Silverglen: A Young Adult Epic Fantasy Novel

by E. A. Burnett

  "It did!" the boy said, the many gaps in his teeth showing in his grin as he rushed to Kitt's side. "Kitt! Wake up, Kitt," he commanded. The boy took hold of Kitt's hand, then his arm, then either side of his face.

  "He's sleeping, Vinn. He needs to rest," Riggs said, standing.

  Vinn’s hands dropped to his side and he looked from Kitt to the bird to Riggs. In a blink, the boy's face collapsed and he was rushing headlong into the pregnant woman's arms.

  "He won't wake up, Lexy," the boy sputtered into her leg. "Why won't he wake up?"

  The woman said nothing but smoothed a hand over his head.

  "He's not feeling well, Vinn," Riggs explained, walking to Kitt's bedside to adjust the blanket.

  A shiny eye peeked out from behind the woman's dress. "Is he going to die?"

  Riggs shook his head and came to kneel in front of the boy. "He won't die, as long as I can help him. He will be awake tomorrow, and you can come see him then. Okay?"

  The boy sniffed and nodded and the woman took his hand to lead him back up the stairs. Ember ignored the feeling that the woman watched her as she closed the door to the hovel.

  "Does she speak?" Ember inquired, watching as Riggs laid out a bedroll.

  "About as much as Norman does," Riggs said. The firebird cocked his head at the sound of his name.

  "And the child, is he Kitt's?"

  "Not in blood, no. But in all else, Kitt is like a father to the orphans. You'll see."

  Wood cracked and sizzled as the logs in the fire shifted. Embers shimmered between black and orange.

  chapter Twenty-one

  The following night, Ember earned herself guard duty along the perimeter of the camp. Well, at least 'earned' was the word Seabird used, but Ember had the feeling he said it for the benefit of the children nearby while she passed out sweetbread.

  A harrowing day of cooking, cleaning, and endless gossip in the kitchens had left Ember too exhausted to shift, so she walked the perimeter on foot, stepping lightly so as not to open the wounds that had begun to heal from Riggs' ointment.

  She could make herself some shoes to speed up the healing, but she didn't have any hide, and the idea of hunting...

  She shivered.

  Besides, she didn't have any weapons, and even if she could find some, she wouldn't use them to hunt.

  Arundel's dark, brooding eyes loomed up in her memory, watching her over a strong nose and a wine-filled iron chalice. Oiled leather in her hands, warm and musky, and the sharp cold of the new dagger as she slid it out of the sheath.

  The best thing a woman can do is arm herself. She must be prepared for any danger, be able to defeat any enemy.

  She had kept Arundel's words as close as the dagger he had given her, though not for the reasons he intended. Far more frightening to Ember than the cruelty of men was the cruelty of those who hated shifters. Torture, death, enslavement. Shifters were animals, beneath normal humans and certainly beneath wizards. The mindset had been pervasive, and had caused the rebellion.

  So many had died, Salena had told her. Your father...

  She had thought Salena would say he was a murderer, that he had been the one to kill them, to lead others to do the same. Now she wondered if her mother had meant Arundel at all.

  Ember clenched her hand. She missed her dagger. Missed the security it provided, the strength it gave her. The hilt sturdy and reassuring against her palm.

  Weak moonlight streamed through the canopy and tossed shadows along the forest floor.

  Fletch was out there, somewhere. She could imagine him, tall and pale, lurking in the shadow of that great white pine, watching her. Watching the camp.

  Ember turned toward the camp, and was surprised to see a distant fire. A gap had formed in the perimeter's Glamours. The rain from the day before had disintegrated a spell, leaving only a couple strands that hung like limpid thread between two sycamore trees.

  "The wizards must have missed it this morning," Ember muttered to herself. They had re-worked the perimeter as soon as the rain had stopped, though she had been too busy in the kitchens to help out. Not that they had asked her to.

  Using two hands, Ember mended the Glamour as best she could, and walked down the perimeter only to find more inconsistencies in casting. The Glamours spread out patchily, as though a blind man had strung them up, forming a loose, jilting pattern.

