by Jeff Wheeler
When he had been riding nearly an hour, he saw movement in the distance. He slowed the horse but still hurried forward. The movement he had seen darted behind a thicket of trees. Part of him worried that it might not be Lilliana. What if he ran into someone else, thinking it her?
At that point, he had no other option but to try. “I saw you, Lilliana.”
For a moment, there was nothing. Then he heard footsteps, but closer than he would have expected. A shadow emerged from near the trees only a few paces from him. Novan gripped the reins.
“You should not have come, Novan.” She had her cloak pulled up around her shoulders, her hair spilling over it. A glint of moonlight reflected off the necklace she wore, not really catching the ring he knew was there.
“You stole the book from me.”
She laughed lightly. “Then I think we’re both thieves. Possession makes it mine.”
“Why did you take it?”
“This book is dangerous. You shouldn’t have seen it. There are others who can use it safely.”
“Like the Deshmahne priest?” He suddenly wondered if she worked with him.
She stepped closer to him. “Why would you say that?” Anger danced along the edge of her voice.
“The innkeeper sent word. One of the Deshmahne priests looks for you.” Novan exhaled softly, slowly piecing things together that he should have seen before. “Is that who you run from? Is that why you traveled to Thealon?”
She laughed bitterly. “For a historian, you have much to learn of the world.”
“Then explain,” he said. “I can be an ally or an adversary. And I would prefer to work with you.”
She didn’t say anything. Novan nudged the horse forward and Lilliana stepped to the side of the road, studying him with an unreadable expression.
“I told you of the test. The risk I took?”
Novan nodded.
“It was the Deshmahne who tested me.”
“I don’t understand. Why would the Deshmahne tattoo your neck?”
She sniffed. “The Deshmahne seek power. The greatest of them, the High Priest, seeks power beyond that of the Magi. There is something about the runes used in these markings and the ink used for the tattoos that conveys power.”
Novan frowned. The High Priest of the Deshmahne had been in Gomald, but he had thought him there only to support the king. “And the book?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. I fear that there are runes found within that will give the priests access to more power.”
“And you seek to prevent that?”
“Not just me.”
“The university? Why would the scholars care about such things?”
“Not the university.”
“Then who?”
Lilliana sighed and looked past him, staring into the night.
Novan turned in his saddle and looked, listening carefully. Distantly, he heard hooves thundering along the road. He had no doubt that the Deshmahne priest chased after him and searched for Lilliana. What would happen if they were caught?
Lilliana looked back at him, her eyes seeming to beg. “That’s not for me to share.”
Novan wanted to study the runes, to determine for himself just what Lilliana feared was found within the pages of the book, but he also wanted to help her as she had once helped him.
Reaching his hand out, he motioned to her, “Come on. We’ll have to ride hard to stay ahead of them.”
She grabbed his hand and started up and into the saddle but didn’t make it.
A horse thundered up, suddenly there next to them. Lilliana jumped from the saddle and looked over at the rider. Novan twisted to see the same priest he had seen in the tavern. Moonlight reflected off his face. He held a long black-bladed sword in his hand. An inky black cloak hung over his shoulders.
“You should not have run, Lilliana,” the priest said.
She shook her head, staying out in front of Novan’s horse. “You should not have followed, Theran. You’re not welcome in Thealon.”
“As if you are. You should have remained in Vasha. Now you can’t even return there.”
Lilliana stepped away from the horse. One hand gripped the necklace she wore. “Are you so certain? You think that Vasha does not know why I left?”
“I know that Vasha does not know why you left.” He laughed with a dark tone. His horse shifted as he brought his sword close to Lilliana.
Her eyes drifted to it briefly before looking back up at his face. “You know nothing.”
He laughed again. “I know that you were exiled from Vasha. That the scholars discovered you reading forbidden topics, asking questions you should not have been asking. I know what you stole when you slipped away in the night. There is much that I know.”
Lilliana tensed.
Novan frowned. He had thought Lilliana left Vasha on her own, but if she had stolen from the university before departing, she would certainly have been exiled.
Maybe they were more alike than he realized.
“You think you are the only one able to deceive?” the priest asked.
Lilliana didn’t move, as if frozen in place.
“The Deshmahne have many assets in Vasha. As you can imagine, there are many who feel the Magi have too much power.”
“I was not exiled.” Lilliana’s voice had taken on a different tone, more anxious.
“Perhaps not at first, but when the university learned why you traveled to Voiga . . .”
Uncertainty dawned on Lilliana’s face. “There were many reasons I traveled to Voiga.”
The priest smiled again. “Oh, I know those as well. Now that you have taken the mark, do you really think you can keep secrets from us?”
“I have taken nothing. It was given.”
“Was it?”
The priest made a strange motion with his hand and the sword started forward.
Lilliana slid. Novan had no better word for what she did. One moment she stood in front of the priest, the next she had jumped ten paces to the side. She shot Novan a look that he didn’t recognize.
