The Last Steward

by Janelle Garrett

  Blaine’s terrified face filled his eyes. Rafe clutched her close, his face sneering at Branson, words hammering at him to mind his own business or Rafe would turn the King against him. Again and again the vision flashed, and each time her face grew paler, more terrified, until it morphed into Graissa’s face.

  He lost all track of his position. Was he standing? Kneeling? Lying on the road? With a cry, he lunged forward toward the vision, but it dissipated. Graissa screamed in the distance...

  ***

  Branson gasped and shot up from where he had been lying on the road. The smoke rushed away, barreling into the plains. Trembling, Branson raised a hand to his forehead, where blood still seeped from the cut. The smoke grew smaller and smaller in the distance and then flattened to once again rustle the grass. Then it was gone.

  What in the Liar’s teeth was that? Some sort of demonic force from the Rift? It had to be.

  The memories faded, replaced by an eerie calm. Still, his heart raced as if he had run a thousand miles, breath ragged in his chest. Graissa’s scream haunted him.

  He pushed himself up to his feet, keeping a hand on his wound. His head pounded with relentless fury, sending shards of anguish through his skull. Where had his horse gone? He searched around, but it was nowhere in sight. The sun had moved, too. How much time had passed? Perhaps an hour, maybe more. There was nothing else for it but to walk to the camp.

  He struck out, the pain slowing his progress. The wind picked up, bringing a cold that sent shivers through his body. Creator, this is what he got for trying to do the right thing. For trying to make Graissa see the error of her ways, how she was judging the King and seeing it all wrong. It was her fault this had happened. If he hadn’t been on the road, he wouldn’t have encountered the smoke. And it wouldn’t have left him bleeding and alone.

  ***

  Polbine Voltaire

  Pol rolled up the parchment and handed it the valet. So. Brita was safe, traveling the Green Lands with Rafe and Truman. It still seemed somewhat wrong to care for her. But there was no denying the surge of affection filling him when his thoughts wandered to how she was doing. Was it love? If it was, it was unlike anything else he had ever felt. And something that his father had certainly never felt for him.

  He stood from the desk in his tent and turned. The leopard raised his head, ear twitching, before it continued dozing. Pol walked across to the other side, pushing aside a flap that separated his section from Kreen’s. She was writing at her own desk. “Any success, my love?”

  She started as if he had scared her. She relaxed as he edged toward her, but she moved to sit between him and whatever she was writing. “The High Chieftain still has not left the island. He claims he is not needed.”

  Irritation shot through his mind. The insolent bastard, sending everyone else to do the hard work while he stayed home where it was safe. “Tell him I am not pleased.”

  “Trust me. He already knows. The last letter I sent communicated your displeasure in the strongest terms I knew how.”

  “He is your father, is he not?” He stalked to the tent flap but stopped. What did she not want him to see? He turned back and snatched the paper from her.

  “Pol!” she protested but stopped when he turned and kept the paper from her.

  Dear Father,

  I am uncertain where you got the impression that Pol’s displeasure with you is in relation to me. He eats out of my hand. No. You must not blame me for “failing” when the failure lies firmly in your lap. You must come and come now. The Hooded will secure the Hovering City, and when that happens I will make my move.

  Failure? At what? What move? He turned to her. Her eyes were pleading. “What do you mean?” He was proud at how calm he kept his voice.

  “I don’t understand.” She stood and took the letter from his hand.

  He didn’t stop her, only crossed his arms. “What failure are you speaking of? What move?”

  She swallowed, set the letter on her desk with a shaking hand, and stepped toward him. “It is nothing.”

  “Then why are you afraid?” He took her arm, firm, pulling her closer. She didn’t resist but kept her eyes on his face. She continued to tremble under his hand. He embraced the Deep, keeping it full and wild. If she was betraying him...

  “I’m not afraid.” The lie came far too easily to her lips. She licked them, so lustrous and kissable.

  “Tell me, or I will force it from you.”

