“I can do it.” Gerard stopped pacing and took a deep breath. The Deep blazed and roared to life as he flung up his hands. The pithion stirred, backing away as the unicorn tossed her head and snorted. Gerard’s hands blazed blue. He twirled the Deep in complex patterns before shooting out his hand. The light struck the unicorn, who backed away, muscles along her flanks shaking. A yellow essence mingled with the Deep as it connected Gerard to the unicorn.
Graissa’s breath hitched in her lungs. The essence funneled from the unicorn to strike the pithion. He roared and shook, stone cracking and blazing with yellow and blue. Light fell off him as if molten fire, sizzling on the ground. The unicorn shrieked, and then Gerard collapsed.
Graissa was torn. Should she go help Gerard? Calm the unicorn? Run?
Cackle streaked toward the pithion, grasping it as it shook, stone splintering into a thousand shards. He grabbed a handful of yellow light and ate it.
The pithion shook and shed stone like a skin. It fell away to reveal a creature of such stunning power that Graissa nearly stopped breathing. Brown feathers ruffled, wings shooting out and claws digging into the ground. Yellow fur trailed along its backside, tail golden and brown. It was flesh once more.
Eyes like golden suns turned to look at her. With a toss of its head, it roared and took flight, wings beating and sending gusts of wind tearing through her hair.
The unicorn stood immobile, stamping as the blue light dissipated. Crimson eyes turned soft brown.
“It is as I thought.”
Graissa whirled around. A tall man stood in the knoll, looking at his body and running his hands over his skin. He was stark naked, and his skin was like hazelnut butter, smooth and unblemished. Dark hair fell to his shoulders, and his eyes were glowing red. Heat spread up Graissa’s face. Who was he?
“Don’t stare at me like you don’t know me, Graissa del’Blyth.” He laughed, a cackle that was all too familiar.
Her heart climbed to her throat. “Cackle?”
His gaze locked on hers, a grin sliding across his face. His teeth were dazzling white against his dark skin. “Not quite, Reader. Not quite.”
Gerard moaned, breaking the moment apart. Graissa kept a wary eye on Cackle as she moved around him to kneel beside Gerard. Cackle continued looking at his new body, so she turned her full attention to the warlock.
“Wake up.” She nudged his shoulder. If anyone knew what was going on, it would be him.
He opened his eyes and grabbed his head. “I used too much of the Deep.” The words came out pained and slow. Placing his hands underneath him, he pushed up. She grabbed his arm to help him.
“Gerard—"
A roar shook the knoll, and the pithion slammed into the ground. “You have freed me!”
The ground shook at its landing. Graissa jumped to her feet. “What happens now?” She placed quivering arms at her sides.
“What do you mean?” It stared at her, eyelids sliding over its golden orbs in a slow blink. “Aren’t you the Reader? Aren’t you going to close the Rift?”
“About that,” Cackle said, voice low. “I think I might be able to help.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Priva Car’abel
Running miles and miles was not for the faint of heart. Nor for someone whose sister’s throat had just been sliced open. Priva pushed on, for what else was there to do? He had to reach the Hovering City, had to force the King to sign the damned treaty with the Sisterhood. Otherwise, Callum’s death was for nothing.
Crowning had faded in the distance a long time past. It wasn’t until his lungs burned so painfully he couldn’t breathe that he stopped. How far behind were the Jattalians? If he was lucky they wouldn’t send anyone after him, instead readying to march.
That’s what he would do, at least.
The road ran right beside the ocean. The water tossed and foamed as if another storm was brewing. Just the thing he needed to end this horrific mission.
Drinkable water was the main issue now. Sooner rather than later he would have to search for some.
Thunder rolled across the sky and Priva looked up. Storm clouds rolled in. His tongue tingled, dry as bone and dust. Maybe he shouldn’t complain about a storm after all.
The rain descended like a typhoon. Priva raised his head and let the droplets fall into his mouth. Soggy yet no longer thirsty, he rested for only a short while before striking back north. The quickest way back to the city would be to find someone to take him by boat. But the tide flowed south, not north, which meant he would have to find several someone’s to row him, or for the wind to shift. That didn’t seem to be happening anytime soon. The sky raged its displeasure and lightning forked down into the sea.