The priest turned to face her again. “So you have learned to control it. Impressive. Even with the Deshmahne, few learn well enough to be of any use.” With a sudden motion, he lowered the cloak from his shoulders and jumped from the horse, landing on the ground with the sword spinning before him.
Dark runes covered the priest’s arms, working from the wrist up to his shoulder. Shapes that appeared to move slithered across his skin, so inky black that they seemed to absorb light. The priest moved faster than should have been possible, flickering the sword at Lilliana.
She jumped again, darting off to the side.
Novan knew little about the Deshmahne. That someone would attack Lilliana surprised him. That it would be a priest seemed absurd.
A dangerous determination spread across the priest’s face. When he attacked again, slicing toward her, he moved with a strange grace. Somehow Lilliana avoided the sword.
Novan did not doubt that she would eventually fail. And after that? Would the priest attack him for simply being with her? Unarmed other than his small knife, he wouldn’t be able to withstand the attack, not like Lilliana somehow seemed capable of doing.
But he had to do something.
The priest circled Lilliana, slowly backing her toward the trees.
Novan approached the priest’s horse. At first, he tried to send it running, but the mare simply snorted at him. He hated the idea of harming the horse, but if he did nothing, the priest would catch him as well.
Novan slipped from his saddle. Kneeling next to the horse, he offered a silent prayer to the gods for forgiveness as he ran his knife along the mare’s leg, severing the tendon.
She whinnied loudly and stomped her foot, trying to kick him in the process. Novan hoped Lilliana kept the priest preoccupied enough not to notice. He jumped back into the saddle and looked for Lilliana.
She held her arm strangely. The priest closed in, his mouth tightened
in a grim smile. Novan doubted she would last much longer.
He had to do something.
Kicking the horse forward, he galloped toward Lilliana. He crashed into the priest, knocking him over. The dark blade went spinning up in the air as the priest fell. Novan turned the horse and Lilliana jumped on behind him, grabbing the sword out of the air as she did and then clutching him weakly.
Novan didn’t wait to see if the priest would follow, heeling the horse and racing down the road, away from the priest and into the darkness of night.
* * *
Novan lost track of how long they rode. He finally had to stop when he noticed that Lilliana had ceased holding on to him and seemed to simply slump forward. The only thing she managed to hang on to was the dark-bladed sword.
They had reached thicker trees. When Novan had tried to turn off onto a side road, Lilliana had argued, forcing him to continue north. Toward the Great Forest. At first he had agreed, but he realized that he should have pushed back. She needed a healer, help that he couldn’t provide.
Novan veered the horse into the trees, moving deep enough that the shadows around him provided cover, but remaining close enough that he could watch the road. They had not seen the priest since Novan had run him over, and he did not really expect to, but part of him worried about whatever strange magic he used that gave him speed. Could he outrun them even without his horse?
Once in the trees, he slipped Lilliana from the saddle and lowered her to the ground. She moaned softly. He touched her hair, smoothing it away from her face, and reached through her shirt to see how badly she had been injured, cursing himself for not having done it sooner. Of course, he had been more concerned about getting them to safety.
A wide gash split the skin near her shoulder. The edges had blackened, as if the blade had been burning when it struck her. Or poisoned, he realized. No blood drained from the wound. Novan knew little of medicine, but suspected that did not foretell a positive sign.
Lilliana’s eyes flickered open as he touched her shoulder. “Has he followed?”
Novan shook his head. “I . . . I disabled his horse.”
She coughed. Blood burbled from her mouth as she did. “That will not stop him.”
Lilliana reached out her hand and found her bag, tapping it softly with her hand until Novan reached past her and grabbed it. Opening the bag, he found the book she’d stolen from him. Underneath it was another book with a similar cover.
“What are these?” he asked.
She coughed again and reached for her neck. Novan thought that she would try to cover the wound. Instead, she reached for the necklace and held it.
“Protection.” She said the word softly. “The Deshmahne cannot have them. Ensure that they are safe.”
“I don’t understand.”
She tried to smile. Novan saw the color had faded from her face. “Not yet. But you will.” Lilliana pulled on her necklace and the chain broke. She pushed it into his hand. “Take this. There are others like me.”
“Scholars?” As he asked, he knew that was not what she was. Perhaps she had been at one time, but now Lilliana served a different master.
“Of a sort,” she said. “This will give you access, but you will have to ask the right questions. The Novan I’ve heard of will know the questions to ask.” She squeezed his hand and then her arm fell away and rested on the ground, too weak to hold him.
“Lilliana,” he started, touching her face. “What is this? Why did the Deshmahne have those runes tattooed on his arms? What power does that grant him?”
A faint smile twisted her lips. “That is a start.”
“What start?”
“Seek answers to the questions you’ve long held. The guild will not provide. Neither will the university.” She managed to reach his hand and squeezed it around the ring. “The Conclave can.”
“The Conclave? Where can I find them?”
She coughed again and breathed no more.
Novan crouched next to her for a long time, feeling uncertain. The necklace in his hand felt heavy and cold. She said it would give him access, but access to what?
