“A Seer and a Bender sit before you, and you have to ask the question?” Malok shook his head as their faces changed from mockery to bewilderment. Did they truly not believe they were who they said they were? Did everyone need a demonstration?
“Wouldn’t you?” Broad held a cup in his hand but didn’t drink. He was seated in the middle, clearly the leader of the Webmasters. “You have no proof of what you say.”
“How did I know to take the tolo-grun to get us through the web, then?” Malok glanced over at Myra. “We should have been addled in the head, returned here, and never wanted to venture out again. Instead, we are completely sane and in control of our faculties. Not only that, but we have learned a secret that no Brother would dare to believe.”
“Secrets? We have no need of them, except to keep the web intact and our Land safe.” Broad appeared nervous, setting down the cup and glancing at the others.
“Besides, you have no proof of anything you claim, Mountain Keeper. You are an acolyte.” Brother Stain leaned back with a huff, as if his logic wasn’t so riddled with holes that Malok could have walked a goat through it.
“As I offered before, I would be happy to prove that I am the Bender.” Brate gave a small grin toward Malok before turning back to the Webmasters. “Which of you would like to be forced to do something against your will?”
“Nonsense!” Brother Oliver spat out, but no one else argued.
“Very well, I volunteer.” Broad stood to his feet. “Force me to do something I would never normally do.”
“For example?” Brate asked.
“Make him abscond his role as foreman of the web!” Another Brother—was his name Holden?—said with a laugh. The others chuckled as if it was a joke.
“Abscond your role as foreman of the web.” Brate’s tone was nonchalant, almost lazy. Even though the command wasn’t directed at Malok, the weight of it hit him as a stone.
Broad ripped off a circlet covering his upper arm and tossed it onto the ground. “I abscond!” His shout was fierce and ripped from his throat like a curse. The villagers behind Malok stirred, their whispers rising. The other Webmasters appeared bemused, some laughing and others raising their eyebrows.
“Come, you joke, right?” Brother Stain, his brow furrowed, looked at Broad. He turned to Brate. “You both cooked this up.”
“Kiss your hand.” Again, the command hit Malok with such force he almost obeyed.
Stain raised his hand to his lips and kissed it, then blinked. He stared at his hand, and then at Brate. “How –?”
“This is ridiculous!” Brother Oliver stood, staring at Broad and then Stain. “Stop this immediately! You disgrace yourselves!”
“Get down on your knees and bark like a dog.” Brate’s grin was taking over his face. Malok almost dropped to his knees, but stopped, trying not to laugh. Oliver scrambled down and started baying like a hound.
The villagers started to laugh, others protesting. Brate looked over his shoulder at them and winked, a smile still on his face. More laughter followed his antics.
“Had enough yet?” Myra asked, and even she couldn’t hide a grin. She shook her head at Brate. “Please, no more. I don’t think they can take the humiliation.”
For indeed, the Webmasters’ faces were red, Stain shaking and Oliver crawling to his seat and sitting down, face lowered in shame.
“You have proven yourself.” Broad reached down and retrieved his circlet, putting it back on his arm. “Why are you here?”
“To save your lives.” Brate glanced over at Malok and nodded. “And to give you an opportunity to do what is right.”
“What does that mean, exactly?” Broad glared at Malok. “Enough with the foolery.”
“Call the Council, Brother. Summon each Elder Brother from the Libraries and assemble them here. We will discuss it with them.” Malok leaned forward. “I would bring down the web.”
The gasp torn from the villagers’ throats brought both satisfaction and dread. Satisfaction, that he had convinced them. Dread, that it meant bloodshed. Not many of those here would survive. His thoughts turned to Garron. He could convince the common folk to follow Brate. But could Malok convince the Libraries?
Chapter Twenty-Five
Ezra Carp
The night deepened to shades of black and gray, bringing the bitter cold. Ezra rubbed his clean-shaven face. More than ever, he missed his beard. The least it did was keep a man’s face warm. He glanced up from where he kept an eye on the trail. Boyd was an outline in the dark, shuffling forward. There was something odd about his obsession with Isa. He seemed almost excited to be taking Ezra to his icepowder supplier’s house. And what, exactly, was a carpenter doing with someone like that? Isa better be careful. These types of men weren’t to be trusted. Certainly not Boyd.
