by Layton Green
His heart fell. She wasn’t going to make it.
No, he said, and lowered himself even farther, extending his arm so far he felt as if his shoulder had come out of its socket. She reached as well, stretching until her fingertips brushed his wrist. Before she fell away, he locked onto her with an iron grip, smothering her small hand in his. He braced as her body weight pulled him forward, almost off the ledge, but he spread his legs and shifted his hips, stopping himself at the very lip of the broken staircase. He curled her up, amazed at his own strength, lifting her featherweight body with ease onto the ledge.
Side by side, she cupped his face in her hands. “Thank you,” she whispered, then leapt to her feet. Together, they turned to sprint up the stairs in near-darkness.
Minutes later, Will heard Mateo calling his name, his voice hoarse from shouting. As he and Mala emerged, the shaft itself started to deteriorate, and the three survivors of the expedition navigated the vertical steps hewn into the cavern wall as fast as they dared.
When they emerged into the night, wary of finding a barren hilltop or a flock of angry arpui, their hearts leapt when they saw three simorghs and their Yith Riders, eying the collapsing hilltop with nervous expressions.
The simorghs took flight seconds before the top of the hill collapsed into a giant sinkhole.
Two weeks later, after a much longer return journey due to storms and a supply stop and the decision to steer clear of dragon territory, Will emerged from a long soak in his claw-footed tub feeling like a new man. After reapplying his bandages, he dressed in casual leathers and strapped on his sword—he went nowhere without Zariduke now—and settled into a chair by the fire at the Red Wagon Tavern, almost smacking his lips at the promise of a plate of fire-crisped meat. He was bitterly disappointed, and terrified, that Caleb was still wandering the countryside with Marguerite, who Will heard had arrived from New Victoria and traveled north with his brother. There was nothing Will could do about it that night, but in the morning he planned to set out for them.
The waitress tried to play it cool, but she ended up giggling with nervousness as she slid a mug of brown ale in front of him. Though Will and the others had only arrived that morning, word had spread of their exploits.
Get a grip, Will scolded himself. The waitress is probably laughing at a joke someone told in the kitchen.
Yet he knew it wasn’t true. He felt the surreptitious gazes of every man and woman in the bar turning his way, trying to get a glimpse of one of the heroes of the Mayan Expedition that had returned the Coffer of Devla to its people.
It didn’t matter. He cared about the eyes of one woman alone, and she did not seem any more impressed by him than she ever had.
After they arrived in Freetown, Will had asked Mala about the cat o’ nine tails she had risked her life to bring back. In typical fashion, she had shrugged off his questions and proclaimed that her job was procuring magical items. She had remained behind, she claimed, to pick up several pieces she knew would command a high price.
He didn’t believe her. Judging by the obsessive look in her eyes whenever he mentioned the scourge, and the way her fingers grasped the leather-wrapped base of the bloodstone hilt, he knew there was more to it than that.
Mala had kept to herself on the return journey, and Will suspected she was mourning the death of Gunnar. He knew the valiant warrior had never captured her heart, but he also knew she had loved him in a certain way, and that it had hurt her.
After Will finished dinner, Mateo walked in to join him, followed by Tamás. The revolutionary had requested the meeting. The three of them exchanged warm greetings and ordered another round. Will and the others had already handed over the coffer and described the journey, but had yet to discuss the future.
Mala arrived next, thirty minutes late, sweeping into the room with her hair unbound, hips swaying and nose stud twinkling and copper skin glowing, her eyes coolly surveying the room. She was dressed similarly to the first time Will had met her: black leather pants tucked into scarlet boots, a lace-up leather vest, and a long-sleeved shirt that matched her boots. The familiar blue sash hung from her waist, a choker of intertwined bronze graced her neck, and a stylized rose pendant hanging from a silver chain had replaced her old amulet. As always, she had her short sword strapped to her back and a curved dagger hanging from her belt.
There was no sign of her new weapon.
