Tums was overjoyed to see her. He whinnied and pranced like a yearling, thick mane tossing around his shoulders. Tandra drew him in, calmed him down, ran a hand over his broad, strong back. His sides were hot and flushed. He was breathing fast. Red-rimmed eyes blinked at her, and over and over, he pushed her with his big nose.
“Curse that fool boy, what happened?” she asked as she fished into her pack for what water she had.
He tossed his head and snorted.
She used some water to cool the horse’s sides, then upended the rest into a small wood bowl. The creature drank greedily, hardly breathing as he sucked up the contents of the bowl and licked it dry. Tandra’s heart sank. She didn’t have much else, and if the rain didn’t come again soon, they’d both be in trouble.
Water, she thought.
She clapped a hand to her forehead “The river! The bleeding river is where he went. He’d not bring enough water, sure thing, and what else could he do to keep you on your feet, aye? Damn it, damn it, that blasted fool followed the river!”
Tums gave a crabby snort and dropped his head, like he didn’t want to talk about it. Tandra’s hopes crumbled away to almost nothing. If they were being followed, the river was the most likely place the Terryns would look. Which meant if Mag was following it back, trying to catch up with the stranger . . . if that’s where he’d gone, and if Tums was here now . . .
Her mind filled with horrible images: her nephew being spotted, tracked down, Tums bolting into the fields, leaving Mag.
“No,” she said aloud, shaking her head. “I’m not giving up on him, you hear?”
Tums looked at her with smart, sad eyes.
“Right. I know. You never meant no harm. But we all got to do what we got to do, and my legs are spent. Feel up to carrying one more rider a ways? Yes?” She let out a breath. She wasn’t fine at riding, but she could manage in a pinch. With a bit of puffing—and a few failed tries—she heaved herself onto Tums back and sat there, clinging to his mane.
“There. Now I’ll see him safe, or I’ll see him buried.” And with that, she spun Tums around and rode after Mag. Thick golden poplars merged into the scrubby woods of the outer Ellendandur, crowding out the last of the blue sky. She was following some tracks—maybe two.
She knew she had to go carefully herself. She didn’t fancy trying to convince Brit Garden she was a wandering Honan settler. So when she heard the voices, distant but raucous as crows, she dismounted and crawled through the bush and brambles to hide.
She held her breath as the seconds ticked by. Yes, she decided. Manturian voices. Terryn voices.
“Gods be, those damned raiders!” she hissed under her breath. She wasn’t far from the river. She tightened her hand on her revolver, cursed her nephew again for being such a fool, and peeked through.
The Terryns had managed to find boats—Imo’ani canoes—swift in the water, and piloted by Imo’ani themselves. Most were women or children, with a starved, haggard look. The Terryns didn’t lift a finger to help, just held their guns and watched, snapping orders.
Slaves. Tandra scowled in disgust. No sign of Mag, and too many of them to fight. Over a dozen, if her scan of the boats was correct. All armed.
What works, and what’s right, she said to herself. And this just didn’t work.
They passed by, and before long, Tandra Yourk was alone again. But she wasn’t such a fool to think the danger was over. There could be more boats. More Terryns coming overland. More scouting parties.
She shrank back into the trees and kept on, going more warily than before.
Tandra spied more footprints the next morning, close to the river. They were smeared and unclear. Were they Mag’s? Someone else’s? They were fresher than she’d seen so far and it gave her a pigeon’s piece of hope.
She felt a renewed tug of urgency. She pushed on. Tums’s ponderous girth crashed through the grass and weeds and muddy ground, trailing after her, while she hurried on. She hoped she was following Mag’s tracks. But it could be anyone’s. It could be the Kyr’amanu’s for all she knew.
And then she heard it.
A wail rose up, not so much human, as a dying wolf. Or a ghost. It echoed and rose, a scream of pain, and the whole forest seemed to shrink. The ground shuddered. Tandra’s neck prickled, and for a moment, old memories crept through her, stealing her breath. Memories of dark things and dark places.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she muttered.
A moment later, it was cut off. The silence that followed was unnerving. What on the green earth could cause so much pain? Tandra shivered.
