Dragonsbane

by Shae Ford

  “Whispering,” one of them grunted. Then he leaned to hiss at his companion: “Can you believe that? What Wright doesn’t know about whispering?”

  Kael tried to ignore their snickers.

  He was beginning to realize that he didn’t know as much as he’d thought. The only other whisperer he’d met was Morris — and he’d certainly never mentioned anything about toppling trees. He might never be able to do what Griffith had done. But maybe if he shut his mouth and tried, he could learn how to knock the walls off Titus’s castle …

  No, he told himself, shoving the thought aside. Don’t even think it.

  Kael watched the craftsmen work for a moment and slowly began to figure it out. He remembered the day when Morris had asked him to tie a sword into a knot — how he’d imagined his hands to be hot like a forge and how the iron had bent beneath his fingers. He saw the craftsmen chopping at the wood with the sides of their hands and realized that must’ve been what they were doing.

  Kael gave it a try. At first, he imagined his hands were sharp as an axe’s blade. He swung a few times and hardly managed to chip the bark. Cutting through the tree with an axe was going to take a lot longer than he cared to wait. He needed to think of something sharper …

  That was when he thought of Harbinger.

  He’d only had a chance to wield it once, but he remembered the blade well. It’d sliced through the bones and rusted armor of the Witch’s army with ease. He thought of the sword’s curved edge — so sharp it was practically invisible. He remembered the lightness of its weight, how it’d felt in his hand, how it moved so viciously through everything in its path.

  As he concentrated, his hands began to change. The sides of his palms turned white and sharpened. He dragged them down the tree and the bark peeled off in thick, curling strips. Branches fell away with a single swipe of his hand. He worked as far as he could reach, shaving the roughness away until all that was left was the smooth white flesh beneath it.

  When he was finished, he let the memory fade and dragged himself back to reality.

  “How did you do that?”

  Kael had attracted an audience. The craftsmen gathered around him in a half-moon, their eyes wide with interest. “I just … I thought of the sharpest thing I could remember.” Kael glanced down the tree and noticed that the craftsmen’s sections were barely scraped. “What were you thinking of?”

  “We learn to whisper with tools made from the shells of wynn eggs,” one of them, a young woman, said.

  “Of course you do,” Kael muttered. “And what does a wynn egg look like, exactly?”

  A boy pulled a flat bit of stone out of his pocket and held it up to Kael’s face. “This is a shard of a wynn’s egg. I found it in the ice caves.”

  It looked suspiciously like a piece of flint to Kael. “How do you know it’s a wynn’s egg?”

  “Because if we strike it against a certain kind of stone, it sparks!” an old man crowed.

  That was the moment Kael realized that Baird wasn’t the only lunatic whisperer wandering around the Kingdom: he’d managed to find a whole nest of them.

  He was just about to walk away when the young woman grabbed his hand. “What did you see? Teach us how to work faster.”

  He jerked out of her grasp. “I don’t know how to teach you.”

  “Show us! That’s how Setheran taught the warriors,” the old man crowed again. “He showed them things — made them stronger. Oh, I would’ve loved to see what he saw … but he couldn’t teach us anything. He was a lousy craftsman. All brute force and not an ounce of finesse.”

  Kael couldn’t believe what he was hearing. These people spoke about Setheran as if he was nothing extraordinary — as if they had no idea what he’d done for the Kingdom. He couldn’t help but be a little curious.

  “Did you really know Setheran?” When the old man nodded, he still couldn’t quite grasp it. “Why would he go to the summit?”

  “To be awakened,” the young woman said impatiently. “I’ve heard stories of how Setheran climbed the mountains to learn from us. Thane Evan made him sleep naked in the ice caves outside our castle for a full week before he taught him anything. And he didn’t get his clothes back until the day he left. You have it much easier than Setheran did,” she added, frowning at his tunic. “Yet you’ve already complained so much more.”

  It seemed strange to Kael. He’d always just accepted that Setheran was great — he’d never wondered about where his strength might’ve come from. And he certainly never imagined him living naked in ice caves.

