It was a heartless plan. But as they looked to one another, they knew they had no better.
“Entrust her to me, Chancellor.” Melki placed a fist over her heart. “I’ll hide her deep in the maze, in one of the Labyrinthine towns. I will guard her with my life.”
“Dropping a child down out of nowhere. . .” Murzyn gazed into the brazier.
“She will be a transplant from my district,” Korilexx said. “I will assign her a guardian. I know just the man. He’s only a captain, but I would trust him with my own life. The youngest princess disappears into the valley and is not to know who she is until the time we decide. We flood all our towns, all our provinces, with false leads and symbols. Erase our tracks.”
“Do it,” the Chancellor said. “Immediately.”
And the youngest and all-too-quickly last Bandu princess disappeared. Despite their best efforts, the Chancellor and his trusted lieutenants would not be able to keep her safe.
XXII - The Northern Wastes
Alixa scrambled down the tree where she’d hastily constructed a camouflaged stand. Once again on solid ground, she pressed her palms into her forehead. She had to be losing her mind. Or suffering from severe alcohol deprivation. She couldn’t be sure. Either possibility, though, was far better than what she feared she was experiencing.
Alixa shook off her dis-ease; so counterproductive. She hacked up a downed sugar maple. Licked the sap from her fingers. Yeah, that’ll do nicely. She arranged the logs into a tepee and covered it with fans of dead fir branches, then chipped at her whetstone until the fir caught fire. She continued feeding the fire needles and bark until she had a gaudy monstrosity of smoke and flame.
She regarded it disparagingly. She prided herself on making tiny and virtually smokeless—yet white-hot, fast cooking—fires. This thing was a beast. But it was supposed to be a beast. Alixa shimmied back up to her stand, nocked her bow, and stilled her whole body. Undetectable. Unless that monster could sense brainwaves. Ugh, Alixa shuddered, wouldn’t that be her luck?
As she waited, she replayed her last few days, cursing herself for coming back north . . .
She was supposed to stick close to home. That’s what she’d concluded after that mercenary told her the witch was back. But Alixa was no homebody. And home was no home. She had to know.
After a couple months of stewing in her own juices, Alixa set off for the northern wastes again. Slipped silently along back trails, skirted like a wraith through shells of old villages, sifted through tavern tales spun by shells of old villagers, until she was forced to conclude the witch was indeed back.
Three nights prior, Alixa had hidden, as per usual, in the shadows of a bar filled with smoke, sadness, and anonymity. The place was no more than a ramshackle re-purposed barn, the patrons skittish and disgusting. The lighting was horrible, the alcohol worse. She was so far removed from the Lobridium and the more populated basins that the bartender served nothing but moonshine. Barbarians. What she wouldn’t give for a good spicy bourbon. Or even a bad one. What the scalding moonshine was adept at was loosening tongues. And the tongue of a spidery man with bad teeth and bad manners had loosened quite liberally.
“I’m a Bandu hunter, I am!” he hollered at somebody who, in all likelihood, had done nothing to draw his ire. “You don’t wanna mess with me. You’ll have the witch to answer to, you will!”
Hunched over a corner table, Alixa’s ears perked. She sloshed her drink around, watched the man pick a fight, and within the hour, she’d read everything there was to know about him. When he stumbled out the rusty tavern door, she slammed one last nasty gulp, spat in her drink (as a favor to the cheapskate who’d finish it once she was gone), and lithely followed. Hood low, shoulders stooped, gait weak—no one paid her any mind as she pretended to stumble along behind the man down a lonely dark path until she deemed herself far enough from prying ears.
“You there, Bandu hunter!” Alixa called. “You say you know the witch?”
“What’s it to you?” He staggered in her general direction, too sauced or arrogant to keep quiet. “Yeah, I know the witch. Got Aegorite blood, I do. Been to the Mountain thrice. Saw her wit’ my own eyes. Tall woman—taller than you.”
“So?”
“She’s rising, that’s so. Paying a pretty price for Bandu scalps. Hasn’t hardly found a one. That don’t bug her none, either, says she. Bandu’s plum dying out, and good riddance.”
Alixa flexed a fist. “You catch any yourself?”
“What’s it to you?”