He forced on, raising the hood on his peasant’s cloak. He would give half a finger to have his old cloak back. And his shortblade. Kitchen knives wouldn’t be much help if anyone were to accost him on the road or if the Jattalians caught up with him.
He laughed. Who was he fooling? He would have a huge advantage, blade or not. He could hear them before they came, see the smallest muscle twitch, taste their fear. Well, maybe not that.
As lightning lanced overhead, a village was illuminated down the road. Maybe he could find someone to take him north after the storm passed? It was worth a try. Or maybe he could convince them to loan him a horse, if he promised payment when he returned to the Hovering City. If anyone recognized him as a Car’abel it wouldn’t be too difficult to convince them to supply him with a mount. Or perhaps someone was already headed that way, a peddler, or merchant, or farmer with wares.
Thunder called a response to the lightning, and sheets of rain lashed at Priva’s face. It seemed wrong, somehow, to be alive and facing the rage of the skies when Callum was dead, lying in some cold grave. She was the one who cared about people, who wanted to make a difference. She was the one who could have really mattered to the Bright Lands. And him?
What did he want? Priva shuddered as the wind rose in a crescendo, raising a hand as rain pelted his face. That was the question. Did he want the throne, as Callum had begged? That was easy to answer. No. Not in a million lifetimes. Did he want to continue living and serving at the beck and call of the King? Well, that was easy to answer, too. No. Did he want to be at the whim of the Sisterhood, running around the sphere trying to save it? Close the Rift, work with the other Stewards to bring peace and defy the Triumphant King?
Graissa’s face filled his mind’s eye. Whether he liked it or not, he was inexorably linked to her, and therefore linked to the Stewards. That might be the only path available to him.
The road carved straight through the village. He trudged within the outskirts, shifting his eyes to take in the terrain. Where was everyone? Probably hiding from the storm. An inn’s lights flickered in the darkness, and he set off for it. If he could find someone to take him to the Hovering City, the innkeeper would know. The wind died down as he opened the door.
Warmth smacked him in the face. It was a welcome relief. He lowered the hood of his cloak and shook water from his arms, running a hand over his face. The inn was stark and empty, nary a soul in sight. The innkeeper came from the back rooms, an old, stooped man who carried a rag.
“Strange times for a traveler to be about.” His eyes raised to Priva’s face as he rubbed the rag with his fingers. “You aren’t Jattalian. That’s good.”
Ah. That made sense. Perhaps the village had heard word of what had happened in Crowning, or the other villages, and ran. Why hadn’t this man?
“Is there anyone remaining?” Priva ran a damp hand over his face to try and remove the water that dripped from his eyebrows and chin. No such luck. The old man tossed him the rag. He caught it with a nod of thanks and proceeded to wipe the rain from his skin.
“None but me and old Bram. He’s a Rei’blair. They aren’t the smartest of the clans. Never have been. Bram claims no Jattalian would dare show their face in a no-count fishing village.” The man grinned and shrugged. “And me? I have
no family, no relatives, no clan. Just this inn. And I’ll be speared with poleblades and laid to bake in the sun before I let some Hooded burn down my life’s work.” He grunted and reached a hand for the rag. Priva stepped forward and handed it to him.
“No clan?” That was odd. Everyone had a clan, whether by blood or choice. The lower Rei’s, even, and they were more prone to adopting and embracing those with different blood. Like Constance, they would even take slave children as heirs if they had none of their own.
“Remember the raids of the Freedom Year? What, some thirty winters past?” The man leaned against a table, eyes glazing over as he gazed into a past best forgotten. The Freedom Year was laughably lacking in freedom. Priva’s grandfather had gone mad in those days, demanding allegiance and taking what wasn’t his to take. The clans had revolted, and only Arinbjorn had been able to clamp down on the rebellion shooting through the heart of the Land. Priva had been eight winters when King Velcron had finally died and Father had taken the Stone Throne. The peace established shortly thereafter had been quick, yet bloody.