  But awakened … he’d heard that word before. It had been in the letter Baird had given the wildmen. For some reason, his insides began to twist uncomfortably.

  “What do you mean Setheran wanted to be awakened?”

  “He came to us because the ways of the whisperer had been lost in Midlan. He told us they learned from books and lessons — like common manfolk,” the old craftsman said, wrinkling is nose. “By the time Setheran joined them, the whisperers of Midlan were so full of book-learning that they’d lost their imagination. They’d been hobbled by doubt! He climbed the mountains to find a way to set them free.”

  Kael swallowed hard. That sounded an awful lot like the way Morris had taught him to whisper — with readings and sparring practice and limits. He hadn’t even wanted Kael to do any whispering without his permission. Perhaps the wildmen knew of a better way.

  After what he’d seen Griffith do to that tree, he was certainly willing to try. “All right, I’m listening.” He wasn’t sure what to do next, so he spread his arms wide. “Awaken me.”

  The old craftsman grabbed his hand and mashed it against the young woman’s. “Now someone take his other hand, and someone take her hand …”

  He went around, mashing them together until all of the craftsmen were linked, holding hands in a large circle. Kael wasn’t used to being so closed in. By the time the last craftsman joined the circle, his palms were beginning to sweat. “I’m not sure this is helping anything.”

  “This is what Setheran always did!” the old craftsman insisted. “I remember — I was there. Now show us what you saw.”

  “How do I …?”

  Kael’s words trailed away as a strange feeling washed over him. Slowly, he lost track of the hands twined in his. The film of sweat no longer separated them, he couldn’t tell his fingers apart from anybody else’s. It was if he was alone … yet surrounded. As if he read a book while a dozen eyes watched over his shoulder.

  He could see the dark silhouettes of the craftsmen gathered around him — shadows set to a background of gray. All feeling left his body and pulled apart from his skin, fleeing into the middle of the circle.

  He could hear the craftsmen’s thoughts like whispers in the backs of his ears. Their questions flicked across his eyes in faded pictures. He knew they were waiting for something — waiting for him. Waiting to listen, waiting to be shown …

  Shown. Show them.

  Kael suddenly knew what to do. He thought carefully, drawing up an image of Harbinger. The vision appeared in the middle of the circle — his vision, his memory. His thoughts were no longer flat pictures that crossed behind his eyes, but living things brought alive in the center of the circle.

  He could feel the craftsmen’s recognition as images of Harbinger flashed by. Chills ran down their backs when he showed them how the blade felt and how fine its edges were. Their excitement thickened as they watched the sword slice through armor and bone. They followed the trail of his thoughts as if ripped by the force of the tide — creatures content to be carried along the ocean’s path.

  When he tried to bring Harbinger to the tree, the image wavered and the circle suddenly broke. It was like running full-tilt just to be jerked back by the belt. Kael snapped out of his vision with his teeth already bared.

  “What’s wrong?” he growled.

  “We can’t use a sword to shape trees,” one of the craftsmen scoffed. “Swords are for fighting. Tools are f
or building.”

  “I’ve never carried a sword once in my whole life! War isn’t our business,” the young woman said.

  Others murmured their agreement.

  Kael couldn’t believe it. They were so put off by the shape of something that they couldn’t see its potential. “Whether it’s a sword or an axe doesn’t make any difference. Focus on the blade.”

  “How can —?”

  “Just pay attention,” Kael said shortly. “I’m going to show you.”

  He grabbed the hands on either side of him and the craftsmen followed suit, linking reluctantly until the circle was whole once more.

  Kael focused on the blade, showing them how he imagined his flesh changing from skin to the strange material of Harbinger. He dragged them through every small step. Fighting against the rifts of their doubt was like weaving down a hallway that was all corners: his shoulder struck the edges and bounced him back, but somehow he managed to grind himself forward.