  She wondered, while she worked, how long it would be before a wizard came close enough to sense the circle of spells, and what would happen when the wizard grew curious enough to venture inside. They needed more weapons. More swords, and archers. They needed a place to retreat to, with solid walls. Ember thought of Silverglen, which burgeoned with traps and Glamours to keep strangers out or to capture them. Even before the rebellion, Silverglen had been impenetrable.

  How could the shifters feel safe, out here in the forest, with only mountains and trees to keep them hidden from patrols? How long did they trust the safety to last?

  A twig snapped behind her.

  Ember grabbed a stick from the ground and swung around, jagged end pointed up. A pale figure emerged into the moonlight.

  "Lexy," Ember breathed. She lowered the point of her stick.

  The woman, wearing the same deer-hide dress as before, clutched a bundle to her chest. Her shoes barely made a noise against the twigs and leaves of the forest floor.

  "You should go back to camp," Ember said gently, remembering Seabird's instructions to be sure no one went outside the perimeter. "You can't shift."

  "I can," Lexy whispered, her eyes dark against milky skin.

  "But it would kill the baby," Ember said. When Lexy remained silent, she clenched her jaw. "You wouldn't do it."

  "I would," Lexy replied. "If I had to."

  Her face looked gaunt in the light of the moon, and the bulge of her stomach was nearly invisible against the shadows. Still, Ember saw strength in the steadiness of her gaze, in the firm set of her mouth.

  She offered the bundle to Ember, her two naked arms like slender sycamore branches. "It's not like what I sewed back in Lach, but it's sturdy. I hope you like it."

  Ember took the bundle, and soft, velvety deer-hide caressed her fingers. Clothes. Garments like the others wore. Warmth blossomed in her chest.

  "I don't know how to thank you."

  "You don't need to. You are one of us," she said, backing away.

  You don't know me. You don't know what I am.

  "Is there something I can do? Something you need or want?"

  "You are already doing me a favor." Lexy motioned to the gap where Ember had been mending the Glamour, and turned away.

  So she did see me. She knows.

  Ember hugged the bundle, the scent of hide tickling her nose, and smiled.

  chapter Twenty-two

  "Oh no! No, no..." Ember muttered as she squinted into the small opening of the stone-lined oven. The stench of burnt bread stung her nose. The lump of dough she had carefully placed in there earlier had transformed into a lump of coal.

  Cursing, she grabbed the metal prongs and slid the blackened bread off its stone shelf and carried it, smoking, to the counter.

  It didn't look edible, not at all, but Ember used a knife to test it anyways. The lump was rock-solid, but she found that with excessive prying, she could reach a bit of softer bread in the very middle. Dry and crumbly, but maybe edible. Soaked in broth.

  "What are you doing?" a shrill voice asked from behind.

  Wymer.

  Ember whirled with her knife in hand.

  "I'm making sure the bread is cooked," Ember said through gritted teeth. Wymer always had to be snooping around her in the kitchen. He waited for her to make a mistake, as though gathering evidence to prove she never worked in the kitchens back in Lach.

  Wymer, bony and already balding at his young age, ignored the knife in her hand. He held a wooden tray with a bowl of steaming stew, no doubt confident enough that she would never actually use the knife and risk spilling the
stew. He looked around her at the bread and snorted. "More food wasted, I see. That loaf was worth more than one of your fingers."

  "I didn't mean to burn it," Ember put in, raising her chin a notch and hoping he couldn't see the heat burning up her face.

  "Of course you didn't. A broom is more mindful than you. You even managed to overcook the squirrel," Wymer added, scowling to where the squirrel sat motionless on the spit. The squirrel looked shriveled and dry. "Stringy by now, I'll bet." He shoved the tray at her. "Etty wants you to take this to Seabird. Quickly."

  She took the tray, trying not to slop the stew out of the bowl, and walked to the mouth of the cave. Etty was dressing a small boar that had been brought in by one of the shifters, to be cooked over the fire the rest of the afternoon for supper. It would be a lean meal, as they usually were, with the stores from the past winter gone and spring barely beginning to slip into summer. A few others helped Etty, and one other churned milk into butter.

