The Last Steward

by Janelle Garrett

  Alpheus hissed and surged forward as if to grab the pouch from Malok’s hand. Isa raised an eyebrow and Alpheus ground to a halt. Turning, Isa looked directly at Brate. “We need to talk.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Brate Hightower

  Isa’s words cut through the irritation arising in Brate’s core. Malok had kept this from him? Why?

  “You know the rules!” Alpheus spat, but he didn’t move.

  Isa turned away from Brate to gaze at the Dread. “No need to remind me.” He turned and strode for the woods. Brate sidestepped the others to follow. Whatever was going on, Isa needed to know how dire the situation was with the Triumphant King. The Dreadwood was a strange place for the carpenter to be. Why had he come here? It made no sense.

  The wood closed in around him as he followed Isa. The air had a feel to it. Like an oppression that pulled you down into a pit, except it was more mental than physical. Brate kept a firm hold on the Deep.

  Isa stopped and turned, face lined and grave. His shoulders were tense, body poised as if a great weight was about to hit him. “You must have questions.”

  “I do,” Brate said, but stopped. Where to start? “Why are you here?”

  “I could ask you the same thing.” A smile pulled at the corners of Isa’s mouth. “But I can make a guess. You have traveled the Void.”

  Pride lanced through Brate. “Yes. It would seem that my will can transport me. And others.” Although the price was steep — he was fighting fatigue just grasping the Deep but not using it — but it was worth it.

  “A useful skill.” Isa sighed, glancing at the shrubbery around them. “I need you to know something, Bender. Not all is as it seems.”

  A sense of foreboding settled on Brate, tightening his shoulders. “I’m not sure what you mean. We need you. The whole of the sphere needs you to defeat the Triumphant King. The Brothers refuse to help us tear down the web. And according to Malok, it takes a death to do so. I don’t know of any accessor who would be willing to do such a thing.”

  Isa’s gaze turned to Brate, inscrutable. “Why death?”

  His question threw Brate off guard. Why, indeed? Malok had said it was because of the amount of the Deep that was needed. But why did that automatically require death? He had never asked that question. “I don’t know,” he said with a shrug. “I guess I just took Malok’s word for it.”

  “As you should, because he tells the truth. Tell me, have you accessed the Rift?”

  Surprise quickly followed by suspicion invaded Brate’s mind. How did Isa know about that? What was it Pol had said? All accessors could use the Rift? As if on cue, the Rift pulsed in his chest. His facial expression must have belied his thoughts, because Isa raised a hand.

  “Don’t jump to conclusions. I only asked because I could sense it there, within you. Can you feel it?”

  If Isa could sense it, he also must have access to it, as well. “Yes,” Brate replied hesitantly. He narrowed his eyes. “Who are you?”

  “Ah. Now that is the right question to ask.” Isa sighed, shaking his head. “I guess in order to answer you, I must go back to the beginning. But there is no time for that. The Dreads won’t wait much longer before they demand payment.” Isa glanced toward the glade where the others waited before turning back to Brate. “There is so much you still don’t know. You already know I am a prophet. But there isn’t enough time to explain what that means.” He reached into his tunic and pulled out a scrap of parchment bound by ribbon. It was well worn and stained, as if written over a few years’ time. He handed to Brate. “This is all you need to know. Read it, and you will understand.”

  Brate took the parchment, conflicted. What did this mean? Had Isa written it? He would understand what? Before he could ask anything more, Isa patted him on the shoulder and walked back toward the clearing.

  Brate fingered the ribbon, soft strands coming loose. Then he stopped. He didn’t have time to start reading. Stuffing the parchment into his pocket, he followed after Isa.

  The others were waiting with nervous expressions. Malok paced the glade, but as soon as they entered, his face relaxed. The Dread wasn’t in sight.

  Ezra strode forward. “Whatever you have planned—”

  Isa raised a hand and Ezra stopped. “Peace, warlock. All will be revealed in time.” Isa pulled in the Deep, and Brate took a step backward as the power poured forth so strongly it seemed to hit him head on.

