The Last Steward

by Janelle Garrett

“Don’t worry.” Priva tried to project as much confidence as possible. “I still have a plan.” He shoved away, crashing into a warrior and grabbing a small blade from the man’s arm sheath. Shouts echoed behind him as he ran. Arrogant, overconfident fools. He was a Car’abel, and he had survived many, many years without the Deep.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Callum Car’abel

  Callum was shoved by two Jattalians as the rest broke away to chase Priva. She laughed, shaking her head as she was prodded along. Did they really think Priva would just follow as a dog because they had her prisoner? Idiots.

  She stumbled and pitched forward, but the strong hands of her captors caught her and pushed her onward. They forced her to run until they arrived back at the command center. Several other warriors appeared, and word quickly spread. Although she couldn’t understand them, it was obvious Priva’s escape was of first importance. Several people ran inside while others fanned out as if to search for him. If she could hazard a guess, Priva would be long gone from here. The mission was an utter failure, and he would send word back to the Hovering City.

  She was left in a small room where they had kept her before Priva had even arrived. Chained to a wall, she sighed and sat down with her back against the stones. A chill quickly overtook her, and her arms bubbled and teeth chattered. She hadn’t eaten in several days, save for the bite Priva had shoved down her throat. Her stomach grumbled its complaint.

  Several minutes passed before her door was flung open. Clyfe Fleetfoot stepped inside, covered in sweat and eyes glowing with rage. He grabbed her by the arm and hauled her to her feet.

  “What? Couldn’t find him?” She laughed at his expression. It seemed to anger him all the more, for he yanked roughly on her arm after unlocking the chain from the wall. He dragged her from the cell and into the command center. The halls extended outward then turned sharply and encircled the chamber where Priva had first met the Hooded.

  Clyfe threw her to the ground as soon as they entered. The Hooded stood against the dais watching Grayfin shouting orders, face stony. Warriors rushed in and out of the chamber in waves. Her heart swelled at the sight. They wouldn’t find him. Priva was too good for all that.

  “Callum!” Grayfin turned as she entered and stalked forward. “Where will he go?” He stopped before her, bushy eyebrows dangling and waving as his body heaved with suppressed rage.

  “How should I know?” She shrugged, the chains weighing her down so that she should barely lift her hands. “This is your city, is it not? I would think you would know where he would go.”

  Grayfin snapped his hand up and slapped her in the face. Ears ringing, she licked her lip as blood splat on the floor. The pain didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he was angry enough to react.

  “Take a guess, then!” Grayfin clenched a hand and turned from her, only to whirl back again. “If he isn’t found, we have no need of you.”

  “Will he run, or come back for you?” Clyfe laid a hand on her arm, gentler this time.

  “I’m telling you the truth. I don’t even know him that well. My guess is that he is long gone, probably out of the city.”

  “Bah!” Grayfin marched away followed by Clyfe. She quieted her racing heart. She was close enough to hear them.

  “If what she says is true, we must march at first light.” Clyfe glanced over at her.

  “This wouldn’t be a problem if you hadn’t let him escape!” Grayfin turned a glare to Clyfe, who growled and surged forward.

  “Peace.” The Hooded didn’t even raise his voice, but Clyfe immediately stopped. “This is not such a terrible thing. Priva will take back word of how strong our forces are. More clans could even fall under our banner willingly instead of by force.”

  “Send the word out, then.” Clyfe nodded at Callum. “She is not important enough for the King to want to barter for her life. But her presence might be just enough for the other clans to fear for their own treatment if they do not give way to our might.” He turned away, his back to her. But she could imagine the look on his face. “Just as our illustrious Elder here has done.”

  “Don’t assume I joined forces with you because I feared you.” Grayfin shifted and Callum caught a glimpse of his face over Clyfe’s shoulder. It was full of anger, brows still shaking, lips pressed together.

  “It is pointless to argue facts.” The Hooded didn’t even look at Grayfin. Instead he nodded at Clyfe. “Find him, Fleetfoot. If not, you are correct. We must march with haste.”

