The Shattered Sun

by Rachel Dunne

  She saw, in the second she had to see anything else, Anddyr tangled up around Neira’s feet. The distraction Rora’d needed to get free. Good enough—he was a witch with a lot of uses. Rora threw herself forward with a little jump so that she could get her arm up high enough, so that when she hit Neira she could hook her arm around the taller woman’s neck. Her weight pushed Neira backward, pushed her stumbling against Anddyr, and she started to fall. Rora wrapped her arm tighter around Neira’s neck, got her other arm up so she could hold on to her own wrist, pull her arm tight as tight could be, choking Neira as they crashed to the ground together.

  Rora’s elbow hit the ground first and took all their weight combined, or at least that was what it felt like—a sharp pain that made her whole arm go numb, but Rora didn’t let go. She held on to her numb arm, using it like a garrote around Neira’s neck. Neira clawed one-handed at Rora’s shoulder and made fish-gasping noises in her ear, but Rora could feel the fight going out of her. Still, she had sharp nails, and they clawed through Rora’s shirt, through her skin, drawing blood and sending the cold racing through her.

  There was movement down by her legs—Anddyr, where she’d used him as a tripping block, screaming his magic-words and sobbing when they didn’t work, screaming them louder and louder, and Neira wheezed a laugh in Rora’s ear. “So,” she rasped, “weak.”

  Then there were hands on Rora, grabbing her still-numb shoulder, pulling her away until she couldn’t keep her grip round Neira’s neck anymore. “No,” she shouted, “please,” but she was hauled up, thrown over a shoulder, driving hard into her gut, and when she twisted her head Neira was growing smaller—still sprawled, Anddyr wrapped around her legs, the black smoke beginning to rise—

  Rora’s head cleared the cellar door, and bodies blurred past her down the ladder, fists and knives all full of anger, ready to kill. And a painfully familiar voice directly above Rora shouted to them, “Kill them all.” And Tare, carrying her, kept carrying her farther away.

  “No,” Rora croaked, but her voice was nothing under all the shouting. She pounded her good hand against Tare’s back, but the older woman acted like she didn’t even notice. “No!” Rora twisted her hips, kicked her legs, and like a fish she slid out of Tare’s arm. She knew how to fall, Tare herself had taught Rora how to fall, so she didn’t land on her head but the courtyard hit her hard in the back. She flailed around, even more like a fish, and scrambled back for the cellar door, dragging in enough air to bellow down into the cellar, “No!”

  And they listened to her. For some gods-be-damned reason, they listened to her.

  Or maybe it was only that Tare was right behind her, and took a harder look this time. At all the witches sprawled unmoving, except for Neira, who was sitting now, her not-broke arm raised and fingers drawing shapes in the air; and Anddyr, who was sobbing as he tried to fight her down with his hands, Anddyr who’d probably never had to fight with his hands in all his life. “It’s her,” Rora croaked, and wheezed a delirious laugh at herself when she tried to point with her numb arm. Maybe it was broken, broke as bad as she’d broke Neira’s.

  Maybe Tare believed her. Or maybe Tare just wanted some quiet and some stillness to get this giant mess all sorted out. Either way, she pushed past Rora and waded back into the cellar. Her hands moved, too, like the witches’ but different, making words too fast for Rora’s blurry eyes and fuzzy mind to follow. But the knives in the cellar saw, and they closed in with her.

  Some grabbed Anddyr, twisting his arms and his hands even though he wasn’t doing any magic, couldn’t. Neira’d done something to all the witches, somehow. They pressed his face hard into the ground and sat on him while the others went for Neira.

  Neira grinned at them, big white teeth under her empty eyes, and she raised both her arms up. The broken one flopped in that way that made Rora want to puke. Neira didn’t fight when they grabbed her arms, didn’t scream when they twisted the broken one, didn’t call up any of her black smoke, didn’t stop smiling for even a second. Tare glanced over her shoulder, eyes flicking to the cellar door, where Rora was close to pitching in with how far over she was leaning. Then Tare lifted up her dagger, and brought the hilt smashing down against Neira’s skull, and finally her smile faded. The knives who’d held her let her fall to the floor.