  The Rift surged to life inside of him, battling with the Deep he still held. The two forces bounced off each other as if repelled. An unknown language formed words in Brate’s head, and he stopped himself from speaking them out loud. Was the Rift trying to take control? He pushed with the Deep as if to dampen it, and the Rift retreated but still smoldered. Brooding.

  “What are you doing?” Myra asked, face going white. She had also grasped the Deep, and Brate was surprised at how strong she was. Ezra had gone to stand beside her, but strangely he didn’t embrace the Deep as the rest of them had. Maybe he trusted Isa?

  “Do not be afraid.” Isa flicked his fingers and spun a dazzling array of tendrils so fast Brate couldn’t follow. They shot out and cut them all off from the Deep.

  Brate grimaced as a shield slammed into place. What was this about? He took a step toward Isa, but then stopped. There must be a reason.

  “I hope you have a good explanation for this!” Myra snapped.

  “It has to be this way,” Malok said gently. He looked sad for some reason. Had he Seen what was coming? Was it something bad?

  Myra clenched her jaw, and Ezra laid a hand on her lower back. She didn’t move away, but her hands trembled with what seemed to be rage.

  The trees stirred all around them, and from the depths of the woods hundreds of Dreads materialized, followed by short, burly creatures. Brate’s heart hammered as sweat popped up on his brow. The creatures’ mouths were sewn shut, their eyes piercingly yellow. Thunder rumbled, and clouds skirted across the sky, obscuring the sun. The Dreads seemed to glow in the ensuing gloom, and mist slowly crept into the glade.

  “Watchers,” Malok mumbled.

  Brate tried to grasp the Deep, but it was no use. What would he do, even if he still had access? Try to stop the situation? There wasn’t anything to stop.

  Isa nodded at them before turning to the Dreads. He pulled out the nine grune-breths and held the pouch out to Alpheus. The Dread snatched it from his hands with a hiss, eyes burning deep green before he schooled his expression once again.

  “Where is the payment?” His voice rumbled low, almost a whisper.

  “I am,” Isa responded.

  Something jerked in Brate, both revulsion and shock. Did Isa really intend to offer himself to these beasts?

  “No!” one of Isa’s followers snapped, running forward. The Watchers growled and lunged, tackling him to the ground. The other companions cried out, reaching for knives that weren’t at their waists. They were surrounded by the Watchers, who buried them amidst guttural howls and screeches. Was Isa not going to obliterate them all?

  Myra gave a small cry and jerked forward as if to intercede. Ezra tightened his grip and pulled her close, face stony and still. Malok looked at the ground. Why hadn’t he warned Brate of what was coming? Anger and helplessness, thick as molasses, shrouded his mind.

  The Dreads hissed, forming a thick wall around Isa. Brate stumbled back as more and more formed around him, until he lost sight of Isa amidst the green, swirling mass.

  “Do something!” one of the companions hollered, voice muffled by the Watchers piled on him. Who was he speaking to?

  The Dread’s voices rose until the crescendo was almost too much to bear. Once voice, distinctly Alpheus, rose above it. “Do you come willingly?”

  The crowd of Dreads broke apart as blue light enveloped the entire glade. They fell back with screams, covering their eyes. Alpheus alone stood still, eyes bearing such a look of hatred that Brate’s stomach curdled. Isa was glowing, the Deep so strong all of Brate’
s senses began shutting down. He must have fallen, for he was suddenly face-first in the dirt, eyes searing, ears ringing, head spinning.

  Nothing else existed except the Deep. It was there, in him, surrounding him, until even the Rift in his chest was a distant memory. The waters tossed and roared, stronger than he had ever felt. Yet it was controlled. Not the raging storm of a hurricane but the controlled chaos of a tornado, so powerful it ripped at Brate’s soul.

  He dared look up. Isa’s face was contorted in pain, and he funneled the Deep into the grune-breths that Alpheus held. The Dread was melting. There was no other word for it. The Deep was peeling him away layer by layer, and with a flash of blinding blue light, he disappeared into the ground like wax turning to water.

