by Shae Ford
The way they bent down over those eyes — eyes with an edge every bit as sharp as his face …
He knew it. He’d known it all along. Crevan had been so intent on claiming the throne that he hadn’t been able to see it. He’d been so confident in his little scheme that he’d thought the Wright had truly fallen into his trap.
But Titus had known better.
The young man’s eyes stayed on his for a moment before they shifted to someone in front of him. Try to keep its claws pinned back. I’d really rather not have my face split open.
His hands reached out, his eyes brightened as he focused. Then like a lid slammed shut over an eye, the image went black.
Cold air ached his teeth as Titus grinned. “Attack,” he whispered.
These new beasts weren’t used to Titus’s voice. He’d taken a risk by sending his slaves to the Braided Tree — a risk he was certain would yield a near-limitless supply of beasts. But the slaves weren’t as obedient as his wolves. They needed to be … broken.
They didn’t want to attack the young man: they were afraid of him. But Titus wouldn’t be ignored. He’d learned early on that in order to control his beasts, his voice had to be the loudest — his will had to be the strongest. He had to grip their reins tightly, to rule as alpha over his army.
“Attack,” he said again, this time louder than before.
Madness weakened these newest beasts. They were tossed back and forth between their human and animal selves like wreckage in the seas. After awhile, they began to grasp Titus’s command. They clung to the force of his will to keep from being dashed among the waves.
“Attack!”
They raked the young man’s face with their claws and gouged his fingers with their teeth. He swore like a pirate each time he bled, but he didn’t stop. One by one, the windows of Titus’s beasts went dark as the young man freed them. The last things Titus saw before the vision dimmed were those eyes.
They held him suspended over a vat, threatening with their calm. Titus had looked into the eyes of many men over his lifetime. Mostly he saw fear; sometimes there was hatred. Their gazes were always either above him or below — either glaring down in rage or pleading upwards. Only a few, a very few, had ever managed to meet them.
When he looked into the eyes of that mountain rat, he saw his own soul reflected back. There was a rare brand of fight in this boy, one he hadn’t seen in many years. Titus was going to enjoy this challenge immensely.
He opened his eyes. All of the little windows faded back and the frozen walls of his throne room rushed to fill his vision. A creature sat before him: a man and a falcon twisted into one. Only a small portion of Titus’s army had taken the shape of birds — which was rather disappointing, as he’d found his little falcons to be especially useful.
They weren’t built for battle. The falcons were only about half the size of humans, but they were fast, quick-witted, and nearly impossible to hit. Their sight was sharp and focused. He’d gazed through their eyes as they’d circled the walls of Midlan, itself — watching from behind a veil of clouds.
“What is it, Earlship?” the falcon screeched. Its small voice struck the walls sharply. Black eyes consumed a large portion of its face — its warped beak-nose took up the rest. “Kill? Spy?”
For a moment, Titus hesitated. His patience had served him well thus far. He’d spent years convincing Crevan to give him the mountains, months slowly changing his army. Now his forces were more beast than man and Midlan had begun to crumble. If he did nothing more, Crevan would fall on his own … and Titus’s patience would earn him the crown.
But now there was a greater prize at stake — something only the death of this mountain rat could earn him. Titus knew he would have to move quickly to claim it.
“Tell D’Mere that I’ve changed my mind. I’ll do as she asks … but I expect a vial of her poison in payment. She’ll know which one I mean.” Titus pulled the golden medallion from around his neck — the one with the Earl’s symbol engraved onto its surface — and held it lightly. “Wait in the forest for as long as it takes her to prepare it, and don’t answer any questions.”
He tossed the medallion onto the floor, where the little falcon scooped it up with its clawed feet. “Yes, Earlship!” It shot away, squeezing itself through a narrow window and out into the cold.
Titus knew he’d done a dangerous thing, aligning himself with Countess D’Mere. She watched the shifting of the Kingdom’s pawns a few moves ahead, as Titus did. They’d both seen the day when Crevan’s pitiful campaign against the Dragongirl would consume him. They’d known his failures would drive him mad — and known that his madness would leave him vulnerable.