  Relief hit Rora harder’n Neira had, chasing all the blood-pounding terror out of her, so sudden that she almost did fall right through the cellar door as her whole body sagged. She was crying, but she wasn’t sure if she had been for a while, or if that was new.

  Rora rolled away from the door, sprawling onto her back. Her arm was still numb, and her shoulders and chest and face ached from all the places Neira’d hit her, but she could almost ignore all that. There were stars above her. It felt like a whole lifetime since she’d seen stars.

  Rora turned her head at the sound coming up the ladder: Tare’s head poked up and stopped, even with Rora’s. Then she took another few rungs to put herself that little bit higher. She reached out to grab a twisting handful of Rora’s hair. “What in all the bloody fecking hells happened here?”

  Rora laughed, and cried, and told her.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Scal’s people were always patrolling. Circling, cycling, looking for danger. Looking for prey.

  They were looking especially for the preachers who had killed Beston, for Vatri had sworn they would find the preachers and give justice to all the dead villagers. But there was no sign of the preachers, no guess at the direction they had gone, no word in any of the other towns of passing preachers.

  Within three moon-passes, it was clear that they would not find the preachers. They would not bring justice to the villagers.

  It made Edro furious. He screamed at the scouts, and screamed loudest at Deslan, who had become something like the leader of the scouts. No one had asked her to, and she had not taken or been given any title. It was only that when she spoke, others listened. Deslan bore Edro’s anger with tight-lipped silence.

  Scal could not bear it. He stepped between Edro and Deslan, facing the little lordling. They were almost of a height, but Scal was taller. He said, “Enough.”

  Edro pushed him. Hands flat against Scal’s chest, and his anger bursting forth from his arms. Not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough that Scal stumbled back a step.

  It was silent in the camp. Silent as a village of the dead.

  Vatri had told him once, Anger is a foolish, prideful thing. A man who is quick to anger should be trusted with caution.

  Scal took a step forward, retaking the ground he had lost. It put his face close to Edro’s, close enough he could smell the man’s fury, see the creases anger had drawn in his skin. Scal said, “Enough.”

  He thought, for a moment, that Edro might hit him. He tried to decide which would be better—to hit the man back, to hit him until his face was nothing but red lumps, until Vatri would not want to look at his face; or to walk away, and show that he was better than Edro’s petty rage. He knew which he should do, but he also knew which he wished to do.

  But Edro did not hit him. He spit in Scal’s face, and turned on his heel, and stormed into his tent.

  Scal wiped the spittle from his face. His eyes found Vatri’s across the camp. She frowned at him, and she looked away, and she followed Edro into his tent.

  Deslan frowned at Scal as well, but there was more anger in hers. She looked like she had been making the same calculations he had been, if Edro had hit Scal. He thought it likely that she had come to the same decision.

  “Come,” he said to her. “We will scout again.”

  Three parties went out into the woods, different directions, different ground. None of them were likely to find anything, for they had already covered the same paths, again and again. Scal and Deslan and the three others of their party walked in silence. Even angry, Deslan’s steps made no sound, and her longbow stayed tight around her shoulder, disturbing no more trees than she did. In time, her anger faded, drawn int
o the night sky like smoke.

  She stopped, and so smoothly Scal did not see it until it was done, set her bow and drew an arrow back to her ear.

  The others froze as well, and then Scal heard the footsteps approaching, and a soft voice running constantly as a stream. The others drew their weapons, soundless.

  What emerged through the trees before them were ghosts.

  One of them yelped, which covered half of Deslan’s polite, “Your names and business?” They did not answer, for the one who led them simply stared openmouthed at Scal.

  It was not often that ghosts followed Scal from one life to another. The last time it had happened had been Iveran, and then he had killed Iveran.

  Joros closed his mouth with a click that was loud in the forest quiet. “I see you survived,” he said to Scal. “How fortunate for us all.”

  Deslan’s eyes darted to the side. “You know them?”

  “I do,” Scal said.