She met Will’s eyes as she sat, her gaze as unreadable as ever, and signaled for a mug of ale. “I noticed the box has yet to open.”
Legend held, Will knew, that the Coffer of Devla would remain shut until opened by a true cleric of Devla. Yet so far, the coffer had vexed the attempts of every single man, woman, and child in Freetown to open the lid and unlock its secrets. Tamás would not let anyone try to force it open or tear it apart, nor would anyone try. Superstition ran deep among the Roma, and the mysterious power of the coffer to lay low its enemies was known to every member of the clans.
“Perhaps you should have a little faith,” Tamás said.
Mala scoffed. “A deep contempt for the ignorance of religion is the one value I share with the Congregation.”
“What does faith have to do with religion?” Tamás said quietly.
“Bah. And what has this wishful thinking done for our people? We’re condemned as outcasts, banished to the farthest reaches of the Realm.”
Tamás pounded the table. “At least we have our freedom!”
Mala stared coldly back at him. “Until the wizards come and take it.”
Everyone fell silent, remembering the horrors of the last visit from the Congregation.
“Where do we stand?” Mateo asked finally. He wore Selina’s copper necklace around his neck, and the fingers of his chainmail glove flexed now and again, as if still getting used to its presence. Will wondered at its capabilities. Though he himself had acquired nothing of value from the expedition, he favored the battered ebony shield he had picked up in the treasure room. A teardrop buckler, lightweight and maneuverable, it felt right in his hand. He also liked the platinum edging and heraldic design, too faded to make out, which hinted at a more illustrious past.
Tamás took a swig of beer as the fire crackled at his back. “Word of the coffer has spread. Combined with the return of Zariduke, the spark of revolution has never burned brighter.”
“A spark is one thing,” Mala said, “an army capable of challenging the Congregation another.”
He stared straight ahead. “ ’Tis true, I’m afraid. The raid on Freetown demonstrated the advantage they enjoy over our own wizards. We can field an army, especially when joined by the clans in other Protectorates and the black sash gypsies—”
Mala smirked. “Be careful whom you invite into the bedroom.”
“True again,” Tamás said, “but as I was going to say, I’m afraid our army, even if joined by all the Oath avoiders from across the Realm, would fall short of the might of the Protectorate army alone. Unless the power of the coffer is unlocked.”
“Is it that powerful?” Mateo asked. “Could it turn the tide in our favor?”
In response, Tamás began to recite in a soft, reverent voice that commanded the rapt attention of everyone within earshot.
“Hear us, O Devla!
This dream of dreams I have seen.
A black night will come, stars asleep in their bower.
Our people scattered
Adrift in the sea of lament
Ground under the wagon wheel
When everything is ash.
Who is this savior?
When will he come?
When shall we be free?
O, Devla!
Not until the prophet shall herald
And the people shall hear
The roar of the last true cleric of the age, the Templar
Your fist, Your scorn, Your righteousness
The one who unseals the coffer
As he breaks the will of the world.”
“It is worse t
han I feared,” Mala said, her head swinging back and forth in disbelief when he finished. “You’ve pinned your hopes on a myth.”
“So the Templar is the last cleric?” Will asked.
“So they say,” Tamás said. “The one who will herald the dawn of a new age. Emissaries have been sent to the Devlans, in the hope they will come to test the coffer themselves. It’s rumored their current prophet believes he might have found the Templar.”
“What does Templar refer to?” Will asked. On Earth, he knew the name of the Knights Templars derived from their association with the Temple of King Solomon.
“In Devlan theology, the temple of God is everywhere,” Tamás said. “Some scholars believe the Templar is a reference to mankind itself, though most of us believe the canticle refers to a specific person. Our savior.”
With a weary sigh, Mala finished her ale and pushed away from the table. “I’ve heard enough.”
“The wizards can outlaw religion and persecute us,” Tamás continued, giving her a pitying look, “but they can never extinguish our spirit. Zariduke and the coffer have returned. Hope burns brighter than ever.”