Alixa lunged and slammed him into a tree. She got right in his face—much closer than she cared to be to anybody, let alone this filthy man with the hygiene of a dead hog.
“Because I’m Bandu,” she snarled. “And a bounty hunter, Mr. Bandu hunter. I do work for free, though, when the fancy hits me.” She released him. He staggered back. “And I’m feeling downright fancy tonight.”
“You. . . I’m taking you.” He wrestled out a sword. “To the Wolf. He’s not far, maybe 50 clicks north. Doin’ his own recon, but he ain’t findin’ none of you trashy buggers either. You’re gonna make me rich.”
“Well, Bandu hunter?” Alixa pushed away the dread at hearing the appellation ‘the Wolf.’ She busted out a cocky grin, spread her arms wide, and beckoned with one finger. “Come get me.”
The ‘duel’ lasted all of three seconds. Then Alixa set her sights directly for home.
Until that afternoon, anyway. . .
Alixa didn’t wait long in the prickly branches. Spying those awful wings from far off, she shook off her brooding, and slowly, slowly raised her bow through the tree’s foliage. Sure enough, the massive bird made straight for her decoy campfire. Alixa watched it circle once, twice, had her feel for its rhythm, and fired.
Her arrow struck with a thud and a poof of scattering feathers. The bird wobbled, did a half-turn, then crashed to the ground. Alixa shouldered her bow, skittered down the tree, and tracked the falling bird’s trajectory.
She approached it, cautiously, a couple minutes later. Her arrow was stuck through its breast, severing its left scapulars. The thing was trapped in a bush, haphazardly flapping its right wing, trying to get loose.
“What the. . .” Alixa slowly circled, baffled by what she saw.
Its body was almost as long as her. She’d have considered that huge except its massive wings, each eight feet long, dwarfed its sturdy torso. When she spoke, it stopped thrashing, cocked its head, and studied her out of one eye. The look it gave her betrayed a decidedly non-bird-like consideration.
The thing hissed at her, pitching its call through several octaves.
“Don’t take that tone with me!” Alixa shouted, pointing her bow. “You’ve been tailing me all day. I’ve seen your shadow five times.”
It stopped screeching, eyeing her up and down.
“You’re not so slick as you think.” Alixa cautiously circled the bird, arrow nocked. “What are you?”
It locked eyes locked with her. Alixa shuddered. When its gaze slid to the silky white hair hanging about her shoulders, she could’ve sworn it smirked disparagingly. It squawked and hissed and batted its one good wing at her, catching her in the face. Alixa lost her balance and stumbled. The bird flailed itself loose from the nettled bush.
Not particularly interested in seeing it in action, she re-nocked her bow, and from one knee buried an arrow in its heart before it could get itself upright.
“Ah-ow.” Alixa wiped blood from her stinging cheek and ear.
She stared at the muscular body and sweeping wings of the dead bird. Those wings could fetch some serious coin. They’d also garner serious questions. Alixa had clearly not been anywhere near careful enough. And this thing. . . it was an abomination, as though conjured from some nightmare.
Alixa felt a chill run down her spine. Conjured. Of course. Witchcraft. . .
Alixa burned the bird in her billowy fire until it was nothing but ash. She stamped it out until all trace of smoke was gone. T
hen Alixa resumed her frenetic pace. She’d seen enough of the northern wastes to know she wasn’t ever coming back. She’d stick close to base. Even if that made her restless and antsy, there was always plenty of bourbon to be had, if nothing else. And after this encounter, she needed a good drink.
XXIII - The Road to Longardin
“Are we actually doing this?” Renn and Emmie scuffed their feet along the dusty road toward Longardin. Two miles from home; the furthest away Renn had ever been.
“Yah, we seem to be,” Emmie replied. “Still think your mom shows any time, yelling ‘come back, little Renny-poo!’”
“Emmie, you. . .” Renn shot her a look, but seeing her glowing face and infectious smile, the sour look quickly grew into a grin.
Twelve days had passed since they’d struck their unlikely bargain along the river. Selling the necessary adults on the wisdom of their venture had (understandably) proven difficult. Brie, Urwen, and Jes shot them down. Repeatedly. Hence the passing of twelve days.