  Isa cried out, and Brate tried to look at him, but the light was so terrible it was next to impossible. Brate narrowed his eyes as pain lanced through his head. A halo was all he could make out; the dim outline of Isa’s form as he pulled the Deep in so completely that he was disappearing into it. The rage of the Deep shattered Brate’s mind. He huddled against the ground, pulling his arms over his head.

  It needed to stop or he was going to be destroyed.

  Silence.

  It was gone. The Deep winked out, leaving a thick ringing in Brate’s ears. He slowly lowered his arms and pulled his face from the dirt. Isa stood in the clearing, his face radiant and glowing, and full of pain. He looked over at Brate, smiled, and then the Deep swallowed him whole. He disappeared as if he had never existed.

  How much time had passed? A day? A year? Brate pushed himself up. He barely had enough strength to move, let alone stand. Slowly, his muscles remembered how to work. His bones settled where before they had seemed like liquid.

  And the Deep was back. The shield was gone.

  “Where did he go?” The voice was shaking. Brate glanced over as one of the men who had been with Isa struggled to sit upright. The Watchers were gone, and the Dreads where nowhere to be found.

  “What in the Liar’s teeth just happened?” another asked.

  “The web is gone.” Malok was the first to stand, wobbling on his feet. Tears streamed down his face. “And so is Isa.”

  “Gone?” Myra asked from where she huddled against Ezra. His arm was still around her, brows lowered in a grimace. “What do you mean?”

  “You still don’t get it?” Malok shook his head, raising his fingers to rub at his eyes. “He was the sacrifice to bring it down. The grune-breths were the key. The Dreadwood is the portal. He was the man from the dream.”

  “I think you better explain yourself in full and tell us everything you know.” Ezra glared at Malok. “You knew what was going to happen all along?”

  Malok sighed and ran a shaking hand over his mouth. “I...” he stopped and lowered his face to his hands as if in disbelief. “It goes back much further than even the creation of the web. From what I can See, the portals spread around the Lands are stoppers, like a wine cork. Bat Mountain is one. The Dreadwood is one. Brailison is one. The Palisade Kingdom is one. They all require death to satisfy the Deep.” He looked up, face pale.

  “Satisfy it from what?” Brate asked. The pain in his head was beginning to dissipate, the fogginess wafting away to bring clarity. Or, at least some semblance of it.

  “It is the way of all of life. Rebirth. Life. Death. You still don’t see?” He sighed and rubbed his temples. “It’s how it is. The most important piece was Isa. He is the Creator. He commands the Deep.”

  What nonsense was this? Malok must be muddled by what had just happened. The others seemed to think the same thing, for their faces were wreathed in frowns of confusion. The men stood to their feet, shaking dirt from their clothes. Myra seemed to be the only one understanding what he meant.

  “He’s right,” she muttered. “It was written.”

  “In Frides,” Malok said, standing upright. “I still don’t understand it fully. We must go to the Scrape Lands. Can you take us back?” He looked at Brate.

  “But what about the Dreads?” Foreboding tightened the muscles of Brate’s shoulders. “If the web came down, then maybe the shield holding the Dreads did here, as well. And what of those creatures?”

  “Watchers,” Myra said. “Don’t worry, the Reader will take care of them.”

  “If the web is down, nothing will stop Pol from invading the north.” Ezra ran a hand over his shaven chin. “We shouldn’t go to the Scrape Lands, we should go to wherever he is. You have a way of getting us there?” He looked at Brate.

  In fact, everyone did. Was it really up to him? Uncertainty replaced the foreboding. If he made the wrong choice, it could be their undoing.

  “Let’s all just take a minute to think this through.” Malok, ever the voice of reason, came over to put a comforting hand on Brate’s shoulder. “Brate, what did Isa say to you?”

  The parchment. He reached into his pocket and pulled it out. “Not much. But he gave me this.”

  “Writing?” Ezra scoffed and shook his head. “Great. How useful.”

  Malok grinned. “Excellent.”

  “We don’t know if that has anything to do with us, in this moment,” Myra said. “I agree with Ezra. The Triumphant King is the priority.”

  “What have you Seen?” Brate asked, glancing up at Malok.

  He shook his head. “I thought we agreed my visions wouldn’t be what leads us.”