“I was a young lad,” Priva said, taking a seat at the table the old man leaned upon. He sat across from Priva, still rubbing the rag between his fingers.
“The Freedom Year saw fire and loss, bloodshed and tears. I was part of the Car’clay.”
“They were the ones who fought the hardest against King Arinbjorn.” Good thing Priva hadn’t come in declaring his clan. The old fellow would have probably tried to kill him as look at him. He shifted in his seat.
“Aye. And the ones who were slaughtered. To a man, besides me.” He looked down at the tabletop, eyes still distant, as if he wasn’t seeing what was in front of him. “Your Father has much to pay for, young Car’abel.”
Priva sat up straight, blinking. “You know?”
The man smiled, raising his eyes. “It was thirty winters past and had nothing to do with you. Why should I be angry?”
“I...” Priva stopped, frowning. “You have seen me before?”
“I have seen you all. It wasn’t long ago that Callum Car’abel used this very inn for her – how should I put it? Her secret meetings. I thought that perhaps one day you would come walking through that door. But not alone. Where are your brothers? Your Bladewielders? Seems like an odd time to try and take the throne, considering.”
“Wait.” Priva shook his head. What was this? Some sort of joke? “You stand with Callum?”
The old man laughed, standing and puttering to the bar where a jug of unopened ale waited. He reached for the cork. “I stand with you, Sensor. This whole village does. Liar’s teeth, the whole of the Bright Lands does. Most of us would shrug a shoulder if your father was mounted on the Hooded’s wall when all is said and done.” He popped the cork and grabbed two wooden cups, pouring the ale and bringing it back to the table. He plopped one down in front of Priva, sitting and throwing back a drought himself. He drank it dry.
Was it really that simple? How had Priva missed it, all this time? Sure, there was restlessness, even some warrior clans shouting about rebellion, but Arinbjorn put those fires out swift as an adder’s bite. Had Priva really lived in such a small bubble that he didn’t know, all this time, that the clans wanted change? Maybe he should give himself a break. The reality was, Arinbjorn kept a tight rein on his children. Priva was no exception; only sent on missions, often for years, and rarely having any contact with the clans or their leaders.
Callum had been right. The Land was ripe for change. Would he be the one to bring that about? Yet, how? The innkeeper was right. With the Jattalians on their soil, this was a terrible time for a revolution.
He took the cup and drank, the spicy liquid fizzing in his mouth and burning a trail to his stomach. When he finished, the old man, eyes bright, grinned and winked. “Not bad for a fishing village inn, eh?”
Priva wiped his mouth and gave a small smile. “I cannot stay long, Master. Answer me this: If change is what the clans want, what makes them think I can get the job done? That I won’t turn out like my father?”
The old man’s eyes dimmed, corners smoothing and smile faltering. “We don’t. But anything has to be better than the iron fist of Arinbjorn. You’re a good man, Priva. Your siblings swear to it. And the Creator has seen fit to endow you with the spark of the Deep.”
“And doesn’t that concern you?”
He snorted. “Lad, I have seen a lot in my time. Accessing is nothing to be afraid of. It’s the person doing it that worries me.” He looked at Priva with an even expression, shoulders relaxed, head cocked to the side. “I’ll take my chances with a good man whether he is an accessor or not.”
***
It was by sheer determination that Priva entered the Hovering City within the next day. Well, sheer determination and a heavy whip on the haunches of the old man’s horse.
Exhaustion pulled at him, making it seem as if his skin was stretched too tight. He would be tugged down into the chasm itself if he didn’t rest.
The Fortress stood impenetrable, waves crashing below the cliff it rested upon, stern and looking as if it, too, was tired. Maybe the stones themselves grew weary of the kings who raged within. Priva left his mount at the gate and entered the iron-grated doors. Frale greeted him, milk brown skin flush and eyes tingling with something close to relief. He had almost forgotten about her.
“Maj!” She walked forward, gripping his arm.
“Sister. Has my father treated you well?”
Something raced across her face. Maybe anger? “That is to be debated, I think. But you are back. How –?”