The wooded area they traversed was quiet, as if holding its breath and waiting for the intruders to pass through. Overhead the moon shone to its full brilliance, the shadows on its surface stark in the light. Somewhere out there, the same moon lit Myra’s way. Was she okay? Did she think of him as often as he thought of her?
“Not too far now.” Boyd stopped and turned to him. “Remember, my supplier has reformed his ways. If I can, I’m going to convince him to pick back up the trade. My business suffers when men like him don’t keep up their end of the bargain.” He eyed Ezra with speculation, crossing his arms. “Don’t interfere, Ezra. You’ve already caused me enough trouble.”
Ezra held his hands out. “I’ll be as calm as a drake at prayers.”
Boyd snorted and turned back to the trail. It opened to a clearing, and in the distance, lights sparkled from a hut. The area was well insulated on all sides by the trees. Under the sweeping boughs were several small cages. At first glance they appeared to be chicken coops. In the dark, Ezra would have assumed so if he didn’t know better. This grower, or supplier, had once had a burgeoning haalf nursery. If Boyd was correct, the plants would be wilted and useless at this point.
The trail led straight to the door of the hut. Laughter filtered into the night, and the murmur of voices. The bittersweet stench of the haalf plants assaulted Ezra’s nostrils. Bitter, more than sweet. Which meant they were indeed rotting.
“Damn Feral. I’ll kill him.” Boyd’s remark was almost lost in the wind as it gusted through the trees. He stopped before the door, raised his hand to knock, but it swung open before he could.
“Boyd?” A hulking man stood in the frame, long, greasy hair riding to his shoulders.
“Feral,” Boyd responded. “We need to talk.” He tried to look around Feral, who glanced at Ezra before turning back to Boyd.
“I have guests.” He grinned, gaps showing where several teeth were missing. “But you are welcome to join us. I have ale.”
Boyd glanced at Ezra. This is why they had come, after all. Why was he hesitating?
“We can talk inside, then.” Boyd pushed past Feral and into the hut. Ezra followed. Should he grasp the Deep? Before he could decide, he stepped into a cramped space where four other men sat. Isa was smiling, obviously having just told them something funny, and looked up as they entered. The force of his gaze hit Ezra. The Deep emanated from him like a living thing, pulsing like a heart. He didn’t have a hold on it, or even grasp it like an accessor. It simply was a part of him, as if his soul were bursting with it.
After he got over the initial shock of Isa’s presence, Ezra looked around the small hut. Figurines dotted the shelves, carved from small pieces of wood. Horses, mules, dogs, cats, people... there had to be at least fifty. Jealousy at the skill it had taken to create them edged into his mind. But then it ceased, his eye roving over the imperfections. A claw that was scratched here, a tail that was nicked there. Why hadn’t the carver fixed them?
The other three men around him stopped chuckling and looked to Feral. “Who are they?” one asked, his ponytail resting across his shoulder and dangling all the way to his waist.
“This is Boyd.” He gestured to him.
“An old friend.” Feral turned to Ezra with a raised brow. “And I have no idea who this man is.”
“Ezra.” The name came from his mouth before he could re-think. Probably should have made one up. But Isa’s presence was addling his brain.
“I’ve seen you before.” Isa’s voice was deep and rich, his appearance plain. He looked like a normal carpenter, with dirty fingernails and a scraggly, two-day beard. “You were with Brate Hightower.”
“The Bender?” Feral spat on the ground and then took a seat. “He has a lot of explaining to do if he ever dares show his face in the Forest City.”
Isa eyed Feral sideways before turning his gaze fully back to Ezra. “Do you know where he is?”
Ezra crossed his arms. What was this, an interrogation? He had been the one to come ask the questions, not the other way around. “I daresay you could do some explaining, too.” He glared at Isa. “You disappeared after defeating the King.”
