safe if they were discovered. Until it was known she was a witch, that is. She dressed in commoner clothes, but it would only protect her for so long. Even the orb under her skin couldn’t protect them from two hundred armed men. And it would seem that Brate did not have the fortitude or strength of mind to will a particular outcome.
“A crimson standard, with the outline of a stag and hare.” Garron waved his arms. “And a carriage bristling with armed guards. It appeared to be carrying something of great import.”
“Gold,” Malok guessed. “Funding for the war. A Lord sent it.”
“How do you know?” Myra asked. Surely an acolyte would have no concept of war strategy, no matter how well-read he was.
“Because I remember.” He glanced at her, face unworried. “Truman sent it. From his new Estates, taken from Lord Conway.”
“Lord Conway?” Brate’s surprised face was almost comical. “He is no longer Lord of Meadow Grove?”
“Don’t look so happy,” Malok said, frowning. “Truman is a monster.”
Brate’s expression changed to worry. “My friends, my neighbors...” he let the words trail off. “What else did you see?”
Malok shook his head, mouth in a hard line. He clearly wasn’t going to answer. Brate glowered at him. Myra could almost see the temptation grip him to force Malok to tell him, but it passed. He relaxed and nodded.
Good. He was learning to trust the Seer.
“They will be past us soon enough. But we need to be careful not to run into them,” Garron said, patting his horse to calm it as it stamped the ground in irritation, pulling to try and graze. “Perhaps a few more minutes.”
Brate sighed, pacing impatiently.
The eddying tide of his emotions was a fickle thing, threatening to be his undoing. He hadn’t struck Myra as a particularly thoughtful man, but it was becoming clearer the more time she spent with him. The Bender had little hold on his feelings; they carried him along, tossing him about like a leaf in a storm. Why hadn’t the Truth chosen Malok as the Bender? Things would be much more reasonable, if so.
It wouldn’t do to wish for things that weren’t in her control. They would make do with what they had.
They remounted after pulling the horses up the embankment then headed around the marching men. It took much longer than Myra would have liked, but it was better to be safe. Making it to the Scrape Lands in one piece was just as important as speed.
The terrain was familiar. They had passed this way, with Ezra. Even thinking of him caused a small flutter in her chest. Along with it came a shaft of irritation. She liked him, against her will. The kiss they had shared... no. She shook her head and dug her heel into her mount, calling for more speed. Trying to outrace the memories, Myra clenched her jaw and tore herself away from the image of his face in her mind. It was nonsense.
That night, under a starry expanse blazing overhead, Anyia reached out to Myra in a dream. Her color was magenta and red, creeping into Myra’s consciousness like a tendril of smoke. Although she had never experienced a dream enchantment before, Myra knew it for what it was. They had trained her as a Learner what to expect. Color, instead of the person. Projections of intent, as opposed to words.
“Are you there, Myra?” The sending was more like the feeling of a question, the burning desire to know.
“I am,” Myra responded. “We will reach the border tomorrow, if all goes well. And then, two days after, be at the web.”
“Good.” The satisfaction rolling off Anyia soothed Myra’s nervousness, the general feeling of unease that accompanied anything new and strange. “Tell Brate...” Anyia hesitated. “Tell him to be careful. We need him.”
“And Malok,” Myra quickly reminded her. She was the Benefactress and couldn’t play favorites with the Stewards. Not now.
“Yes, of course.”
The dream flickered; Anyia’s power must be draining fast.
“How goes the search for Isa?” Myra asked, before the dream faded completely.
“No sign of him,” Anyia responded, but the dream was alm
ost gone. Her cloud of magenta was dissipating like smoke in a breeze. “I sent someone to his mother. I should hear from Brynn soon.”
She was gone. Myra awakened, shivering in the cold. The globe in her skin seemed to call to her, and she realized she had grasped the Deep in her sleep. How was that possible? Even as she wondered, the globe pulsed, answering her question as if she had asked it out loud.
Did that mean Myra could learn to speak in the dreams of others?
Something to consider later, after they completed their mission.
Chapter Seventeen
Brate Hightower
As morning dawned, it seemed to bring with it a new resolve in Brate’s mind. He had to do it. It was dangerous, yes. Foolhardy, even more so. But their time was short, and the marching army only accentuated that fact.
When he told them his intention to will himself to the web, Malok only nodded. Myra, however, frowned with worry.
“You don’t know how this will end,” she warned, an ominous tone in her voice. “You could be killed, for all we know.”
“Besides, we don’t know if it will even work,” Garron said. “We can only describe the web to you.”
“I have faced countless obstacles these last months,” Brate responded, standing tall and trying to project a surety he didn’t feel. “This does not amount to the danger I faced from phalynks, skrales, the Warlock King, and countless other things.”
“No, not the web.” Malok grinned. “The abandoned house where we first met Ezra Carp.”
With as much detail as possible, Malok painstakingly described the house. Brate concentrated on his words until he had a good idea of what it looked like and where it was located. Stilling the trembling overtaking his hands, Brate calmed his racing heart with a trickle from the Deep.
“If it somehow works, I will return to this very spot.” Brate gazed around him, taking in the details of their present location. “If I do not return within a day, go on without me.”
“Not a day. A few hours, perhaps,” Myra interjected. “We cannot waste more time.”
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