  “Don’t be silly!” Ezra snapped. “If we could ever use them, it would be now.”

  “Is the shield still in place to keep the Dreads confined?” Brate asked him.

  Malok sighed. “The Dreads are no more. They melted.”

  “All of them?” Myra sounded shocked. Her eyes widened, mouth agape. Brate’s sentiment exactly. That was insane.

  “It’s what I’ve been trying to tell you!” Malok dropped his hand from Brate’s shoulder. “None of this matters. Isa did what needed doing, what no one else could do. He absorbed the fury of the Deep. He cleansed it. And now...” his face paled as something seemed to dawn in his mind. “Now we all can access it.”

  Who was all? Brate sighed and shook his head. Too many riddles.

  “All? What do you mean?” Myra asked.

  “Everyone. All of humanity.” Malok laughed, shoulders shaking.

  Surely it was the madness speaking. Such a thing was impossible.

  Right?

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Priva Car’abel

  Pulling his cloak tight around him, Priva ducked his head as he entered the Shrine. No Finders were out and about at this time of night, and the guards didn’t even bat an eye when he passed them at the doors. The low lighting in the corridor matched the darkness in his soul. Now that he had made his decision, casting his lot in with a rebellion and overthrow of Father, the tightness in his body refused to lessen. It was as if treason was a physical thing clinging to him, labeling him, boring him down into the muck and mire where he deserved to flail and drown. It went against everything he claimed to believe.

  But he had no choice. He never, ever, had a bricking choice.

  Gisella’s words invaded his mind, spoken what seemed like a lifetime ago on the placid lake in Rollvear.

  You always have a choice, Greigan. Don’t let anyone tell you differently.

  But she was wrong.

  The corridor let straight into a wide room. In the center stood the Odias Globe, a rectangle of glass with a hovering map on the center. In the middle of the map was a massive red stone. The whole of the known sphere was outlined across the surface of the glass. He didn’t know how it worked, just that this was how the Finders found accessors.

  It had been years since he had last been here. He strode forward and laid his hands on the waist-high glass. It glowed red under his touch, a swirling essence filling the enclosed space. Something stirred inside of him. Fear? No. This was a real, physical thing. Totally foreign, it seemed to come to life, as if the Globe was calling to the deepest recesses of his soul. The red rock waited, as
if it knew he was coming.

  “Strange to find you here.”

  His heart leapt into his throat. Someone was in the corner, shadowed. A laugh, all too familiar, followed the words. The figure stood, and a skrale flapped off his shoulder and into the air.

  Pale slinked forward into the light cast by flickering torches on the walls, red cloak obscuring all but his glinting eyes. He wasn’t supposed to be here. No one was.

  Priva willed himself to calm. Should he call on the Deep? No. Pale would kill him where he stood. Or, at least he would try to kill him. Nothing new. It seemed as if a lot of people wanted him dead recently.

  “What brings you to the Shrine, Maj? Surely not curiosity. I can think of no good reason, especially after your father reneged on his promise.” Pale’s voice was soft and low, like a whisper of wind through brittle leaves on a cobbled road. The corner of his mouth pulled upward into a ghastly replica of a smile. “Do you wish to become a Finder?”

  Priva snorted. “Not likely.” He felt along the surface of the glass. The writhing in his chest grew as the red haze encased in the rectangle grew stronger. Something nudged his mind, and she was there. Graissa’s timing couldn’t have been worse.

  Thankfully she didn’t say anything, but her concern filled his mind. She could see through his eyes, hear his thoughts. She sifted through his brain as a slave would pluck grain. He thought of his plan, and she jerked back as if scalded.

  You are mad, she said.

  He almost laughed. Of course he was mad. He could hear voices in his head.

  “Explain yourself, Priva Car’abel. Or I might find reason to kill you after all.” Pale stopped a few feet away, the skrale settling on his shoulder, maniacal grin adorning its hideous mouth.

  “I am a Prince of Stone. I don’t answer to you.” Priva stiffened as Pale spat out a word that was more like a cough than speech. Pain seared his hand where it rested on the glass, and he jerked it away. A burning sensation remained.