“Priva!” He looked up at the crosswalk overhead leading to the upper chambers. Jasper leaned over the side. “Come! Father awaits.” Jasper disappeared in a ruffle of silk. So, Priva wasn’t going to be given rest, or even a chance to wash.
“Where is Callum?” Frale asked, her brows lowered over her green eyes as they flicked to look over his shoulder.
“Long story,” he said, extricating himself from her firm grip. “Come, you should be included in this meeting.” He didn’t wait to see if she followed but hastened deeper into the Fortress and shed his cloak. A slave grabbed it from his hand.
“You killed the Hooded?” Frale asked from behind him.
“Yes.” Callum’s gaping throat flashed through his mind. It came at a cost, he wanted to say, but kept his mouth shut. All would soon be revealed, and he was in no mood to repeat the story a dozen times.
Thankfully Frale kept quiet as he wove his way through the Fortress and to the meeting chambers. Rool and Ross stepped aside with long looks at each other. For intimidating warriors they certainly did little to hide their thoughts.
He pushed open the doors as Pale, the High Finder, was murmuring under his breath and a red haze was filling the room.
What was this? Priva stopped in his tracks. A strange stirring could be felt in the air, as if a wind was circulating. But there were no open windows, only a skylight covered by thick, filmy Raizani glass. Brri, Jasper, and Arinbjorn were the only ones in the room, along with the Finder.
“The Rift!” Frale hissed, taking in a sharp breath. The Deep stirred as she drew it in.
Pale turned dark eyes toward them, red hood obscuring most of his face. The skrale atop his shoulder shrieked and took to wing, plummeting straight toward them.
“Havast!” Pale snapped, and the skrale turned away just before Priva could grab it from the air. Damned beast. He wanted to tear it limb from limb.
“Priva!” Jasper said, flashing a smile. He caught sight of Frale behind him and his smile faded. “Why did you bring her?” He gestured with his hand as if to wave her away.
“The Hooded is dead.” Priva stepped further into the room, catching Arinbjorn with his gaze. The King’s face settled into a firm look as he took a seat, nodding almost imperceptibly at Pale. The Finder stopped whatever he had been doing and the red haze disappeared.
“You bring proof?” Brri settled into a chair beside the King, but it
appeared as if he was nervous. Sweat sheened bright on his forehead.
“Alas, I was fleeing for my life. So, no. But Callum is dead.” The words almost lodged in his throat. “She was nearly decapitated.”
“He’s dead? You are sure?” Jasper folded his arms across his chest. Did the bastard not care his sister had been murdered?
Anger hot and swift rose in Priva. He let it simmer there, not bothering to stash it away. “So, this is how things are to be?” He slammed a fist onto the top of the table. Frale laid a hand on his back but he ignored her. “Two accessors dead, one our sister, and all you care about is—”
“Enough, Priva!” Arinbjorn rose to his feet with a roar. “You have completed your mission. That is what is important.”
Priva stared at him. How had it come to this? Was this how it had always been? Yet he knew it had. People were disposable to Father, as kindling in a fire. As long as they did their job, they could be tossed into the wind without a thought.
He grit his teeth. “Then I think it wise to remind you, Father, that you have a treaty to sign.” He stepped away so Frale was in full view of the others. “How convenient we have a Sister here with us.”
The room remained silent. Jasper looked away as if he didn’t want to face Priva. Brri gazed steadfast at the table top, and Pale shot a glittering glare straight at Frale. Priva turned his eyes to the King, who rubbed a thumb over his lips.
A weight like a stone cramped Priva’s stomach.
“You have done well, my son.” Arinbjorn sat with stately grace, eyes flicking to Frale before settling back on Priva. “So well that you shall be named proceeding Inheritor if something were to happen to Jasper before he bears a child.” Father’s lips upturned into a cruel smile that infected his eyes with fire and hate. “But I will not sign a treaty with bricking Sisters.”
The anger sprang to life, roaring to be released. Priva clenched his fists. “You promised. In front of everyone here, and more. Callum died for this promise. You would go back on your word?” His face was heating, but he didn’t care. The spiteful, idiotic, lying bastard.
The Last Steward Page 26