“Hope can die on the end of a blade, too,” Mala said. “Or perish at the twitch of a wizard’s hand.”
Tamás slammed his hand on the table. “Go then, Mala of Clan Kalev. Walk the forests and mountains alone with your hardened heart, surrounded by your gold and pretty baubles, and leave your people to their fate.”
Without a word, eyes blazing, Mala backed away from the table and climbed the stairs to her room. Will wondered again what had happened in her past to make her who she was.
And how to break through her defenses.
“Never forget,” Tamás said, after she had left, “that it’s the return of an idea the wizards fear. And ideas are much harder to kill than armies.”
His words rang hollow. Will might not share Mala’s cynicism, but neither had he bought into the wishful thinking of the revolutionary leader. After Mateo and Tamás turned in for the night, Will stared at the fire, surrounded by nameless faces among the casks of rum and ale. Even Dalen had plans for the night, one of his illusionist shows in the town square that he used to pay the rent.
Will slumped in his chair, feeling alone and unsure. He had no idea how to help Val, or how to go about finding Caleb.
“Why the long face, little brother?”
Will slowly looked up.
“I haven’t seen you speechless since that time you put a tracking device on your sketchy ex-girlfriend’s car and found out she had a husband and two kids.”
Will leapt out of his chair, roared at the top of his lungs, and picked up his middle brother in a bear hug. He set him down and did the same to Marguerite. The other patrons clapped and stomped and whistled at the reunion.
“We just rolled in,” Caleb said. “Glad to see the city’s still here.”
There was a little boy with curly brown hair standing off to the side. Though his blue eyes never left Caleb, Will wondered if he was related to the older, bearded man standing behind his brother. “Why wouldn’t it be?” Will asked.
His brother and Marguerite exchanged a glance. “We saw some things. Bad things.” He nudged his head towards the boy, and Will got the hint it was not an appropriate conversation.
The older man stepped forward and stuck out his hand. “The youngest Blackwood, I’m guessing?”
Will froze. “Um, why are you speaking in an American accent?”
The man grinned and introduced himself. Caleb and Marguerite disappeared upstairs to tuck the boy in, and once they returned, the four of them settled down to swap tales. The waitress gave Marguerite a jealous look as Caleb ordered a platter of food, a mug of ale for the Brewer, and a pitcher of water for himself and the gray-eyed rogue.
Will’s jaw dropped as Caleb lifted his glass of water. “Excuse me?”
“Yeah, about that . . . a few things have changed.” Caleb raised Marguerite’s hand and showcased her wedding band. “We sort of got married. And that boy upstairs? He’s sort of our adopted son.”
Will stopped moving as if an anchor had dropped. Out of all the things he might have expected to hear, this was last on his list. Marguerite’s grin split her entire face, and Will held up a hand. “Whoa there. Do you mean to tell me that during this journey, you got Caleb to stop drinking, and then he married you? And you have a child?”
Marguerite’s eyes sparkled. “That’s about it, methinks.”
Caleb put his palms up. “Hey now, I didn’t say I’m off the sauce forever. Just that I’ve got all I need right now. Luca’s an orphan. We found him on the journey. We’re all he has left.”
Will saw the way Caleb looked at Marguerite, the love and compassion in his eyes when he mentioned the boy. Something had happened to his brother on the journey, Will realized. Something powerful. “Well,” he said, “I don’t know what to say. You’re a husband. And a father. I thought I was the cheesy one in love.”
“You still are,” Caleb said. “Where is Small, Dark, and Deadly, anyway?”
“Upstairs, I guess,” Will muttered.
“Don’t forget what I’ve always told you. Give her the walking papers, and she’ll walk right back to you.”
Marguerite gave Caleb a playful smack on the head. As Will noticed their goofy grins and intertwined fingers, a rush of warmth coursed through him. He slapped the table and bellowed, “Come here, sis!” He picked her up in another bear hug, set her down, then climbed atop the table to address the crowd. “My brother just got married—drinks are on me!”