As Renn and Emmie reasoned it out together, though, it took on the feel of a logical and feasible idea in their collective mind. Their budding friendship—with them feeling like co-conspirators being denied a seemingly reasonable request—jelled quickly.
And Brie couldn’t help but notice. The two were frequently together, diligently plotting original and nuanced twists on their request. Finally, knowing that Ben’s final wish was to see this relationship pursued and that he had counselled Emmie to visit Longardin (and, yes, knowing that a delegation of vicars was slated to embark with a Drennich caravan of travelers in two days), Brie allowed herself to become persuaded.
After ten days of Renn and Emmie’s incessant pestering, Jes, Urwen, and Brie met long into the night. Jes proved the final holdout. But she, too, eventually acquiesced, swallowing her motherly worries and opting to pray for the best. The next day, Emmie and Renn were pleasantly surprised—exuberantly shocked, frankly—to find their request granted.
They fell in with a caravan of other travelers from the Northeast Quadrant, admonished to stick close to the town vicars (who, with each passing day, wanted less-and-less to do with two rambunctious teenagers). As they stomped along the fir-shaded trail, it occurred to Renn he knew only sketchy details about the trip’s actual purpose. His focus had been dedicated to convincing his mom, then prepping to go, and all the while keeping anxiety from burning up his intestines.
He’d read the signed letters of recommendation Brie provided, from both the Drennich mayor and militia captain, to be allowed to see a prisoner, should he still be there. Brie also drafted letters to take to the Northeast Consulate to ensure hospitality and assistance. The delightedly silly Brie had also provided enough money to cover their travelling and eating expenses. Yes, Brie’s arrangements had been quite thorough.
The road wound around a big bend, down a hill, then plunged deep into the dark forest. Drennich disappeared. Renn had never been this far from home. Not just physically, but away from everyone and everything he knew. That was suddenly unnerving.
Though the sun’s warmth made it unnecessary, Emmie buried herself in her big cloak and fastened her hood tightly around her neck. At first, Renn wrote it off as another of his new friend’s funny quirks. Once understanding dawned, Renn’s heart hurt with sadness. She had hidden her blonde hair in the hood and pulled the cloak’s visor low over her grey eyes. Standard practice for her around new people until she could ascertain how safe she was from ridicule, scorn, or worse.
Renn felt the urge to yank off her hood, grasp her hand, and unashamedly walk with her—let anyone who had a problem with who she was know that she was with him. Of course, that idea made his face hot. Sweating, he wadded his own cloak into his pack and kept his hands to himself. He also had a million questions to ask. As he enjoyed solitude, though, having space and time to think, he wasn’t about to begrudge that to Emmie if that was her desire. The gregarious girl was bound to burst from that shell sooner or later.
Sooner, definitely.
“Renn!” He flinched when she seized his arm. She pointed into the woods that overhung the road on all sides. “That might be the biggest bird of prey I’ve ever seen! You see that wingspan? Amazing, eh?”
Renn peered in, saw two great wings fold out and the giant bird, some type of eagle perhaps, lifted gracefully deeper into the trees. Emmie proceeded to detail the distinctive habits of the hawks, kites, and eagles she’d spent hours observing on the waters of the Khuul. Renn discovered Emmie had a wealth of knowledge about the natural world. She also piqued the interest of others. Many of their fellow travelers shuffled closer to listen, eager for a break in the monotony of days of walking. After bantering back and forth on several subjects, she flung her hood off for a better view of the treetops. Renn observed the subtle and sometimes not-so-subtle reactions around them: many hurried away, and in not a few eyes, he saw outright disdain.
“Where’d you learn all that?” Renn asked when the two were alone on a walk-break.
“Fishing skiff with Dad, out on the docks. He taught me lots.”
“Did he teach you how to work over a crowd of people, too?” When Emmie’s only response was a sly smile, Renn continued. “You were putting on a show. You wanted these people to hear someone smart and passionate and then—voila—throw off the hood. You were analyzing them the whole time, weren’t you?”
“Guilty.” Emmie raised an eyebrow and smiled a cat-like grin. “I’ve been judged at first glance all my life, Renn. I’ve learned how to give myself a chance. See who’s even worth making the effort with.” She paused, biting into a honeysuckle she’d picked from the roadside. “What, six, maybe seven folks? Out of fifty-something? Better than usual for me, actually.”