  “You wouldn’t!” She tried to pull away from him, but he tightened his grip on her arm. Her eyes narrowed in pain, lips curled into a snarl.

  “Try me.”

  The silence that followed was all the confirmation he needed. He dragged her across the tent and threw her on the chair at his desk. She cowered from him, raising a pleading hand, eyes wide with unshed tears. Damn her! Why couldn’t women just learn their place?

  “Pol, please. Father wanted me to report back to him, but I refused. That is all. I swear, I told him nothing.”

  “Nothing? What exactly did he want to know?” He loomed over her, trying to appear as menacing as possible. Her betrayal, pure and deep and wild, rose within him. He had loved her. Trusted her, as far as he was able to trust anyone, which wasn’t much. But still, he had extended what little he could toward her, and she threw it away like a slipper with a hole in it. Cheap. Utterly useless.

  “I just...” she swallowed again, eyes darting about the tent. He held the Deep tight, the swirling waters trying to burst forth. The Rift shrank in his chest in response, thick and angry. It didn’t like the fact that he chose the Deep. “I only mean that he wanted me to report on your weaknesses, your flaws, so he could possibly take the Hovering City for himself.”

  Rage spun within him so fast he didn’t think, just reacted. He grasped her hair, pulling her up toward him while she grabbed at his wrist. Tears flooded down her face. Even in agony, she was beautiful.

  He stalked from the tent, dragging her screaming through the first line of domai. The Rift rose within him, begging to be used. He cast the Deep aside and gripped the talisman at his throat. It burned at his touch, fueling his rage until all that mattered was her betrayal. Of him. After all he had done for her. He was going to make her his queen!

  She clawed at his wrist. “Pol! I have done nothing wrong! I was loyal, I swear! POL!”

  He marched to a water trough, currently filled and waiting for the scout’s horses to return. She must have sensed what he was going to do, for she screamed and tried to run. He gripped her hair tight, but she started to wrench away. With a heave, he picked her up and tossed her into the trough. She tried to scramble away.

  “Doliath.” The word rumbled from within him and the Rift responded. It tore from his chest and knocked her ten feet in the air. She landed with a thud, tried to stand, but was held fast by the Rift encircling her. Red light bound her in a haze. The stone underneath his hand burned hotter, but it didn’t hurt. It was more like the sensation of heat, and nothing like the burn he had received from that cursed carpenter.

  “Pol.” Her voice broke. “Please, listen to me. I love you. You know that, right?”

  “Yuthlana.” The Rift stretched, and she screamed as her arms were torn upward, legs downward. The pop of her limbs coming from their sockets sent a shard of pain through his heart. No. She deserved this. And it would teach anyone a lesson who dared betray him. Already a crowd had gathered, soldiers and camp workers and slaves.

  General Ungold stalked forward, pushing his way through. “What is the meaning of this?” He directed his gaze to Pol before turning to look at Kreen. “So it’s true, then. You do control the Rift.”

  “Veltrok.”

  She screamed, but it was instantly cut off as her body stretched and burst apart. Blood misted the air, flesh scattering, bones striking the ground. Her head rolled toward the General.

  Pol felt nothing but rage. The Rift boiled and surged within him, searing his soul. The Deep stayed silent, stirring uneasily as the R
ift rumbled underneath it. Truman would tell him to stop, to let go. But why? The one person he cared about besides his daughter had lied. Connived. Plotted.

  General Ungold glanced down as her head struck his boot. He grimaced, mustache shaking. Turning to Pol, he raised an eyebrow. “I take it she did something you didn’t like.”

  “The lying bitch plotted with her father against me.” The words came out calm and collected, but on the inside a fire burned, threatening to crisp his soul to nothing. The caluths pushed against the veil, roaring to be set free. Should he, to show everyone just what he could do?

  Truman would beg him not to. It wasn’t time. And he would have been right.