  “Friends, or fodder?”

  “I do not know yet.”

  “Scal?” The other ghost, Aro, stumbled forward and fell to his knees a dozen paces from Scal. He was pale, pallid, and far too thin. His hands were spotted with dry blood. “Is that really you? Is this real?”

  Scal did not step forward to meet him. There was something wrong about him, something very wrong that made Scal’s stomach churn. He hardly looked the same person Scal remembered—a ghost, indeed.

  Aro began to cry. “Please,” he said softly, “please tell me if it’s you. Tell me if this is real or not.” One of the others of their party moved forward, her empty hands raised pointedly toward Deslan, and knelt down beside Aro. One hand to his shoulder, the other rubbing his back, murmuring soft comforts that did nothing to calm him. “Please. You have to tell.”

  “It is me,” Scal said softly, and Aro’s replying sob made his stomach turn again. The boy curled against his comforter’s shoulder, wetting her shirt with his tears.

  Scal looked to Joros, who gave him a tight smile that was not truly a smile. “The boy has gotten rather sick, since the last time you saw him. Can you lower your weapons? We’re no threat to you. We’re only looking for someone.”

  Deslan did not lower her bow, though Scal could see the faint tremors in her arm from holding the arrow drawn for so long. She would hold it, though, until Scal told her not to. And he did not tell her not to yet.

  Joros made a noise in his throat. “Perhaps you can help us, then. We’ll leave and never see you again. Just tell me if you know how to find someone called the Nightbreaker.”

  The tip of Deslan’s arrow dipped, and the uncertain look she gave Scal lasted far longer than a flicker. The others of his scouting party shifted, too. Their habit was to welcome any who sought the Nightbreaker. Anyone who passed through the woods and spoke the name in seeking was at least granted an audience. Was welcomed in, if they were found worthy. Until now, the name had been like a key.

  “Why?” Scal asked. Deslan righted her arrow. She would follow him, in anything. Her unshaking faith made him nearly as sick as seeing Aro in his state.

  “I believe the Nightbreaker would make a powerful ally.” Joros smiled again. “We could all use more friends in these trying times.”

  “Where are the others?” Scal asked. “Rora. Anddyr.”

  “They’re safe. This is Aro’s venture—he wished to show the world what he’s capable of.” Joros rested a hand on Aro’s shoulder. It was a mockery of support, of fatherlike pride, but Aro brightened beneath it. “I’m only here as a guide. But Rora and Anddyr are resting safely among friends.” Joros shifted his jaw with a crackling noise, and eyed Scal sidelong. “Your merra. She left us some time ago. I can’t tell you where she’s gone. Doubtless terrorizing some other poor souls.”

  “She is not mine.”

  “I have to find him,” Aro blurted suddenly. His back went board-straight, his chin tilting up so high he almost was looking up. “The Nightbreaker. He can help. He can save us all, that’s what she said. He can help us, and he can help me. I have to find him.”

  Scal made motion to Deslan, and she dropped her arrow. Released it from the string and returned it to her quiver. She did not sling the bow back over her shoulder—she was not quite that trusting of these people who were strangers to her. Scal said to Aro only, “Come with me. I will take you.”

  Aro’s eyes grew wide in his face. “You know him?” he whispered.

  “Come,” Scal said again. He had spoken only to Aro, but he was not surprised when Joros and the others in his group came as well. He did it for Aro alone. Aro, who thought the Nightbreaker could fix whatever was wrong with him.

  Scal led them, with Aro and Joros at his back, and their people at their backs. Scal’s scouts ranged in a loose circle around them, an escort. Scal had learned, in the span of his lives, the fine difference between an escort and a guard, and the difference lay mostly in the tightness of the surrounding circle. Escorts led, and would protect if needed, but escorts did not plan to be needed. Guards were protection. Guards meant danger—from without or within. Scal had taught the scouts how to walk, when guiding potential new followers.

  He wanted to tell them to walk a tighter circle, now. But there was no way to do it without drawing suspicion.