  But where had the milk come from?

  Ember opened her mouth to ask, but just then Etty noticed her.

  "Leave it at his door. Before it gets cold," Etty snapped, shooing her away with a wave of her hand.

  Sternness in her voice, but a sort of kindness in her eyes. She was giving Ember an easy task, one she knew Ember was capable of. One a five-year-old child would be capable of. She knows I never worked in a kitchen. Ember swallowed and walked out of the cave, expertly balancing the tray as she crossed the stream.

  The heat from the fire gone, her bare legs felt cool in the breeze. Well, not entirely bare legs, but they might as well be. Lexy's garment, though different from Etty's in that it was one piece rather than two, was a bit too short for comfort and left her shoulders and arms exposed to the wind and sun, not to mention eyes. But the hide was soft and pliable, giving way easily to any movement. The dress allowed her skin to breath, as it hugged her loosely, and was held up by a small knot gathered above her left shoulder. Overall, a clever design for someone who had to shift quickly. She would have to find a way to thank Lexy.

  The sound of children's laughter arose like a chorus from a small clearing in the forest. Careful of the tray, Ember peered through the trees. Twenty children, of all ages, gathered around a log. Were they all orphans?

  "Can anyone tell me why the tree owl is brown? Why is it important for them to be brown?"

  Kitt's voice, in a tone that made him almost unrecognizable. She moved forward a few steps and saw him sitting on a log, his wounded leg propped straight out, and a cane resting beside him.

  "So he can be like a tree!" one child said, raising his arms to mimic branches.

  One of the older girls scoffed. "Owls are colored like the bark so their prey won't see them."

  "That's exactly right, Loria," said Kitt. "And how can you and I use that ability to hide, besides for hunting?"

  A breath of silence, and then Loria muttered, "To hide from patrols."

  "Exactly. If you see any stranger, or group of strangers, you shift to an owl and fly up to the highest tree. That's how we stay safe."

  With a scowl, Loria spun away and strode off into the main camp. Kitt watched her for a moment, and Ember longed to see his expression. The girl was clearly upset with him, but why?

  "Now, I want you all to practice hiding," Kitt continued, waving his cane up toward the canopy. "I won't be able to find you today, but you can choose a partner to do that. Away with you!"

  He playfully poked his cane at them, and the group of children exploded into a storm of feathers and claws. They dispersed into the trees, and in a blink had all but disappeared.

  Ember couldn't stop a smile from tugging her lips.

  Until Kitt stood and saw her.

  She moved her eyes to the ground and continued along her course to Seabird's hovel.

  "Ember."

  Suspicion in his voice, still, and weariness.

  Ember slowed, and came to a stop as the unsteady sound of his limp grew close.

  "I'm going to Seabird's," Ember said before he could speak. She wondered if he would try to taste the soup for poison.

  He came up to her, his face drawn and pale. He glanced at the soup, a frown balanced above green eyes the shade of moss, and looked away toward the kitchen.

  "I can't hunt in this state," he stated. Anger, not directed at her, pinched his face. "Do you think there's enough extra food for a meal?"

  If it hadn't been for his serious wound, she'd have given him a tart reply. And if it hadn't been for the fact that she'd burned the bread. Ember dipped her head. "Of course. Etty always makes plenty for the children." The children, Etty had informed her, who weren't yet allowed to hunt. Once they reached the age of ten, they were given a guide to teach them. By age thirteen, they could hunt alone. After that, most of them fed themselves, just as the adults did. Hence why Kitt and Riggs had given her such funny looks when she dug around in Riggs' pack for food, before they came to camp. Hence why Kitt’s question made her feel just a little bit smug.

  "Good," he said, and turned to go.

  She should let him go, leave him and his suspicions alone. Curiosity snagged her.

  "That girl, Loria."

  Kitt stopped and leaned on his cane, a part of his profile visible to her. The part with the flash of silver hair that didn't belong.

  The question that had been burning in her heart was stuck there, and suddenly she couldn't put it in words.