“Not your business, Tan,” she said. “Move on. You’ve a thing to do.”
Yet the cry had come directly ahead of her. Could it be? Was there a chance it had been . . . Mag?
She broke into a trot, dread growing with every step. Yes, indeed—something was off. She smelled it first. A sharp musty tang, like rotting wood and withered leaves.
Abruptly, the trees opened into ruin. A clearing, sixty paces across. Not a burnout, not a harvest, but an actual void of life.
Some skeletal trees stuck out of the ground, rotted away to almost nothing, covered in dust. They made eerie sentinels on the outward edges, standing watch over the dead. And beyond—nothing. Like a giant’s foot had landed in the forest, splintering the ground.
Tandra wasn’t a coward, but neither was she a fool. She hovered on the edge of the wasteland. She thought of that scream.
And she saw the bodies.
There were two of them. They were far enough away she couldn’t be certain one wasn’t Mag’s.
Sea and stone, if he’d escaped Terryns only to get himself killed by that Kyr’amanu . . .
She let out her breath. No use putting off what had to be done.
“Stay here, Tums, you hear?”
The horse gave a tired snort. Tandra edged one boot over the line. Waiting. If there were some sorcery here . . .
Nothing.
She took another step. And then another. The brittle ground cracked under her feet like bones, but there was no pain, no eldritch magic sapping her lifeblood.
Time to see what was what. One of the bodies was clearly past help. Even from so far, she could tell it was an ugly death—dark splashes, the stench, the buzz of flies.
But what about the other?
She edged towards it, and the body moved. A flutter of sound, a tremor. A . . .
It was a girl.
And she was alive. This tiny slip of a child? “Gods be,” she muttered. “What’s happened here?”
She stooped to her side. There had been some sort of fight, that much was clear. A swelling bruise covered the side of the girl’s face, fresh and angry, and blood trickled out of her mouth, staining her teeth. There was a bullet wound in her thigh, crusted over and starting to turn livid with infection. But as ugly as that looked, there was something worse going on. Tandra knew the signs of death, and they were stamped all over this child. Her skin was a sickly grey. Her lips were pale. Her limbs shook. Not with any strength, but a slight, whispering tremor. Her chest barely rose.
Had she been caught up by the Kyr’amanu’s eldritch power too?
Tandra shook her head. There was no way this girl would live.
Not your problem, old Yourk. Just walk away.
And what? Leave a child to die alone?
She had Mag to find. She had her own family to save. Who was this girl to her?
“I am sorry, child. I really am. If there was a thing I could do, I’d do it, but—”
The girl made a sound. It wasn’t exactly a whimper—more like glass on glass, forcing its way through her throat. Her eyelids battled open, and behind them, was only blackness.
Tandra froze. She’d seen something like this before. The memories slammed back into her, thick and ugly. The Bright Order. The eyes of the watchers, crawling on her skin like ants. And there had been another girl: a failure that echoed into the present like Krunyn’s doom.
Tan
dra let out a sharp breath. The girl was cursed. There was nothing she could do.
“Krunyn’s eye. If this madness is happening all over again . . . Tandra Yourk, you know better than to get involved in such devilry. Not again. Not . . .”
Tandra hesitated, then swore. Why could she never just walk away?
“What works and what’s right, you foolish old bat. Gods be, least I can do is get you off this cursed ground and take a look, aye? Maybe we’ll see what’s wrong with you, after all.”
She bent and scooped up the child. The girl’s arms fell limp, but her lips moved soundlessly. Tandra hurried out of the wasteland, then set her down next to Tums. The horse snorted in concern.
“Oh aye, I know,” Tandra muttered. “Another tagalong. Don’t learn my lesson, do I? Fool old Yourk.” She uncapped a water skin and tipped it gently over the girl’s lips, cradling her head so she wouldn’t choke.
Then she set her back down and made a quick search of her: was there some hidden injury, a clue to her ailment, maybe even evidence of them? She scowled at the thought of the Bright Order.