  Finally, understanding settled about them like a cloak. Kael felt it slide into place and seal one perfect idea away. Something told him his task was finished. He let his hands fall to his sides, and the world rushed in.

  The craftsmen blinked as if they’d just stepped into the light. They smiled and flexed their hands, the last of Kael’s memories flickering behind their eyes. The old craftsman broke from the circle and stepped up to the tree alone. He held a hand poised over a branch as big around as a man’s waist. Then with a cry, he brought it down.

  The craftsmen let out a collective howl when the branch struck the ground, hewed in a single perfect stroke. They fell on the tree and began to strip it of bark and limbs, eyes bright by the fury of their work — hands sharpened with the things they’d learned.

  Kael watched without really seeing them. His mind was consumed by the memories of what he’d just experienced in the circle: being a part of the craftsmen and yet somehow at their middle.

  As completely impossible as it sounded, he’d felt more alive in that moment than ever before. In fact, it made him feel as if he’d lived his whole life ridiculously — as if he’d been trying to put both feet through one leg of his trousers all this time and had only just figured out how to wear them right.

  Now as he watched the craftsmen work, he realized something had changed. He wasn’t quite sure what that something was. He didn’t know if he’d ever be able to find a word to describe it.

  But for some reason, it felt like a new beginning.

  Chapter 18

  Grognaut the Bandit Lord

  “Are you entirely certain we’re headed the right way?” Lysander said. Jonathan whirled around — so suddenly that the torch he wielded spewed a tail of sparks into the night. “Of course I’m certain! Bartholomew’s Pass is the quickest way into the Valley. Any bloke with half a brain could tell you that.”

  Lysander’s chin trailed down the jagged line that split the mountain into two — but his feet stayed planted. “Shouldn’t we at least wait until dawn?”

  “Nah, there’s no point. It’s blacker than the gap between Morris’s front teeth in there. Day or night’ll make you no difference.”

  The army of pirates and giants stopped behind Lysander. They traced the narrow opening with their eyes; their faces mirrored the captain’s worry. Only Nadine seemed indifferent.

  She shoved her way out of their ranks and snatched the torch from Lysander’s hand. “Go back to your ship if you are afraid. I would hate for you to soil yourselves,” she said as she passed.

  Declan was next to shove through.

  “You aren’t really going in there, are you?” Lysander called.

  “I’m sure as summer’s breath not going to let that tiny terror go anywhere I’m not.” Then he raised his voice. “What if she needs someone to shove her off a cliff and I’m not around to do it?”

  “I would crack your head in two were it not made of stone,” Nadine shot back.

  “Yeh, and if you could reach it.” Declan trudged off after her and the giants followed close behind.

  Lysander hardly flinched as Morris waddled in beside him. “What are your orders, Captain?”

  When he didn’t respond, Morris nudged him with the flat of his arm. “I’m sorry, what was that?”

  “We’re all waiting for your orders, Captain.”

  “Ah, right.” Lysander straightened the collar of his shirt and wrapped one hand tightly around the Lass’s whittled hilt. “Well, dogs — we’ve come this far. So I suppose we should just … press on, then.”

  “You heard the Captain. Move your nubs, you louts!” Morris called back.

  They replied with a shaky chorus of ayes.

  Lysander had barely managed a few halting steps when Eveningwing shot past him. “I’ll watch the skies!” he said. He burst into his feathers and took off — leaving his clothes behind.

  “Why don’t you enchant that lad some breeches or something?” Morris grunted as he stooped to gather Eveningwing’s things.

  “I’ve tried. He won’t wear them,” Jake said distractedly. He had his palms pressed together and was steadily pulling them apart. A very bright something glowed between his hands.

  “Why in high tide not? Does he like flitting around in his skin?”

  “I haven’t perfected the spell. His trousers shrink a little each time he changes, and he doesn’t like to …”

  Jake’s sentence trailed off as he pulled his hands apart. Something like a large soap bubble popped free of his palms and floated into the air above them — putting off such a glare of yellow light that the pirates staggered backwards.