  Kitt poised there, waiting in silence, or perhaps giving silence in his answer for the question he knew she asked. Ember had a feeling it was the latter. She sighed. She could figure it out on her own, later, if she really wanted to.

  "I'm glad to see that you're doing better," she heard herself say. Was she glad? She looked back at where the children played hide-and-go-seek in the clearing.

  Yes, she was glad.

  Kitt twitched his head. A nod? His mouth remained unsmiling, his expression tight.

  She clutched the tray and continued her trek to Seabird's hovel, only relaxing when she heard Kitt's limping walk trailing away from her.

  Seabird's hovel was the second largest after the children's hovel—or the orphan's hovel, as some called it—and was situated next to a giant slab of stone. Each hovel had some significant marker recognized by those living in the camp, marking where the hovels and doors were. It was necessary, given the abundance of Glamours. Seabird's door lay to the right of the stone, smothered in strong Glamours that made the door appear to be a thicket of brambles.

  And smothered in a Silencing spell.

  Ember's pulse quickened.

  The spells could be for privacy, Ember reasoned, remembering how Asenath had kissed his cheek that first day. But it could be for something else.

  She set the tray down at the base of the stone, just outside the hatch door, and glanced around the woods.

  A few milled by the river, bathing or washing clothes and dishes. Others gathered by the kitchen to eat, or to take a nap in the sun. Kitt was nowhere to be seen.

  Ember tiptoed around the hovel's roof, which she could just make out beneath dense layers of Glamours. The smoke-hole showed evidence of being long-forgotten, as dense ferns and grasses clustered around it and the space entirely lacked spells. Ember bent close and closed her eyes against the stinging smoke that puffed from the opening.

  "...lost contact with her after the last attack on the camp..."

  Seabird's voice, low and soft. Perhaps she would be able to hear better as a mouse—

  "...linked with the burned village?"

  Asenath. Was this some sort of meeting, or idle talk?

  "...very possible... Kitt and Riggs saw patrols searching the remains."

  "...too dangerous..."

  Frustrated, Ember held her breath and shoved her ear over the hole, knees digging into the vegetation. The smoke curled over her face like the dry, hot breath of an old man puffing a pipe.

  "It might be a good idea. We would have to negotiate with the clans again,
and we don't have much left after the last time. We will be safer further away. I will ask the others what they think." A pause, and the sound of shoes being tossed to the ground. Seabird's voice took on a velvety tone. "In the meantime, let's you and I do some thinking. Both of us should be able to come up with something, don't you think?"

  "Ryscford," Asenath sighed with pleasure, "I believe we can come up with something marvelous..."

  Ember withdrew, trying to stifle her sputtering cough as smoke worked its way into her lungs.

  Ryscford. Seabird. It all made sense now. Seabird was just a nickname, or perhaps a cover, for who he really was. Ryscford Seago was his real name. Ember never knew him, but she knew of him from history classes at the Academy. He had been a rare gem among the Council, a wizard who respected shifters as equals, and who had led the shifters in their rebellion after he was removed from the Council. The commoners at Silverglen who still secretly cared about shifters spoke of him as a hero. A true leader. But it was said he was killed during the rebellion, that his head had been delivered to Lord Arundel's great hall and was seen by the rest of the Council. Proof of his death.

  He faked his own death. And now he leads a shifter faction in Orion. Did the shifters know his true identity? Would it matter to them?

  A gasp arose from the smoke-hole, and Ember moved away, a blush creeping up her cheeks. She stood, assessed that her surroundings were the same as before—well, except for the crushed fern beneath her—and brushed off her dress.

  What she really wished to know was why Ryscford had chosen to lead a faction of shifters. Did he do it to protect them, or did he have a plan in mind? There weren't enough shifters to lead another rebellion, so what then? To hide, perhaps, to grow their numbers.

  Whatever the reason, Ember thought as she headed back to the kitchen, I will find it.

  chapter Twenty-three

  After days of solemnly noticing how most of the shifters bathed in the river at camp—or in their hovels using buckets—Ember could hardly believe her luck upon discovering a hidden waterfall northwest of the camp.