The Last Steward

by Janelle Garrett

  “Perhaps not, but we all answer to the Rift.” Pale reached to his throat where a necklace dangled, a red stone glittering. He grasped it, red light seeping through his palm. “One last chance, Sensor. Or I will force a confession.”

  Anytime now. How long before—

  An explosion ripped through the Shrine. The skrale screeched, Pale stumbled, and Priva embraced the Deep.

  His eyesight shot into focus, brilliant and clear. The sound of a thousand bits of stone crumpling around him nearly bowled him over. The screech of the skrale pulled at his ears, the air and dust settling on his skin like a coat.

  He clamped down and concentrated. Pale gathered his footing and glared hatred and fear at him, hand still clutching the red stone. “Fool!” he shouted, then began to mutter in a harsh tongue even as the Shrine crumpled around them. The roof groaned, barely holding in place. How soon before they were buried?

  The Globe responded to Pale’s words, burning bright red. The glass seemed to shift, and black, smoky creatures roared and pulled to escape the confines.

  What was this? They hadn’t planned for this.

  Get out of there! Graissa called. Her voice was frantic.

  Priva grit his teeth and pulled in more of the Deep. What had he done, so long ago? Used it like a warlock. Could he do it again?

  Pale screeched as the creatures pulled out of the Globe. Huge, towering, muscled beasts with red eyes glared and snarled. Priva raised his hand and pushed with the Deep.

  A blue streak of light seared his enhanced eyesight. Was that shock on Pale’s face? The bar of power hit him square in the chest, and he flew off his feet and toward the back wall that shook and showered dust.

  The beasts sneered and lunged for Priva. He scrambled back.

  Something within the very crust of the sphere itself rumbled. The Deep roared, so strong and powerful that Priva fell to his back. Reality changed. He somehow knew it was so, just as he knew his own name.

  Maybe it was the way the Deep reacted. Someone was controlling the whole of the waters, as far and as wide as Priva could sense. The beasts faded into oblivion as the Globe cracked and split, the stone on its center bursting with light. With a roar, it shattered into a million shards, and the glass collapsed in on itself. It warped, and then—was gone. Disappeared. A crater stood in its place, seared by black soot as if a fire had once burned but faded away. The glass melted.

  What—? But Graissa didn’t finish. She pulled out of his mind. Was she okay? Did something happen to her?

  Priva forced himself to his feet, shaking. The Deep settled but was different, somehow. It no longer had a wild, uncontrollable feel to it. More like a docile horse, ready to do as commanded.

  Another explosion farther away rattled the ground. He needed to move fast. He rushed to where Pale was sprawled on the floor, reaching down and ripping away the necklace. The stone was cold against his hands. It would have to do.

  He turned and ran out of the Shrine. The guards were nowhere in sight, probably having fled after the first explosion. The building groaned, and then with a final heave, it collapsed in a rumble of dust and debris. Vic was across the street, and when he caught sight of Priva, he surged forward to meet him.

  “What just happened? Did you feel that?”

  “Any accessor would have,” Priva barked, slowing to a fast walk. “Let’s go.” Vic fell into step beside him as several people rushed by, presumably to see what had happened to the Shrine. They paid them no mind, not recognizing them in the dark.

  “Let’s hope Draper does his part,” Vic said, voice rumbling low in his throat. “We are all dead if not.”

  “Good job,” Priva said, gesturing over his shoulder with his chin. “I thought for a second you had ducked out.”

  Vic chuckled. “I’m far too invested to back out now. Besides, I’ve always wanted to destroy that damned place.”

  “Where did you learn an explosive enchantment?” But it really didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he could, and he did, and that it worked. They stopped and waited in an alley several blocks from the Shrine. Soon most of the Finders would be roused and headed straight for it. All they had to do was wait.

  Vic shrugged. “Here and there. At least I didn’t kill you. Why were you still in there? Do you have it?”

  “I wouldn’t have been in there if Pale hadn’t stopped me. I would have been long gone.”

  “Pale was there? Was the Globe destroyed?” Vic cracked his neck, clearly not concerned. “And did you get it?”