He took an unsteady breath. He had not known her long, but she had helped him. Had he only been able to help her in return, she might not be lying dead on the forest floor. But there were magics he had not known were possible, powers that seemed equal to what the Magi could achieve. The world suddenly seemed so different from the one he thought he knew.
Since learning of the book, he had planned on traveling to Thealon to research the runes. Now that Lilliana had gone, that changed only the urgency of his search. Now he had another book to study.
Novan gathered Lilliana’s belongings, placing the books into his bag. He slipped the dark metal ring off the chain and tried it on his middle finger. It fit. A tingling sensation ran through his body and he shivered. The only other thing of value was the sword she had taken off the priest. Novan secured this to his saddle.
When that was done, he used his knife to dig a small grave. The earth came away freely, willingly, and he lowered Lilliana into the shallow hole. After heaping dirt around her, he stood and said a soft prayer for peace.
He sighed. There was much he didn’t understand. Much the guild could not teach him. She had said that he had to ask the right questions. That meant answers existed. And he would find them, especially if there was this Conclave that could answer. Thealon to start, but from there?
He shook his head. From there it made little difference. Guild support or not, he would do what he needed to find those answers. Lilliana said there were others like her. Questions that needed answering. And he would find them.
About D.K. Holmberg
New York Times and USA Today Bestselling Author D.K. Holmberg lives in Minnesota and is the author of multiple series including The Cloud Warrior Saga, The Dark Ability, The Endless War, and The Lost Garden. When he's not writing, he's chasing around his two active children.
MOONBODY
By Scott Hughes | 7,500 Words
EVERY STORY IS. It exists. Whether a history or myth or somewhere in between, whether a premonition or dream or fantasy, whether written a millennium ago or yesterday or a hundred years from now, you breathe life into its inhabitants as the gods breathed life into the first beasts and men. A story happens as it is told, and with every telling it happens again. And again and again and again. Stories are, my friend.
This one is.
Remember that.
* * *
Once there lived a boy who climbed trees and took their branches for fishing rods, pretend swords, or brittle structures he would later kick down. A boy who buried his mother’s necklaces and his father’s spare coins—treasures he could then unearth and rebury. Who set leaves on fire just to stomp them out. Who collected bugs in jars, where they either died forgotten or survived long enough to be set free. Who swam and ran and whooped and laughed. Who created and destroyed. Who did the things all boys do. And like all boys, Wick Longwall knew he was special. So he climbed and dug and laughed, and dreamed the dreams of a special young boy. Of all the wonders yet to come.
And one summer morning a wonder came. While Wick was digging a hole with his hands by the corner of the house, he heard the familiar rattle and clomp of an approaching wagon. He looked up. Two decrepit donkeys were pulling an even more decrepit wagon, and making slow work of it. Wick’s family lived near the top of one of the large round hills that gave the region its name—the Knuckles. From afar, the green hilltops resembled knuckles on the horizon, perhaps of some underground titan thrusting his fists up through the earth. People often passed by on the dirt path that led up and away from the village—Knuck, it was called—that lay around, between, and upon the other hills.
Wick resumed his undertaking until the wagon clattered off the road and into his family’s slanted yard. The driver wore a broad hooded cloak. The dark yellow cloth with swirling blue stitches shrouded the man’s entire body, save for his hands. And although alone, h
e was talking. Wick couldn’t hear any specific words, just the man’s murmur. Unless a passenger was hidden under the stained canvas tied down over the back, he was talking to himself or to his donkeys or to the warm wind.
Beside the man on the wagon’s seat sat a black bottle that came up to his shoulder. Its base was the size of a dinner plate, and it tapered up into a slender neck no wider than a finger, stoppered with what had to be the biggest pearl—or the tiniest moon—Wick had ever seen. In the morning sun, the bottle’s obsidian surface reflected an aura of changing colors. First blue, then orange, then pink, then yellow, then green, then blue again. It reminded him of a toy spyglass his pa had bought him for First Harvest one year; he could point it at a lamp or candle or even up at the sun and peer into the eyehole as he twisted the other end, and every color in the rainbow would dance and whirl and blossom in front of his eye.
One of the donkeys honked like a goose, and the driver turned his hooded head toward Wick. Quickly the man hopped from the wagon, removed his cloak, and tossed it over the bottle. He was pale yellow from sole to crown, the color of the dust that covered everything in springtime. His stringy hair and short beard, his weathered skin, his wool tunic and pants, the braided belt around his gaunt waist, the boots that rose to his knees—all yellow. He looked like one of the scarecrows in the valley fields, made of sticks and straw and tattered burlap.
As the man approached, Wick could see his wrinkled hands and grooved brow and the pitchfork lines sprouting from the corners of his eyes, and then the only part of him not yellow: his eyes. The right was dark brown; the left, the cold gray of winter slush. The mismatched eyes didn’t unnerve Wick. His own, although not as severe, were also different. Both were brown, but a thin silver halo ringed Wick’s right pupil.