The Brewer broke into song, and the room exploded with merriment.
Hours later, after the excitement had died, Will recapped his journey to the pyramid of the sorcerer king as the others wolfed down their meal. Caleb’s eyes grew wider and wider during the story, Marguerite shook her head in disbelief, and the Brewer looked as if he was taking mental notes for an epic ballad.
“Long story short,” Will said, “we defeated the sorcerer king and brought back the Coffer of Devla. But no one can open it.”
“I’m sorry about Gunnar and Selina,” Caleb said quietly.
“Yeah,” Will said, his eyes lowering. “Me, too.”
“What’s next for us? How do we find Val?”
Will pursed his lips and looked away. “I don’t know. I’ll think about it in the morning.”
After the Brewer turned in, Will yawned and stood. “I’ll leave you two lovebirds alone. I’m turning in.”
Caleb gripped his brother in a fierce hug before Will left. “It’s good to see you, little brother,” he whispered. “I’m glad you didn’t die on me.”
“Right back at you.”
Will climbed the stairs of the inn with a purpose. He wasn’t as tired as he had let on. Seeing Caleb so happy made him ecstatic, but it also made him annoyed with himself. He was tired of pining for someone like a schoolboy. He had just returned from a journey where epic battles had been fought, ancient treasures unearthed, and dear companions had perished. Life was short and meant to be lived.
He knocked on Mala’s door. No answer.
He knocked louder.
At last she opened up, her hair freshly washed and spilling over a white slip and leather pants she had pulled on to answer the door. She was holding a short sword pointed at Will in one hand, her sash in another. Always at the ready.
Her lips curled. “Yes?”
Will stepped inside, reached back to shut the door, pushed the blade to the side, and kissed her full on the mouth.
Mala didn’t pull away, and he let it linger in case he never got another, her lips like warm plum and spice, a shudder coursing through him when he finally disengaged.
She peered up at him with a coy smirk, her face inches from his. “A bold move, Will the Builder. It seems I’ve taught you something, at least.”
She hadn’t moved, and her voice was low and throaty. As he moved to kiss her again, a knock came at the door, loud and insistent.
Dalen’s voice.
She pulled away and reached for the door.
“I can’t find Will, and you won’t believe—” Dalen noticed Will as the door opened wider. The young illusionist looked at one and then the other. “Oh. Lucka, sorry to interrupt, but you both need to come. Now.”
“What is it?” Will said, with a sigh. Dalen didn’t look afraid, as he would if an attack had occurred. Whatever the news was, it had sabotaged his night with Mala.
“It’s your brother. He just opened the Coffer of Devla.”
-46-
The cityscape of Londyn whooshed by Val in a flash, a splice from a movie reel, and then he was standing in a familiar high-ceilinged room with a pearl chandelier, tapestries and heraldic banners covering the walls, golden sconces providing illumination.
Adaira stood beside him with a bewildered expression. Dida and Rucker were still ashen-faced and unconscious. Synne looked as confused as Adaira, and was shivering from the pain in her eye.
Startled by the sudden arrivals, two gray-robed Wizard Guards in the room raised their hands to cast a spell. As a dozen majitsu sprinted into the room, Val shouted at them all to wait, asked to speak with Cyrus Ravensill or the queen, and explained who they were. After a quick debate, one of the majitsu left the room and returned with Cyrus, the queen, and a score more Wizard Guards.
The tiny monarch, dressed in a diamond gown that matched her scepter, peered up at Val and Adaira. “Nearly a month has passed. We thought you lost forever.”
Her words stunned Val. It had been impossible to keep time in the world of mist, but by his rough calculation, not even a week had passed. The journey to the other realm must have somehow warped the passage of time.
“My companions need urgent medical care,” he said.
The queen swept an imperious gaze over the prone forms of Rucker and Dida. Her gaze rested on Synne for a moment, then returned to Val.