  Priva sighed. “Whatever happened back there with the Deep—” he stopped. There was nothing else to explain. He pulled out necklace and held it up for Vic to see. “Now all we have to do is figure out how this works.”

  “You took that from the High Finder?” Vic crossed his arms. “It isn’t as powerful as the one on the Globe.”

  “I had to improvise.” He stifled irritation. Sometimes missions didn’t go exactly as planned. Even Vic would know that.

  Across the street a carriage rattled past, headed for the Shrine. A flash of red caught Priva’s eye. The first of the Finders were arriving. He grinned.

  This was going to be fun.

  ***

  Graissa del’Blyth

  Graissa scrambled out of Priva’s mind and screeched as the pithion banked sharply downward. Its powerful wings tore through the air, and the wind blurred her vision as tears flew across her face and into her ears. Her stomach dropped, and mercifully he pulled up, righting once more. Creator, hopefully Priva was okay.

  Cackle—no, Raston—laughed behind her where he clutched her waist.

  “I told you this would be fun.”

  It was still strange to actually hear him speak. Thank the Creator Jonas had extra clothes for him, at least. Demons shouldn’t be so attractive when they had human form.

  Vivian’s aghast expression flashed through her mind. She had been furious when Graissa had told her the plan to ride the pithion and unicorn back to the Fortress. But Cackle had convinced her.

  The unicorn flew beside them, Moriah and Vivian clinging to her back. Neither appeared all that pleased with the present situation. Gerard and Jonas had griped and complained about being left behind, but there was nothing else for it. There wasn’t enough room for them, and from what she could tell, Priva’s situation was even more desperate than Cackle had told her.

  Not Cackle. Raston. It would probably take her some time to get used to that.

  “Don’t worry. He will be okay.” Cackle—Raston! His name was Raston!—murmured in her ear. How did he know she was concerned about Priva? He couldn’t even see her face. And she couldn’t Read him to find out, either.

  “I know,” she answered, but her whole body tensed. Was this more than just concern for a friend? Her stomach clenched. Hard. Something in her chest was tight, refusing to relax.

  “You are doing the right thing. Polbine Voltaire will—”

  Something shattered through the sky, flinging the pithion. Her seat disappeared, and only empty sky was all around. She plummeted, spinning through the air, head over heels.

  The Deep was writhing, foaming. It pummeled her, punishing, before it stopped. Controlled by an unseen force, it spun with power so strong it made her descent toward the ground inconsequential.

  Someone was screaming. Or something? The unicorn?

  A hand grasped her ankle. She tried to turn and look, and something dark blurred the corner of her vision. Suddenly the force of her fall wrapped her in terror. She was going to die. Splatter in blood and bone in the dirt.

  A flash of wings and flesh darted beneath her. The pithion swooped and caught her on its back. She grasped fur and feathers, and then she was soaring sky high once more. Cackle — it was useless to think of him otherwise — pulled her close to his chest, strong arms around her, panting. Where was Moriah and Vivian? The unicorn?

  She glanced down. They had been seconds away from death, for the ground was perhaps three hundred feet below. H
ands trembling, she righted herself on the pithion’s back. Her racing heart refused to calm, and both sweat and tears mingled on her face. What was going on?

  Cackle hissed as the Deep settled. Something about him being a demon allowed him to sense the Deep but not use it. She didn’t really understand. He was a creature from the Rift, of a different reality altogether. One day she would make him explain it in full.

  “There!” The pithion’s rumbling voice made her jerk her head where he was looking. The unicorn flew into view, Vivian and Moriah still clinging to her back.

  Graissa lunged into the Deep and shot her mind to Vivian.

  Are you okay?

  Vivian waved at her. We are. What happened?

  I was hoping you could tell me. Wind whistled in her ears as the pithion picked up speed.

  Whatever it was, it had been something important. Do you sense how calm the Deep is?

  Yes. And it was strong enough to effect physical reality. Fear settled in her stomach. Was the Deep safe to use? Should she be Reading Vivian?