“For good reasons. Would you like to sit? We have ale and bread.” Isa extended a hand to a stack of pelts that would serve as a seat. Ezra found himself sitting down without really thinking about it. Was Isa using the Deep on him? But he didn’t sense it. One of the men handed him a tankard and a piece of flatbread, still warm from the oven. A rickety chair was brought for Boyd.
“I’m Fletcher.” The man with the braided hair nodded at them. “The other two are Cranson and Tiger.” He looked at the other two men, the first with a crooked nose and lanky limbs, the second twiddling with a harmonica and staring at the floor. “What is your business?”
Again with the questions. Ezra set the ale aside, keeping the flatbread. “Boyd has personal business with Feral. I am here for Isa.” He looked at him, hoping he appeared stern. “You left us when we needed you most. Appearing out of thin air, defeating the Triumphant King, and then disappearing? We need your help. Desperately.”
Isa’s eyes remained calm, his face impassive. “What exactly do you need?”
“The witches seek your help in stopping him.” Ezra bit into the bread. It was flaky and dry.
“What about you? What do you need, Ezra?”
The question caught him off guard. He swallowed the bread as the other men looked at each other knowingly, as if there was some hidden agenda behind his words that only they knew about. What did he want? For starters, he wanted Pol off the throne and D’nie in its place as the rightful heir. But after that? For so long that had been his one goal. What came when that goal was accomplished?
“I need help to stop Polbine Voltaire from destroying the sphere.” Isa kept his face smooth, so Ezra continued, bolder. “I think you know something about what it is going on that no one else does.”
“That’s an understatement,” Cranson chuckled, elbowing Isa.
“What would you have me do? Kill him?” Isa leaned back in his seat, running a thumb over the rim of his tankard.
“I don’t know.” Ezra lifted his own tankard and took a swill. The ale was full and rich, much better than the bread. “But I think that whatever ends up happening, you will play a part. Look, the Lands will soon become embroiled in war. Pol marches to the Bright Lands and won’t stop until he rules from coast to coast. The Stewards are scrambling. You have met the Bender, you healed him. There is a power within you that no one else possesses. You can stop the King. I’ve already seen it once, and I know you can do it again.” He leaned forward, pinning Isa with his gaze. “Who are you?”
Isa shrugged. “A carpenter. What makes you think I even want to take part in your plan?” He gestured to the others in the room. “They know who I am. Yet here they are, content to just speak with me, listen to my words. Give me their food and their companionship. What about you? Are you content with just that?”
“You don’t speak reason!” Ezra began to stand, but Feral eyed him with such menace he rethought it and took his seat. He was a guest here, after all. Besides, what could he do against someone such as Isa? He made Ezra look like a toy horse compared to a stallion. One of the figurines on the mantle, instead of the real thing.
“On the contrary. My words hold life and happiness and joy. And freedom, if you would take it.”
“I am not a slave.” Ezra folded his arms, glancing at Boyd. He stared at Isa with something close to longing, as if he wanted whatever Isa had, but couldn’t quite figure out what it was. “I do not need freedom, I need help. Something that will benefit the Stewards and their mission, for it aligns with mine.”
“Show him.” Feral grinned and gestured with his chin to Ezra. “Just like you showed us.”
Isa sighed, and then stood to his feet. “Come. I will show you, but not what Feral thinks.” He stepped around the men and out the hut’s door. Ezra followed, curiosity edging out any misgivings that arose within him.
The night air hit him in the face, as if a slap of ice. Winter was on the horizon, bringing snow and all types of hardships for those who had to suffer want and need. It was not kind to the Lands.
Isa didn’t seem bothered by it but kept striding ahead toward a small barn. It was ringed by haalf coops, and as they drew closer, Ezra noted the wilted plants. Boyd grunted in annoyance but didn’t say anything. The others stopped outside the barn as Ezra and Boyd followed Isa inside.
A whinny accompanied the warmth as Ezra closed the door. Isa lit a lantern with a swirl of the Deep. Ezra hadn’t even felt him access it. Alarm spread across the confines of his mind. Who was this man, who could command the Deep without pulling it in? It was as if the lantern lit with just Isa’s thought.