Besides the swollen bullet wound—at least a couple days old—there were bruises, both new and old. Welts from a beating. Raw marks around her wrists. Bloody feet. All signs she’d been treated cruelly. A slave. Tandra’s stomach lurched. Had the girl escaped from those Terryn bastards?
Those injuries would slow her down, but nothing to explain her dying quite yet.
Tandra sighed. Time to check the other body. It could give her a clue. It might explain what happened here.
It might be Mag.
She growled away the thought.
“Matti.”
It was only a breath. Weak fingers plucked at Tandra’s shirt. Black eyes stared at her, unseeing: all black, as if the pupils had grown and flooded the whole eye.
“Matti . . . ena . . .”
A knife twisted in Tandra’s heart. The girl was calling her mammy, like an infant tottering on new legs.
“I ain’t your mammy,” she said, though her voice softened. Then she switched to Imo’ani. “Not your matti, you hear? Probably nothing I can do, either. But I won’t leave you.”
The girl moaned, then gave a violent jerk. Her back arched. Her fingers dug into Tandra’s arm as tight as an owl’s talons. Words came out Tandra didn’t understand, almost like Kyre’an words. Old words. And beneath her groans were small, painful sobs.
Tandra held her for a moment, waiting for the shaking to pass, the spasms, like throes of death. Her throat tightened. Maybe the child wouldn’t come back. But there. She’d said it already, hadn’t she? I won’t leave you.
She waited until the spasms passed and her grip loosened, then Tandra set her down and gently disentangled the fingers.
“I’ll be back,” she said again. “Just see, I will.”
She hurried back to the site of the devastation. She spotted the other body, and swallowing her distaste and dread, she approached.
Not Mag.
Her first thought was relief. Then she looked closer. It was a broken heap of a man. Most of him had been crushed to a bloody pulp, but she recognized the bits of tattered rag.
She let out a breath. The Kyr’amanu. Had she been following his trail all this time, and not Mag’s? Or was Mag further on?
She cursed. She’d have to search the area again, backtrack. But there was a thing to do first. If this was the Kyr’amanu, and Mag was convinced the man had stolen it . . .
As much as she hated the thought of the Contessa’s shiny stone, she might need it for Mag after all.
She glanced back at the Kyr’amanu. Krunyn’s eye, it was a bloody mess! She didn’t even know where to start. Clothing and flesh were all smashed together. Bones stuck up in a shivered wreck. The face itself was beyond inspection. Tandra was a tough old woman, but even her stomach warned her to move fast.
She swallowed carefully, then reached for the front of the man’s robes. She began to peel bits off, to search and grope. It was one of the most distasteful things she’d done in all her long and varied life. When her hand grasped something hard, thinking it was the stone, only to find it was a rib poking out of his chest, she almost gave up the search.
But as she jerked her hand away, she knocked something loose.
The shiny stone rolled out and landed on the dead ground.
Tandra stared for a moment in dismay. Mag was right. She’d called him delusional, but here was the evidence for herself. The Kyr’amanu had stolen the stone. But why? On a whim, because he thought it looked pretty, or because he knew something more?
She swallowed her disgust and grabbed it. It was so small, so easy to lose. Did it truly hold the secrets Mag suspected? The key to the Contessa’s power? He’d risked his life for this, not just once, but over and over. Risked everything. And was it so wise to retrieve it? It wouldn’t be the first time Tandra had gotten herself tangled in the wrong affairs. Wasn’t she old enough now to know better?
She ran her thumb over the stone—and heard a click. Her breath stopped, held fast in her throat as she stared. It was pulling now, a strong, steady beat. Like a heartbeat. Tha-THUMP . . . tha-THUMP. Krunyn’s eye, she could feel it in her hand.
It started to beat a little faster, just like her own heartbeat. Tha-THUMP-tha-THUMP-tha-THUMP.
Gods be, what now? Was it going to explode? Had it sensed a touch that didn’t belong to its mistress? Maybe a trap Mag had known about, careful not to trigger? The possibilities were endless.
Mag, what have you stolen? What is this?
She didn’t have time for this nonsense. She had to find her nephew. Get Mag. Get him home.