  ***

  Priva Car’abel

  Lungs burning, Priva stopped in the recesses of an alley. He collapsed onto the grimy stones, hand clenching the blade he had stolen. No one was in sight, so he had a few minutes to catch his breath.

  The question was, what now? Run? Take word back home? But that wasn’t the right move. Father had demanded one thing: the death of the Hooded in exchange for a peace with the Sisterhood. If Priva returned without accomplishing that command, he was as good as dead. The Finders would kill him.

  Besides, could he just leave Callum in the hands of the enemy? Perhaps, if absolutely necessary. But if he was going to go back and kill the Hooded, he might as well try to free her, too. But how? There must be those faithful within the city who would be willing help him. But he was running out of time. If the Jattalians didn’t find him by tomorrow, they would march. At least, that is what he would have done.

  Echoing shouts filtered into the alley. They were close.

  He heaved to his feet, eyes searching the semi-darkness. The walls were a bit further east. Should he find safety there? But no, it made no sense. They would think he was going to flee, and have every exit covered.

  Where would they least expect him?

  A clatter down the alley shot him the other direction. He would have to come up with a plan on the run. Before he darted out of the alley, he shook off his cloak and tossed it into a dark recess. Ahead, someone’s laundry hung from wall to wall. He grabbed a peasant’s patched cloak and donned it, pulling the hood over his head. If he could find some cloth to bind his hands and face, they would think he was a leper. At least then he could traverse the city unnoticed.

  He sauntered from the alley, keeping his head down. Swiftly crossing the street, he found a clothier shop and pushed inside. It was nearing dusk, and soon the merchants would be closing. The shop was a bit busy, much to his luck. He scooped some thick, pale cloth from a stand and reached for his coin pouch. He found empty air.

  Of course. They had taken it.

  He bumped into another patron and darted from the shop. The merchant’s shouts rang out after him but faded as he weaved through the crowds.

  He found a hidden alcove away from prying eyes and shrouded his body in the linen, leaving only his eyes and nose visible. Since he had no idea where to find anyone to help him, he waited. The shadows lengthened, and the streets cleared when darkness fell. He pushed back toward the command center.

  Sure enough, people stayed out of his way when they caught sight of him. He hunched over, made his gait less strident, stumbled purposefully from time to time. The disguise was perfect.

  Across the street a contingent of Jattalians rounded a corner. At their center, holding a torch high, was the angry face of Clyfe Fleetfoot. Priva almost froze. What should he do?

  Trust the disguise. Don’t act suspicious. He continued forward, eyeing the ground. The urge to look up was taking hold of him in its urgent fists. No. Keep his head down.

  “A hundred gold frills for the whereabouts of Priva Car’abel!” Clyfe shouted into the streets. “Find him and bring him alive or dead!” The Jattalians scattered to spread the news. Priva stepped to the side as Clyfe passed him by, so close he could have touched him. The warrior didn’t even spare him a glance.

  Still, Priva’s heart thundered until Clyfe was long gone.

  ***

  The midnight hour struck, and Priva pushed away from the alley where he watched the scurrying activity of the Jattalians. Th
e Hooded remained inside the command center, as far as he could tell. No brilliant plan presented itself to him. The only thing he could think to do was scuttle in through the back kitchens and somehow find the Hooded’s quarters and assassinate him while he slept.

  Stumbling across the street, he ignored the prying gaze of the guards at the door and made his way around back. Slaves were still busy with evening chores, marked by the unmistakable pierced noses. A chain dangled through the nose hoop almost to their chests.

  Even they cried with alarm when he came in sight, some hissing at him and holding up the sign of villainy. He pushed into the kitchens past the guard, who shied away, too scared to touch him. When the kitchen workers caught sight of him, the room emptied so fast he blinked. This was easy.

  He needed to move fast before he was surrounded and thrown out. Several kitchen knives lay on the counters. He slipped several into hiding places in his clothing, then, taking a deep breath, he exited the kitchen. If the Hooded was here, he would be either sleeping or still in the main chamber.

  Some Jattalian warriors roamed the halls to his right, but their backs were to him. He ran the opposite way, finding the side door leading into the main chamber. He peeked around it, barely daring to breath. Grayfin was surrounded by members of his clan, but there was no sign of the Hooded.