  Maybe the others will know.

  Graissa slid from her mind. The others. Priva. Were they okay? She tightened her grip on the pithion’s feathers. The sooner they reached the Bright Lands the better. They probably had a couple hours of flight left. She repressed a shiver, both from the cold wind and from fear.

  Cackle’s strong hands tightened on her waist reassuringly. “The Rift is angry. Whatever happened, the Prince of Chaos isn’t too pleased. That is good for you, I think.”

  She turned her head to reply, so that her answer wasn’t lost in the sky. “You can sense it somehow?”

  He grinned, white teeth flashing. “Sense is a good term, yes. But we cannot control it as you control the Deep. We can only be summoned by someone else.”

  “And the Triumphant King used you to spy on me?” He had already mentioned this, but it still bothered her. Why, then, was he helping her?

  He laughed. “The Triumphant King has no say over me. The Prince loaned me to him. But I don’t report back. I never did.”

  Something close to affection filled her. Cackle had never betrayed her. “Why not?”

  “I have my own reasons. We demons tend to be unpredictable. And we like to call no one our Master. No one.”

  “Not even this Prince of Chaos? The Liar, right?” The pithion shifted, and she fell back against Cackle’s chest. She would never get used to calling him Raston.

  “Especially him.” The darkness in his tone made her stop asking questions.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Priva Car’abel

  The Finders were staring at the Shrine, wringing their hands or pulling at their hair. Not all of them were there, maybe eighty out of one hundred. Priva grimaced from his hiding place across the street. His other siblings were taking their positions, surrounding the collapsed Shrine. He had hoped more Finders would come.

  “Is it enough?” Vic asked, voice low.

  Priva glanced at him where he was propped behind a barrel on the other side of the alley. “We will make do with what we’ve got.” He put as much confidence into his tone as possible. They needed to believe he could do this. Otherwise, they were all dead.

  Dawn wasn’t far off. He suppressed a yawn, looking back to the courtyard. The Finders were huddled together, talking. Skrales perched on their shoulders or on the rubble. Even they were subdued, possibly sensing their master’s moods. It appeared that no more would be joining them.

  This was it then. He nodded at Vic and then embraced the Deep. Vic pulled out the red stone that had once adorned Pale the Finder. He had wished to become a Finder, back when he refused to believe he was an accessor. It was proving to be useful, his training only half finished, but the memory of the language of the Rift was coming into use.

  A red glow enveloped his hand where he held the stone. Priva darted from the alley, vision allowing him to see through the shadows of the coming dawn. The skrales in the courtyard must have sensed him before the Finders. They cackled and screeched, taking to the air.

  The Finders looked up and then stirred, darting glances around. Some saw Priva approach. He heard their eyes widening, hearts pounding, blood coursing.

  Priva’s siblings burst forth from their hiding places. The Deep writhed as they pulled it in. There was Juliette, face proud, arrogant. Wells was beside her, face gentle yet firm. To the south emerged Grrale, pulling in so much of the Deep it almost seemed impossible. He was strong, that lad. Beside him was Olive, eyes flashing, teeth bared in a snarl. The others too, so that all fifteen were descending on the Finders.

  Priva broke into a run, calling on more of the Deep. It rushed to respond, and he focused on his hearing and sight. Pulling a knife from his belt, he was on the Finders in seconds. They were confused, some reaching for the stones around their neck. But Vic muted it, and his voice reverberated in Priva’s ears even though he was dozens of feet away, only whispering. The strange language was hissing and guttural. Alien.

  The Finders realized too late that they couldn’t use the Rift. Priva slashed at the first one he approached, blood spraying over his arm and to the stones below. The Finder raised his hands to the wound on the side of his throat, falling as Priva pushed past.

  Blue light shattered into the group, knocking dozens to the ground. Priva preferred to use the blade in his hand. Maybe it was the feel of blood, or the smell. Whatever the case, it ignited him, brought him to life.

  The Finders tried to run as their skrales rallied in the sky and then swooped down, reaching with clawed talons. Grrale obliterated them in one pulse of the Deep. They plummeted, green blood spraying as their bodies landed amidst the rubble.