Now the hour of change was fast approaching, and each had something the other needed: D’Mere had given him the use of her shaman — and in exchange, Titus would spare her people from the coming storm. She’d promised him even more. She’d been willing to offer practically anything … all he had to do was hand over his medallion.
Titus frowned. He knew D’Mere planned to use him as bait. She would goad the King into charging up the mountains, where she no doubt hoped that either the bloodshed or the howling winter would eventually claim them both. Then the path to Midlan would be opened to her.
Yes, he was certain her next moves would carry her close to the throne. But she would fail.
Titus’s thumb dragged through the tangles of his beard. He broke into a grin as he tried to imagine the look on D’Mere’s face when she realized that she’d been fooled.
She’d only let him use the shaman because she believed it would mean his beasts would be tied to his mages, and that their bonds could be easily broken by death. She didn’t know about the dragonsbane. She didn’t know that his army would answer only to him, that he could witness everything they saw — that not even death could sever their chains.
But he was very much looking forward to the moment when she would discover it.
Titus’s grin twisted into a snarl. No, not even that thought could please him. A few hours ago, he’d been content with the idea of becoming King … but this mountain rat had tainted his victory. Now the throne of Midlan felt like a hollow prize.
There were greater spoils to be claimed. Fate had given him the rare chance to right a monstrous wrong — to have his defeat boiled down and recast into a scepter worthy of a King. He would’ve been a fool to turn such a gift aside.
Titus closed his eyes again, searching until he came to a window that sat high above the green mesh ceiling of the Grandforest. Clouds reddened by the light of the evening whipped past his eyes, smearing the sky with their blood.
“I need you to watch someone for me,” Titus said. He drew up an image of the boy’s face and passed it on. “Don’t attack — only watch. Keep your eyes on him and wait for my command.”
The clouds tilted on their side as the falcon changed direction.
Titus opened his eyes. His hands curled around the throne’s jagged arms and his mouth broke into a wolfish grin. His voice bounced off the icy walls as he growled:
“You can’t protect him any longer. This one is mine.”
Chapter 12
The Plague of Vindicus
They’d been climbing along the cliffs for hours. When Kael tried to see how much further they had to go, drops of sweat rolled into his eyes. “Are we nearly there?”
Kyleigh’s head appeared over the ledge above him. “We’re getting close.”
Kael had to choke his frustration back. They’d been getting close for at least the last hour. He didn’t know how much longer he could be expected to stay civil. He knelt and tried to hold still as Baird clambered onto his knee.
“A new day, a new dawn. This is a season of fresh beginnings. Try to enjoy the climb, young man,” he said as he felt for Kyleigh’s hand. When he grasped it, she pulled him up.
Baird had slept through the afternoon and evening, only to wake in the gray hours of the morning. After all he’d been through, Kael expect
ed him to be full of hmms and annoying questions, but he’d been surprisingly quiet. He’d run his hands down the bloodstained hole in his shirt, his mouth parted slightly beneath his bandages.
When Kyleigh managed to find him a fresh tunic among the soldiers’ gear, he asked Kael to help him put it on. One by one the filthy strips of rags fell away. Kael stared at the red, raised mark that ran down the middle of Baird’s chest and found he was still a little surprised.
“I thought your stories were special.”
“Whispercraft,” Baird had admitted as he tore the last of the rags free. “Most craftsmen prefer to work with their hands — they only ever dabble in words. Yes, their days are wasted on iron and stone while words are cast by the wayside. A tragedy, for there is no greater material.” He smiled widely. “Words are powerful and dangerous things — uttered in an instant, yet lasting for an age. They touch the heart, change the mind, and feed the spirit. With nothing else can the truth be bent. The man who understands this may hold the whole realm captive upon his tongue.”