  Where were the stairs? He glanced upward to the balcony encircling the main chamber. Doors led off of it, presumably the sleeping quarters. But which one was the Hooded’s?

  He crept back and squinted. The guards from before had stopped and were headed back his way. He lumbered toward them.

  “Alms!” he croaked, hands outstretched. They bristled and fell back with disgust when they realized who he was.

  One shoved him down. He fell to one knee and then sprang upward, his skull connecting with the man’s chin. Spinning, Priva slammed his open palm into the other’s nose. The crack of bone splintered the silence and the guards fell. Both clattered to the stone within seconds of each other, either dead or unconscious. Either would suffice.

  He leapt over their bodies and ran for the end of the hall. If their rotation was that way then – Ah, there they were. Stairs.

  He took them two at a time. Surely within a few seconds the guards would be found. He reached the top of the stairs, which opened into a small landing. It swept down a hall, where two more Jattalian guards stood outside a door. None of the others were guarded.

  The Hooded.

  “Alms!” He shuffled toward them. “Please, alms!”

  Their angry response only intensified his calls.

  “Alms!” He reached for them, and one raised his curvedblade, disgust etched on his face. As he brought it down, Priva ducked and slammed another open palm once into the other’s nose. The man grunted and fell as Priva whirled and grabbed the last warrior’s neck. Squeezing, he cut off his air supply. The warrior instinctively dropped his weapon and tried to wrench Priva’s forearm from his neck. He tightened his hold. The man slammed backward, and Priva hit the door. Great. The Hooded would know something was wrong.

  He kept his right arm wrapped around the warrior’s neck and drew a knife. Quick as a snake, he stabbed straight through a kidney. Warm blood splattered his arm. A hiss of breath escaped the man, but Priva kept a hold so that he couldn’t cry out. He shifted a bit and brought the blade up to cross the vocal cords. Slicing, he let go and the body tumbled to the ground. Gurgles were the only sound escaping the dying man’s mouth.

  “Who is there?” The door behind Priva opened. “Marl, Jussup –”

  Priva wasted no time. The Hooded raised a hand as Priva plunged forward with the knife. An explosion of power knocked him from his feet. Falling back, it seemed as if time froze. He launched through the air, keeping his gaze on the Hooded. The old man’s eyes widened, and as Priva hit the wall, the Hooded looked down. Blood seeped from the wound over his heart.

  Air whooshed from Priva’s lungs as his head and spine connected with the stone. He managed to land on his feet, the sphere turning sideways and then going dark. He stumbled forward, blinking. Everything came back into focus.

  The Hooded fell back, pulling the knife from his chest. Blood spurted from his mouth, and he looked up at Priva with something close to bafflement. Then he fell.

  A roar filled Priva’s ears as the Deep came barreling at him like a flood. He grasped it in, and the pain in his chest and head faded to the periphery, even as all his other senses ignited. The clatter and noise of the command center nearly knocked him to his knees.

  He could hear the blood seeping into the carpet by the Hooded. He could see the rise and fall of the chest of the warrior whose nose he had broken. Huh. He was still alive.

  Down below, a door creaked as it was opened. Then voices and running feet.

  They were coming.

  He ran the opposite way of the stairs, for already they were there, ascending toward him. He could hear the beating of their hearts, the inhalation of their lungs, the barked orders from the commanding elder.

  Rounding a sharp corner, he slid to a stop. Clyfe held Callum at bladepoint, the balcony railing to their right. Was there a back stairwell?

  “It’s over, Car’abel filth!” Clyfe pressed the blade into her skin and blood trickled down. She grunted, but it sounded more like anger than pain.

  Priva grit his teeth. The others were seconds away!

  “Watch her die, as I did my sister.”

  Priva surged forward, but Clyfe drew the blade across Callum’s throat.

  A scream filled his ears. Who was that? Not Callum. Her throat was gaping open.

  It was him.