  It was over in minutes. The

  Finders who tried to escape were chased down and slaughtered. Priva accounted for only five kills as his siblings used the Deep. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to learn whatever enchantment it was that they used. It was quick and efficient, more so than using steel. For each one he took down, his siblings took down ten, twelve, fifteen.

  Priva stopped as the last Finder fell before Hux. The Deep calmed as they regrouped.

  “Next?” Grrale asked, grinning.

  Priva wiped his knife on a Finder’s cloak before nodding. “To the Fortress. Where are the Bladewielders?”

  “Waiting for our command.” Hux wiped sweat from his brow with his sleeve. “Boll has them surrounding it, ready.”

  Did they have time? When would the Jattalians arrive?

  As if in answer, a horse came galloping into the courtyard, Bladewielder in the saddle. He didn’t even blink at the carnage surrounding them. “Jattal is spotted in the Passage. Dozens of warships.”

  Dozens. Hundreds of men coming by sea.

  “Where is the King?” Priva asked. He had to decide. Overthrow now, or fight against the invaders? It was almost an impossible decision to make. Liar’s teeth.

  “That’s not all,” the Bladewielder said. “A marching army is also seen, perhaps half a day away. The Xeals along with Jattalians, and other clans they must have picked up along the way.” His eyes turned worried. “Perhaps another five hundred.”

  Five hundred? That many? And the Triumphant King at the western border. If that line could hold, at least it would give Priva time to defend the Hovering City.

  Well, that must mean he had made his decision.

  “What now, Priva?” Grrale asked.

  Priva sighed. “Revolutions can wait.”

  ***

  Branson de’Gaius

  Cold sweat popped out on Branson’s head. He wiped it away before anyone could see. It would only be an embarrassment if the men thought he were afraid.

  But he was. What was he doing here? Did he really think he could kill someone? Yes, it was war. But that didn’t mean he could stomach being the cause of someone else’s death. In defense of another, maybe.

  No. Not even then. Blaise’s frightened face flashed before his eyes, Rafe shoving her down onto the edge of the foun
tain.

  Branson wouldn’t be a coward. Not now. Maybe once before, but never again. This was the right thing to do. Polbine Voltaire’s war was just.

  He wiped his face again as General Ungold glanced over at him. His eyes were hard, unrelenting. Did he suspect Branson was afraid? If he did, he didn’t show it. Instead, he nodded and then gestured with his head. Branson turned his eyes to the fortification across the field. The wall of the barracks extended across a few hundred feet, surrounded by a spiked fence. The glint of poleblades behind it sent shafts of light into his eyes. The Eastlandian line did nothing to hide the fact that they were ready and waiting.

  Branson steadied his breathing and grasped the Deep. The distance was a few hundred feet, but he had been practicing. And Pol wasn’t too far behind.

  Gathering it into his mind, pulling with his hands, a blue light enveloped him. Focus. Expand. Breathe. He shoved, and the light shot out across the field and smashed into the spiked fence.

  Cries rang out across the expanse. General Ungold roared the order for the charge, and the foot soldiers took off, poleblades lowered. Branson held back his horse as it stamped nervously, wanting to join the race.

  The General looked at him again. “Wait for it.”

  He didn’t need the reminder. Already his strength had dwindled. Did he have enough to do the rest?

  The first line ran through the opening he had created. The two sides clashed, and a flurry of arrows was loosed from the barrack walls into the middle of the Westlandian horde. Men fell with screams, and even from this distance, Branson could vaguely make out arrows protruding from shoulders, arms, and heads.

  He had done this.

  “Now!” Ungold shouted.

  He shouldn’t hesitate. But why did he? Fear. He was terrified. The General glared at him, and Branson pulled in the Deep again. He couldn’t falter now. It was already begun.

  The Deep writhed as he pulled in more and more, until a buzzing took residence in his head, morphing into a pain that lanced at his temples. A little more... he pushed. The blue light exploded from his hands, racing over the clashing armies and into the walls of the barracks.