“I’m one of those six-seven, I hope?”
“Nuh-uh.” Emmie clapped him on the back as the group resumed moving. “You’re a party of one. You got no prayer of ducking out on me. Your dad would flay you alive.”
“No need.” She was sharp, Renn admired, watching her grey eyes flickering around. Probably sharper than anyone gave her credit for. He tapped her shoulder and pointed into the forest. “Here’s something new for you. Well, maybe. Know why all the trees around here are younger, thinner stock?”
“These big trees don’t look so young to me.” Emmie peered into the woods, dark and thick with undergrowth. “What’s this, stump the foreign girl?”
“The foreign girl seems a tough stump, but here goes. This stretch of forest is over 300 years old. From before the Divide even, but it’s a baby compared to the deep woods. These woods sprawl far to the north. To an old forest—old and enchanted some say.”
Emmie smiled. Renn had audibly shifted into a storyteller mode. She guessed he was a good one. This was a new side of Renn, and she was eager to see it.
“All these trees are ‘new’ to central Longarvale. Hey, Longarvale is new to central Longarvale. Back in the day, this place was thick with old-growth ‘over-oaks,’ they called them —massive things—and Du-Banyon trees. Du-Banyons are long gone now, but supposedly they could grow as thick around as a house. And the branches—if you can call them branches—grew out long and flat so you could stretch out comfortably on a full-grown one.”
“Oh, you’re talking platform trees,” Emmie exclaimed. “I’ve heard they were incredible. Yah, you could sleep on them comfortably, people say.”
“So much for stump the foreign girl. Are you letting me tell my story or not?”
“Sorry. Thought you’d allow a little audience participation, that’s all.” She swept her arms in an exaggerated bow in his direction. “Continue on, maestro.”
“So. . .” The satisfaction in Renn’s voice warmed Emmie’s heart. “Back before the Divide, when Longarvale was thriving, they planned to build a midway town between Drennich and Longardin here. Maybe not right here, but near north of here anyway. Teams of lumberjacks and roadsmen cut out huge swaths of the old forest. The inhabitants took none too kindly to that. Great-ho
oded Grey Wolves. . . twice the size of normal wolves, at least twice as intelligent. They’re probably still living in the old growth far up north. Well, after they’d been clear-cutting for near a month, the wolves began to attack in organized waves at dusk and pre-dawn. Snatching men from their tents.” Renn grabbed Emmie’s arm, eliciting an ‘eep.’ “Dragging them into the woods like—”
“Whoa. Hold up, Sunshine.” Emmie shook off his grip and glanced into the darkness of the woods. “Great story, yah, but maybe another time? Like, maybe down by the river or by Brie’s fireplace. Better spot for the vicious-wolves-massacre-unsuspecting-travelers-along-the-Longardin-road story then when we’re unsuspecting travelers along the Longardin road?”
“Am I scaring you?” Renn leaned his shoulder into Emmie’s, pushing her steps towards the edge of the woods until low-hanging branches were tickling her hair.
“Yes, you are. Enough anyway.” Emmie pushed back, righting their course to dead center. “Where’d you learn that?”
“I go to the town square, listen to the old guys spinning stories. Sometimes it’s just made-up yarns or they ramble off into nothing. I think it’s fascinating. . .” Renn flushed and turned away. “I know, pretty dumb hobby for a kid.”
“Not dumb at all, Rennwinn. I’d love to hear more.” Emmie meant that. She’d only really known Renn a couple weeks, but it was already obvious to her he felt he did little right. And also obvious to her that was not true. She would enjoy listening, not just for the story but to watch him light up with life. Not even realizing, her smile probably was enough to light the dark woods. “Really, I want to hear you tell the whole story. You hold me to that; that’s a promise.”
Renn was too pleased to even respond.
A monotony of days later, a memory itching at Renn’s subconscious finally crystalized.
“So, this Kelebis?” Renn asked. Emmie blanched, and hugged herself. “He’s not some guy who dropped you off for your dad to find, is he? What are we really doing in the capital?”
The Silver Claw Page 13