  He barreled at Clyfe full force. The man laughed and spun, shoving him away. Priva caught himself, pulling two knives he had grabbed from the kitchen. He now faced Clyfe, and behind him were the rushing Jattalians, at least fifteen of them.

  Helplessness hot and damning filled Priva. There was nothing he could do. With one last glance at Callum, he turned and ran to the balcony. Clyfe must have realized too late, for his shout of rage followed Priva as he jumped.

  He had no time to think before the ground rushed at him. He landed soft, allowing his knees to buckle and then rolled. Where were Nigel and Perion?

  He had no time. Never, ever did he have bricking time.

  Grayfin was the only one in the command center. He stared with open shock as Priva sprang to his feet, knives clenched in his hands. Grayfin finally snapped out of it and reached for his side, where no weapon hung. His face was comical. Priva threw a blade at him, waiting just long enough for it to strike home in the Elder’s temple before darting out of the chamber. Justice for the traitor.

  The strike of an arrow just over his shoulder into the wall ahead made him quicken his pace. The confused shouts of the guards followed him as he dashed out the door. Priva ran as fast as he ever had, hot anger coursing through his blood.

  He would kill Clyfe Fleetfoot if it was the last thing he did.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Branson de’Gaius

  The horse faltered beneath Branson, blowing out great gusts of air. He had pushed the beast too hard, but they were almost there. The camp was not more than a mile, waving in the distance across the plains.

  What had the King decided to do? March on Vale as he had threatened just days ago? Something stirred inside of him. Was it regret? Perhaps. Even though it had been made clear that Branson was no longer a son of Vale, there was a tugging at his soul. It would take more than Graissa’s annoyance and his father’s disinheritance to tear away his love for his city.

  The horse faltered again, and he eased back. It wouldn’t do any good for the mount to die. And certainly not when they were this close.

  Something flickered in the corner of his eye. Branson pulled back even further, turning to his right. The grass moved, but there was no breeze. Heart pounding, he squinted and laid a calming hand on the horse’s neck. Tired as the horse was, the beast was still uneasy, hooves dancing on the di
rt road. Something was out there, about two hundred yards away. Something that was short and could hide in the waist-high grass.

  He embraced the Deep, welcoming the sharpened focus and lessening of emotional distress. His heart instantly calmed. He raised a hand and sent a tendril of power across the expanse and into the flickering grass. The enchantment was one he had taught himself years ago. The power of the Deep wrapped around a consciousness, but it was foreign. Something... wrong. The conscious was dark and twisted, as if born of another Time altogether. Once the tendril of the Deep hit it, the thing recoiled. The horse snorted and backed away, and Branson tried to control it with his legs to leave his hands free.

  A dark mass of black smoke rose from the grass and joined together until it was at least as tall as his house back in Vale. It writhed and twisted and turned toward him as if it knew he was there.

  The horse bolted. Branson threw out a hand to try and grab the saddle horn, but the mount stumbled and pitched forward. The momentum tossed him over its neck, where the ground rushed to embrace him. He tried to throw out a cushion of the Deep to stop his fall, and it partially worked. His head jerked forward and crashed into the dirt, body hanging suspended an inch over the road. Pain slashed through his forehead, accompanied by a wave of dizziness. Something roared to his right, like the bellows of a massive furnace. He manipulated the Deep so he dropped the last inch to the road and rolled to his side, blood dripping down his face and into his eyes. He wiped furiously at them as he tried to stand.

  Something slammed into him, but not physically. It was a mental cloud that searched and seared at his mind, digging into the sins of his past and bringing them into sharp focus. They rotated in his head, spinning and surging against his will. He pulled the Deep in, shoving against the cloud. It was like trying to wave out a forest fire using his hands.

  Something rumbled in the cloud, and his failures assaulted him from all sides. Memory after memory rolled over him in ever-increasing number. The times he had lied. The times he had failed. The times he had not spoken up when he should have. He was stripped bare, the darkness of his being exposed and flashed before him. The horrors of his own making were paraded before him, reminding him of his utter degradation. It descended on him and wrapped his mind in a haze of guilt and shame. There was no escape, was there? For at his core he was evil. Shameful. Disgraced.