  Pol let go of the talisman, and the Rift receded. The red haze disappeared, leaving only the scattered body of Kreen. Bile rose in his throat, and he stiffened, taking a breath and forcing it to recede.

  “Then she deserved her fate.” The General bent and picked up her head. “What do you want me to do with her...” – he looked at the pile of gore – “...body?”

  “Send her head to the High Chieftain. And then we march.” Pol turned and started to walk back to his tent.

  “To Vale?”

  Pol looked over his shoulder at Ungold, anger so hot and piercing he wanted to scream. “No. Straight to the Hovering City.”

  “But–” The General stopped when Pol stiffened. He must have seen the deadly look in his eyes, for he shifted on his feet while his gaze shot to Kreen’s remains littering the ground. He dropped her head back to the dirt. “Very well.”

  Pol nodded and then marched back to his tent. He stepped inside and stopped. Branson sat at his desk, covered in dirt. “Where have you been?”

  His tone must have been sharp, for Branson’s face paled. “My horse threw me and bolted. There was –”

  “I care not!” Pol stormed to the refreshment table. Where was a servant to pour him something? Probably somewhere plotting against him, too. Maybe that was why Branson was so late. He was probably scheming with the Midlandians.

  “I apologize. Did you get my letter?”

  “Yes.” Pol poured firedrink into a cup and tossed it back. The burn matched his mood. “But it matters not, now. We march through to the Hovering City.” He didn’t see Branson’s expression, but his clothing rustled as Branson shifted in his seat. What, he disagreed? “Speak your mind.” Everyone else was.

  “I feel that Vale is ripe for the taking. The Chancellor is unseated, the Council is in shambles, and the city stirs with unrest. And the Reader is there.”

  “Bah!” He whirled around to glare at Branson. “I should have heard about her whereabouts weeks ago. But it would seem I can’t even trust a demon, either.”

  Branson’s expression turned confused. “I can’t speak for demons, only for myself. You can trust me, Your Highness.”

  “That remains to be seen.” He turned back to pour another firedrink but left it on the table. Sighing, he massaged his temple as a headache broke through. Damned after-effect of using the Rift, even for someone as strong as him. Branson, to his credit, remained silent. “We can take Vale whenever we want. I want the Stone Throne, and I will get it.”

  “We will meet some resistance, but not much, I don’t think. Once they realize we mean to bypass Vale, they will let us through unhindered.”

  “What of their fortifications?”

  “Not much to speak of. All their resources will be used to protect the city. I would imagine it could last a couple weeks, but not any more than that.”

  “Another battle for another time.” Pol turned to Branson, resignation filling him. “It would seem you are the only one I can turn to, now. All others have abandoned me.”

  Branson straightened, nodding his head. “I will not, My King.”

  Strong words for a boy who was willing to turn his back on his own city. Branson was turning out to be a pleasant surprise. Just the type Pol liked.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Brate Hightower

  Brate fell back, clutching at his arm. The handprint was stark against his skin, blackened at the edges, as if he had taken a piece of coal and drawn the outline. The pain receded until only the handprint remained. He scrubbed at it, desperate. Was the mark permanent?

  He only succeeded in irritating the skin on his arm until it turned red and angry, and the handprint remained. What did it mean?

  He stood straight and appraised the ramshackled house. The Liar was nowhere to be seen, the house falling apart just as before. No light glowed from the interior, no child slunk in the shadows. Had it been only a vision? He glanced down at his arm. No. It had been real, otherwise the handprint wouldn’t be there, a stark testament to what had taken place just moments ago.

  Rubbing a hand on his face, Brate sighed and looked back at the web. Well, at least he could transport, now. The trick would be figuring out how to go back to his friends and bring them here. Was it safe? Was anything ever safe when it came to the Deep or the Rift? He chuckled to himself. No matter. The web sparkled and rippled as the wind picked up, and he drew his coat tighter around him. He needed to stop dawdling and get back to work. Wasting more time was foolhardy.