Kael was quiet for a long moment. He remembered the few times when his words had come out as whispercraft: he’d used them to set Aerilyn’s heart at ease, to convince the giants to go along with his plan …
“Why didn’t you force me to tell you the truth? You could have asked me anything you wanted, and I would’ve had to answer.”
The tangles of Baird’s mane had fallen over his bandages as he whispered: “He holds the whole realm captive, yes. Kingdoms rise by his words … and fall at a slip of his tongue. He understands this,” Baird pressed a finger to his lips, “and so he chooses his words carefully.”
An uncomfortable feeling had crawled beneath Kael’s skin. “You mean you can’t always control it? How do you stop your words from becoming whispercraft?” he said when Baird nodded.
“I keep my lips sealed against that which might be troubling, that might be tempting. The only way to truly stop a word is to keep your mouth shut,” Baird had scoffed. “You remember that, young man.”
Kael had thought the beggar-bard ought to take some of his own advice. Still, as ridiculous as Baird could be, he’d felt there was some truth in his words. “That reminds me of something my friend Morris said to me once —”
“Morris?” Baird had erupted in cackles. “Oh yes, he would know better than anybody. Morris the Dog would know better!”
Kael had rolled his eyes. Baird had been trying to remember the Dog’s name for days. Guesses had been pouring from his mouth in a near-constant stream: he’d heard of Haply, Riad, Carfol, and Dewey the Dog all over breakfast. He wasn’t at all surprised that Baird had latched onto Morris.
“Morris the Dog!” he’d sing-songed as he pulled the shirt over his head. “Morris the Dog! Morris the Dog!”
Hours had passed since then. Now the sun had climbed high over the treetops, and Baird had discovered a new phrase to chant: “Toil will sharpen our relief, sweat makes the last step so sweet. Yes, enjoy the climb, young man. Enjoy it!”
Kael had officially run out of patience. “If he tells me to enjoy the climb one more time, I’m going to shove him off a cliff,” he muttered as Baird’s knobby ankles disappeared over the ledge.
He’d been talking to himself, but Kyleigh must’ve heard. She stuck her head back over and grinned down. “Already regretting that, are you?”
He was beginning to regret a lot of things — not the least of which had been accepting help from a halfwolf.
When Kael had told the shamans which way they were headed, Graymange had taken it upon himself to help. “I’ve heard rumors of a great pack of swordbearers who’ve claimed the den at the Valley’s mouth. You’ll never escape their eyes. I can show you a better path.”
Kael had glanced at the bear and hawk shamans. “All right … but what about your war with Blackbeak? I don’t want to get in your way.”
“Each summer, the King travels from his den and makes a journey into the swamps. Blackbeak knows this, and he knows he’ll have no choice but to answer when the King calls. That’s the price of his treachery.” Graymange’s lips bent back over his teeth, baring them in two sharp rows. Kael might’ve thought it was a grin, had his eyes not been so unsettlingly dark. “My brothers are gathering at the place where we’ll end him. I will take you to the path … and return with time enough to purge Blackbeak’s spirit.”
At that moment, Kael had thought it sounded like a pretty decent plan. But now he was beginning to regret it.
Graymange’s way had taken them much longer than he’d expected. He led them off the trails and straight into the thickest, most tangled part of the woods. Kael spent most of the day leading Baird carefully around each bramble and rock — a task made more difficult by the fact that every time a bird whistled, the beggar-bard would stop to answer.
Kael was tired, sore, and bramble-whipped. And now they seemed to be climbing straight up.
“Here,” Kyleigh said.
Kael stared at her hand, but he didn’t take it.
He’d spent most of the day before freeing all of the caged people. They seemed to have no idea what was going on: the villagers were terrified of the shamans and even more afraid of Kael.
They’d begun fighting the second his hands touched their collars and didn’t stop until he’d broken the dragonsbane in half. He’d been bitten, scratched, and kicked in the shins more times than he could count. A few thanked him once they’d been set free, but most had simply dropped into their animal forms and bolted for the woods. By the end of it, evening had settled and Kael was completely exhausted.