Everything jolted around her. She was falling, and she wasn’t. The ground left her feet. She was hurtling across the forest, and lights and sounds whistled past her, unimaginable and strange, all wrong, faster and faster.
Then she was thrown into the bright afternoon sun. She took two steps, staggered, and fell to the ground. Her stomach rolled. She glanced around her.
She was back at the edge of the forest, a poplar-stand to her left, a grassy knoll to her right, bedecked with meadowsweet and daisies.
And there, standing and staring at her, chest heaving and blue eyes wild, was Magellan Yourk.
He wasn’t alone.
Before Tandra could shout with joy, the air split with thunder.
“Aunt Tan!” Mag screamed.
A second later, she jerked forward. Searing fire spread from her lower back. She gripped her stomach. Hot, sticky blood began to pool.
“Krunyn’s eye, my gods-be-damned bleeding luck!” she choked. “Mag, run!”
She staggered a few steps, then dropped to one knee. She reached for her side. Her fingers grasped at nothing. No gun. No smooth wood grips. Air. Empty, useless air.
Mag was holding her second revolver. The one he’d stolen from the cart. He ran back to her. Grabbed her arm.
“C’mon, Aunt Tan! I don’t know how you found me, but we got to go, now!”
She pushed him away.
“I ain’t going anywhere, Magellan Yourk, you damned bleeding fool!”
The air cracked again. Tandra heard shouts behind her. Two more guns went off, bang, bang-bang. Three. One zipped the air close to Tandra, and Mag ducked, throwing his hands over his head. Then returned the fire. Two shots.
“It’s them, they’ve found us, tracked us somehow!” Mag shouted. “C’mon!” He pulled her arm.
Tandra didn’t look over her shoulder. She didn’t need to.
“If you trust me at all, ever, then I want to see your back, nephew, and now. I’m dying, do you see? Gods be, go!” She shoved him again. Pain blossomed up her side—only it seemed . . . distant. Mag stared at her in shock.
“And give me that!” she grasped at the gun. “You’re a damn lousy shot anyhow. I’ll cover for you.”
Mag hesitated.
“I’m sorry, Aunt Tan,” he said. Tears sprang to his eyes. “I’m sorry. I should have . . .”
<
br /> “Run!” She grabbed the gun out of his hand and gave him a shove. He staggered away, then ran.
She gripped the gun, swivelled on one knee, and brought her arms up. She watched five Terryn Dal raiders barrel towards her. She wouldn’t be able to stop them all, but she could give Mag a fighting chance.
Steady as she goes. Tandra squeezed the trigger. The gun went off with a satisfying jerk. The nearest raider screamed and fell back, blood spurting from his side.
She slammed the hammer, sighted another down, and pulled. This one she got clean in the head. The remaining three were getting close. One of them was falling behind, shouting orders.
“Get that boy. I want him alive, you dogs. You hear? I want that turnie traitor!”
The leader. That must be Brit Garden. If she got him . . .
Tandra breathed deep, gritted her teeth past the pain, and aimed dead for him. They locked eyes for an instant. His were icy grey. He made no move on her, though his own revolver lay clutched in one hand.
She pulled the trigger.
She heard a click. The worst sound in Sea and Stone. The sound that meant Mag had already fired two rounds before she arrived—however that had happened. If he’d known better, he’d have told her. If she’d been thinking clearly, she would have checked.
Instead, she watched as the man calmly raised his own shooter, aimed it towards her, then shifted at the last minute and fired.
Tandra spun her head. She saw Mag running, making for the tangle of trees. Then she watched him fall.
He gave a cry of pain, clutched his left leg, and struggled back up. Except now the other two were close. Mag was limping, stumbling. She could read panic in every jerk of his body. Helpless, Tandra watched as they ran at him, shouting, guns held up. They circled him, cut off his escape. Mag scrambled back.
“Don’t shoot!” his voice pitched over the field. “Don’t . . . !”
Tandra heaved herself to her feet. If nothing else, she could be a distraction.
Another shot cracked over the grassy meadow. She felt it rip into her back and she hit the ground. She tasted blood, coughed it, felt the grip of grim certainty. This was it . . . this was dying . . .
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