  Morris threw a stubby arm over his face. “Put that thing out! It’s burning the backs of my eyes.”

  “No, leave it.” Lysander’s pace quickened as the light touched the earth around them, illuminating the jagged walls. “It’ll guide us through the Pass.”

  “It could guide a blind man’s soul through the under-realm,” Morris retorted.

  Jake took a few steps, smiling to himself as the light followed overhead. “Well, this worked better than I expected … though you probably shouldn’t look at it directly,” he added after a moment. “Oh, and nobody touch it — just in case.”

  Morris’s eyes widened in their pouches. “Just in case of what?”

  But Jake didn’t answer.

  They walked for an hour or so between the high reaches of the Pass before they came across a small mass of graves. The graves were little more than hills of rock arranged in a row on the side of the path. One grave was stacked a little higher than the rest. Trinkets covered the stones piled at its top: jewels, coin, and little glass baubles shimmered in the torchlight.

  “Take a look there, would you?” Morris croaked when he spotted them.

  The pirates clustered at his back. “Who’d leave all that loot behind?” one of them said.

  “It isn’t loot — it’s a merchant’s burial. Caravans pass through here all the time. They must’ve stopped to pay their respects.” Jonathan’s customary grin had vanished. He stood half-turned from the graves, eyes fixed on the sheer wall in front of him.

  “Why do they cover their graves with jewels?” Nadine said.

  Declan shrugged. “Seems mightily strange to me. Jewels don’t grow, you can’t eat them —”

  “Not everything is about eating!” Nadine said.

  Lysander knelt at the grave. His hand moved slowly, hovering just above the tops of the trinkets. “Who’s buried here?”

  “It’s my fault!”

  The whole party spun in the direction of the cry and saw Eveningwing crouched above them. He was slumped over a boulder — his face buried in his arms and his bare chest pressed against the boulder’s skin. When he lifted his head, his eyes went straight to Jonathan.

  Tears streamed from them unchecked.

  “It isn’t your fault. It isn’t anybody’s fault but the King’s,” Jonathan said.

  Eveningwing shook his head. “No — it’s mine. I found you. I fol
lowed you. I … I told the King where you were. I led them here!”

  “You led who where?” Lysander said. His eyes went from a sobbing Eveningwing to a scowling Jonathan. “What is he talking about?”

  “You set those monsters on us?” Jonathan said.

  “I had no choice! The King’s spell was too strong. I didn’t want to,” Eveningwing pleaded. “I had followed you for days before. Your music made me smile. I remembered your faces —”

  “Yeah, and once we were trapped inside the Pass, you set the wolves on us,” Jonathan spat. He made as if to turn away, then turned back. “They ripped his heart out!”

  “I know. I saw —”

  “You watched!” Jonathan hurled his torch at the rocks above Eveningwing’s head. It struck the wall and exploded in a shower of sparks. “You watched, and you did absolutely nothing about it.”

  “I wanted to help. But the spell was too —”

  “You’re an animal! A bloody barbarian, that’s all you are — because no decent human being would’ve ever sat by and watched an innocent man be slaughtered.”

  “That’s enough,” Lysander said sharply. He tried to get between them, but Jonathan spun out of his grasp.

  “That grave belongs to Garron the Shrewd — your wife’s father, in case you didn’t know. And he was a hundred times the man that creature will ever be.” Jonathan spat the word. His dark eyes burned with a fire that likely would’ve set the whole Pass ablaze, had it escaped.

  The halfhawk shrank miserably beneath it. His head fell below his shoulders like the curling of parchment caught in the flames. He pressed the heels of his hands against his streaming eyes and whispered: “I’m sorry.”

  Then without another word, he sunk into his feathers.

  “Come back, lad! Just give him a breath to cool off,” Morris called, but Eveningwing didn’t stop. He shot out of the light and disappeared into the thick black ceiling above them.

  Lysander grabbed Jonathan by the front of the shirt. “When he returns, you will apologize.”