So while the shamans had gathered in a circle to talk, Kael had gone in search of someplace to sleep. He’d found Kyleigh and Baird camped a ways from the road, nearly hidden among the thick shrubs.
The beggar-bard had been sleeping peacefully beneath a soldier’s cloak. Kyleigh had managed to get a small fire going, and Kael had stumbled over to it gratefully.
“I’m sorry I left you on your own. I just … I couldn’t bear to watch,” she’d said without looking up.
He’d walked in a wide arc around her and dropped the armful of dragonsbane collars he’d been carrying onto the ground. He’d planned to wring the blood from them — as soon as he’d healed the gouges in his shoulder.
Kyleigh’s lip had curled at the sight of the collars. Her brows bent low as she jabbed a stick among the embers. “Perfect. Now do you understand why I didn’t want to help them?” Slowly, her expression softened. “It isn’t your fault. I should’ve told you, I suppose. But I didn’t want you to think …”
Her words had faded when she finally looked at him. Her eyes had wandered across every bitten, scratched-up inch of his face. When her lips parted, he’d thought she’d been about to scold him.
“Look, I know the shapechangers think those people were Abominations, but I couldn’t let the shamans kill them. They deserve to have a chance — every creature deserves a chance. I’m not sorry for it,” he went on, when she did nothing but watch him. “You can tease me all you want, and I still won’t be sorry.”
“Well, then I suppose there’s no point in teasing you. I’m going to have a chat with the shamans,” she’d said as she got to her feet. “Watch Baird for a moment, will you? It’ll give you a chance to lick your wounds.”
“I’m not a dog —”
Kyleigh had grabbed him under the chin and planted her lips against the side of his face — so quickly that he wasn’t even sure it’d happened. He might’ve doubted it forever … had it not been for the burn.
Fire spread across his cheek as she walked away. It sank beneath his skin and stayed hot throughout the night. Even now, he could feel where her lips had been. He knew that if he took her hand, those flames would rise up once more.
And he wasn’t sure if he could survive the blaze a second time. “I’ve got it. I don’t need your help.”
She shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
He got one foot planted and found a crack to slip
his hand into. He was looking for the next hold when he realized Kyleigh was still watching him. “Haven’t you got anything better to do?”
“Well,” she glanced over her shoulder, “not particularly. Baird is reciting poetry to a rather scraggly bush, while it looks as if Graymange is … relieving himself on it.” She laughed and propped a hand against the side of her face. “That’s one thing I don’t miss about traveling with wolves. They’re always stopping to mark where they’ve been.”
“I feel sorry for that bush,” Kael said as he pulled himself up to the ledge.
“A little wolf water isn’t going to hurt it.”
“No, I meant about the poetry.”
Her brows arched high and her smile gave way to laughter. “I can’t believe it — Kael’s finally told a joke. Come here, you.”
Before he could protest, she grabbed him by the back of the shirt and pulled him over the ledge.
At long last, they reached the end of their climb. Kael knew it had to be the end when he saw the slick wall of rock in front of him. There wasn’t so much as a crack to hold onto. “What now?”
Graymange rose from his wolf form and pointed towards a narrow ledge. “The path is just through there. Follow it out to the end, and it’ll lead you to the mountain’s road.”
When Kael hesitated, Kyleigh slipped past him. She edged out and she leaned forward into a slight crack — making it look as if her head went through the wall. “I see the path … though it’s going to be an adventure and a half getting through all these thorns.” She slipped in one limb at a time until the crack swallowed her up.
Kael knew he should get moving, but something Graymange had said troubled him. “There aren’t any roads through the mountains. Are you certain we’ve come the right way?”
Graymange’s sunken-eyed stare took him in for a moment before his hand fell heavily on Kael’s arm. “Safe journey, mountain child.” Then he slipped into his fur and trotted away.