  Aro walked close to Scal’s shoulder, truly a ghost from a lost life. The last time he had traveled with Aro, the boy had been full of energy and eagerness, often at Scal’s side chattering. Scal had enjoyed his company. He chattered now, too, though his words were wild and uneven, as though his thoughts were leaves tossed in a wind. “I’ve heard the Nightbreaker is a mighty hero. As tall as two men, and he takes care of everyone he meets, and he’s never afraid. Scal, how did you find him? How . . . how did I find you? They say the Nightbreaker’s sword can cut through stone, and he can see the truth inside your heart. Will he help me even if he can see the truth? I just want to show Rora . . . Have you seen his sword, Scal?”

  Scal walked silent. Deslan, close to him in the loose-ringed escort, was silent, too, but Scal could feel her eyes hard on him. Confusion floating off her in waves. But Scal said nothing, and so his people said nothing.

  The camp, when they returned, was restless. All were unhappy about not finding the preachers, and a confrontation between two of their leaders had not helped to settle their minds. Those they passed greeted Scal’s return with terse nods, or with smiles of relief, and looked with interest at the newcomers. Scal spoke to one of them, in a low voice that the others would not hear, and the young woman went off in search of Vatri.

  “These are his people?” Aro asked, staring around in wonder. The camp was nothing to wonder at, but Aro looked at the tents as though they were castles, the people as if they were lords.

  For all the wonder Aro showed, Joros showed disdain. “I’d expected something more . . . fitting.”

  Deslan snorted. “We can hardly live in manors, doing what we do. If we’re easy to find, we’re easy to kill.”

  Scal gave her a slow-blinking look, and she turned her face away, cheeks going red. Though Joros tried to pull more answers from her, the first who had told him anything, Deslan said nothing more.

  “Well.” Vatri’s voice cut through the quiet of the forest. Cut through the tension in the camp, and shattered it into a thousand sharp and brittle pieces that pierced and scraped. When Scal turned with the others to face her, she stood with arms crossed and a grin creasing her face, but there was a hardness in her eyes. There was a fire, in her eyes. “What an unexpected surprise.” Edro, at her side, frowned. Hand resting on the hilt of his sword as he eyed the newcomers, as he tasted the sharp strain in the camp.

  Joros sputtered. It was, perhaps, the first time Scal had seen him caught truly off guard. He spun to face Scal, fists at his sides. “What is this?” he demanded. “I came to see the Nightbreaker, not some—some dried-out traitorous shrew—”

  Edro stepped forward, and the smooth sound of his sword drawing cut off the rest of Joros’s words. “
I think that’s enough,” he said, even so.

  “It’s all right, Edro,” Vatri said, stepping once more to his side. Still smiling. “Joros is an old, old friend. An insult from him is a sign of the utmost respect.”

  “Hello,” Aro said, meek, nervous. He raised his hand in a wave that stopped halfway, and fell. Vatri ignored him.

  She went on, “You came to find the Nightbreaker, then? Of course you did. You can’t keep away when there’s a whiff of someone whose power you can twist, can you? Scal.” She turned her dagger-point smile to him. “If you promised to show them the Nightbreaker, then show them.” She knew. Knew he had wanted to hide it from them, and knew why. Her smile stayed in place.

  And so Scal drew his sword, and its fire lit the night, and he did not look at any of their faces. He could not.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Anddyr’s hands shook around the knots. He’d never tied up a mage before, but he’d had his own fingers bound often enough that he knew how to do it properly, to keep Neira from tracing any sigils in the air, to keep her away from her power.

  He only prayed—and prayed vehemently, under his breath—that her wrong magic, her blood magic, worked the same way as normal magic.

  He could feel the others staring—all the pack members who had charged down, ready to kill whatever stood before them and still looked ready to kill; Rora, who was free and hurt and had swayed on her feet so badly that Tare had had to catch her and steady her. If Anddyr hadn’t spent the last months watching the two of them interact, he might not have seen the fury that flickered instinctually across Tare’s face fade more quickly than usual, or the way she made sure Rora truly was steady. And he’d seen that Rora had seen both, too.