Boyd gasped, and Ezra tore his gaze from the lantern to the stall. A bright, clean, shimmering unicorn was within. Ezra’s heart hammered a staccato rhythm. Was this a mirage? Some sort of prank?
The wings unfurled as the unicorn shook her mane, then pushed her nose across the stall to Isa’s outstretched hand. As soon as he touched her he pulsed with a surge of the Deep, so strong it knocked Ezra back a step.
“She came to me a few days ago.” Isa stroked her nose, then dug into his pocket for a carrot. She daintily accepted it from him, crunching it in her teeth and then snorting with pleasure. The horn on her forehead sparkled in the lantern light. What must it look like in the sun? Blinding, for sure.
“I... I don’t understand.” Boyd stepped up beside Ezra, a frown wreathing his face. “I thought they were only legend.”
“She increases your power.” Ezra’s hand itched to touch her, see if the same thing happened for him. “Surely you see now that between you and the unicorn, you could stop the King!”
Isa gazed at him over his shoulder. “She is not meant for me, but for another.”
“What do you mean?”
Instead of answering, Isa opened the door to the stall and led her out. Ezra and Boyd moved to the side as they went by. Her flanks trembled with the cold, tail flicking from side to side. What a magnificent creature! How had she come to the Green Lands? Ezra reached out a hand, but she was past, through the barn door and into the night. He was compelled to follow.
Isa stopped in the clearing and spoke something low into her ear. She snorted, shook her head, and nuzzled his arm. “Go.” He pat her neck, and with a rear, she bolted and took off into the sky. At first she flew awkwardly before gaining momentum, circling the clearing and then disappearing into the night.
“But –” Feral stopped, shaking his head and looking at Isa with reproach. “I thought you were going to use her to—”
“No.” Isa cut in, looking at the empty sky. The moon illuminated his face in light and shadow. “At least, not yet.”
He strode toward the hut, and with a last look at the sky, Ezra followed. There was something about this man that demanded obeisance. He’d be damned if he didn’t stay with him until he figured out how to convince him to join his cause.
Gerard Redstone
The seconds ticked by in Gerard’s head, never changing pace, never ceasing. He sniffled and ran a hand over his itching nose. The others slept in the carri
age. Moriah. Vivian. Graissa.
Graissa. Her fair face was bright in the moonlight as it flooded through the carriage window. Gerard’s feet shook with pinpricks of current. No. He wouldn’t ruin her rest by moving or making a sound.
What to do, then, to pass the time?
“The lifekey was riven when the battle commenced. The pithion was bourn into the wind, and the demon lord had won the hard-fought duel. But from his heart the darkness erupted, spraying across the sky. For behind him on the dawn was the unicorn, absorbing the cost of the lifekey’s demand. The demon plummeted, and the unicorn was gone. Lying broken, the pithion vowed to find his revenge. For if the Reader had not bound him, the battle would have turned in his favor.”
Her quest was dangerous. Yes. Dangerous. Should he allow her to continue? But he was incapable of arguing with her. She had a mind of her own, and he had the unstoppable desire to listen. Was it the madness that made him like clay in the hands of powerful women? It had to be. His back longed, nay, begged for the safety of Lord Jubair’s wall. He must resist. Graissa needed him.
He couldn’t sit still. Could he sneak out of the carriage while they rested? The snores of the driver penetrated through the walls. If he just reached out—grasped the handle—yes. Twisted it. Okay. Now he was out. The others hadn’t moved, cozy in the carriage.
No wonder. The ice-cold wind plummeted down from Grole hundreds of miles away and swept across his body. He had no cloak, only the tatters draping his frame that he called clothes. Graissa had mentioned buying him some new ones the first village or town or city they came across. No such luck yet.
The horses’ nickered as he walked by. Quiet, animals. Don’t wake the Mistress. His hair wilted under the onslaught of the wind. It wanted to reprimand the animals but kept silent even as it ruffled his shoulders. Good. It had no business speaking, anyway.
Where was he going? The wanderlust was unpredictable. Matias hated it when he took off without telling him. Would Graissa scold him like Father did? No, like Matias did? Not Father. Not that affectionate term of endearment that meant relationship, and safety, and home.
The Last Steward Page 24