  He embraced the Deep. The Rift surged forward as if in anger before receding. The Deep roared in response, filling him. No matter what happened, he had made the right decision. Curse the Liar and his sweet words of deception. There was right and there was wrong. But why had it seemed so right to consider what the Liar had to say? What if what he said was true?

  The Deep murmured, the waters coalescing into a small whirlwind. Brate pushed aside his thoughts and focused. He called for the transporting void, and the Deep responded. The darkness flooded the sphere and transported Brate to the in-between, where only the emptiness existed. It took him a moment to adjust. He glanced down, where only darkness lurked below. He couldn’t see his body, only felt it there.

  He filled his mind’s eye with the place where Myra, Garron, and Malok waited for him. He pictured the road, the trees, and even the horses stamping impatiently. Pinpricks of light shot forward from the emptiness, rushing forward until several portals waited before him. The windows were small, but he could see through to the landscape beyond. Which one was it? He searched for it to no avail. As before, he probably needed to be more specific.

  Only the Green Lands, he projected, and several portals winked out until three remained. They grew closer until they were the size of doorways. He stepped forward and poked his head through the first one. It didn’t look like what he had been searching for, so he stepped back and went to the next door. A breeze beckoned him, whipping his hair about his face.

  “Brate?” A voice echoed into the emptiness. He stepped halfway through the door, and there stood Malok with a grin on his face. “You are cut in half, Bender.”

  He must be referring to the way Brate looked out of the emptiness. Brate stepped full through the door and released the Deep. It rushed away like a tide, and he was left with only the fatigue of using so much of the power.

  Myra strode forward from where she had been resting under a tree. “What happened? Did it work?”

  “Please tell me you can transport us with you!” Garron grabbed Brate’s arm directly where the Liar had marked him. Brate winced and pulled his arm away.

  Malok raised an eyebrow. “Did you get injured?”

  “One question at a time!” Brate rubbed his arm and turned from them. Where should he start? Should he tell them about the Liar? They might not believe him. He was having a hard time believing it himself.

  “Mine first.” Myra crossed her arms. “What happened?”

  If he couldn’t trust them, he couldn’t trust anyone. “It’s a long story...”

  ***

  He needed rest, but there was no time. The weight settled on Brate’s shoulders like a boulder. Could he muster enough strength to transport himself and his friends? If not, the answer was simple. They would have to wait.

  “Are you sure you are ready?”
Myra’s expressive eyes lit in concern.

  Brate nodded. “I am.” Best if they thought he was more confident than he actually felt. Malok frowned, perhaps seeing through the ruse, but Brate turned from him. Grasping Myra’s hand, he waited as she took Malok’s, and then Garron’s, to complete the chain.

  Star, this must work.

  “What if the Liar’s mark keeps you from transporting?” Garron edged around Malok to look at Brate full in the face. “Or what if the mark keeps him appraised of where you are at any given time?”

  “If that were the case, I wouldn’t have been able to come back to you.” Unease rippled through him. But what if Garron’s second question were true? There was no way of knowing.

  “It’s okay, Garron. We go forward with the plan.” Malok shot an affectionate look at Garron before turning back to Brate. “Let’s do it, Hightower.”

  Taking a breath, Brate embraced the Deep. It hesitated, as if a stopper had been placed over a drain and only a trickle could come through. He pulled, and with a rush it surged forward. Fatigue hit him like a runaway carriage. It was all he could do not to wobble on his feet under the strain.

  Pulling it in toward him, he projected with his mind back to the emptiness. It met him, the blackness appearing like a dog called to its master. Below, the void was as before. He stood on the invisible glass, and turning, his heart leapt into his throat. It was too dark to see, but it still felt like he held Myra’s hand.

  “Are you there?” His voice got sucked into the emptiness. Nothing filtered through. Panic clawed at his mind, and the Deep shuddered as if it were about to dissipate. Heart hammering, Brate called for the web. What if he lost the Deep while in the emptiness? Would they be stuck forever, in this in-between state where sound nor light could penetrate?