“I’m so sorry, Jennelle. Your father had a good heart. We’ll all miss him.”
Jennelle wiped tears from her face. “Blessings, Camette.”
A howl split the air. It was Red, standing near Gasten’s maqal.
Camette’s hands slid off Jennelle. She watched as Malley took Jennelle’s arm in his and walked with her up the platform steps to the command building. The young mender, Sparks, followed them.
Camette clenched her hands when she saw the cut in the back of Jennelle’s green blouse, which was stained red. She remembered the premonition she had when she first met Jennelle, of death and change. Hopefully, Malley would comfort her and use this opportunity to be honest and tell her that he loved her.
Without hesitation, Camette decided to track down and kill whoever had done this. Gasten had been a man of peace, and anyone killing him had to be allied with F’ahbay. She yearned for some way to strike back at F’ahbay. If Jennelle had died too, it would have broken Malley’s spirit. And hers.
She berated herself for not protecting Gasten. But there was no way to have guessed the risk. The commander had just gone out for a routine ride. “Out and back in a day,” he had said to her at breakfast with a smile. He was family and needed to be avenged.
After the maqal were stabled, and the Northerners gone to quarters, she flagged down Tuffs as he crossed the courtyard, headed to his own bunk. Her anger still simmered, but she kept her voice gentle for Tuffs’ sake. “How does homemade bread sound, Tuffs?”
“Much appreciated, Camette.” Tuffs’ shoulders drooped beneath his sweat-stained clothing as he walked with her.
She had often listened to Tuffs and Gasten chatting in the kitchen together. They had been close, like brothers, and she had enjoyed their banter and joking. No more. Tuffs now had to live with a hole in his life, like she did. She grimaced.
After Tuffs sat down at one of the tables, she brought him a plate of warm buns, a jar of honey, and a mug of cool water. She shut the outer door. A single sahr bulb gave them enough light to see each other.
Tuffs drank the water first, and then devoured two buns before he took a deep breath and started talking. “Wyshea attacked us, riding death mounts.” His voice shook and his hand fluttered off the table. “Big black beasts, floating over the ground and jumping over our maqal riders.”
Camette sat back. “Shadows,” she murmured
“Kind of,” said Tuffs. “They sure are hard to kill.”
She hadn’t been around shadows since she had left for the Dead Lands, but she heard they had disappeared a century ago. If they were back, then Beloved was stirring. “You said beasts. More than one?”
“Nearly a score. The wyshea butcher had two.”
She sat still, thinking. F’ahbay might control the shadows now too. In the past, wyshea guides never had more than one shadow. She guessed the wyshea had been corrupted by F’ahbay, and could possibly lead her to him, and to her love, Sontay.
She wanted to leave immediately, but she had to wait until morning in case it took all day. Otherwise the Northerners would come after her, putting themselves at risk. Besides, she had to cook dinner tonight and breakfast in the morning. Everyone fended for themselves at lunch.
“And mists took the dead.” Tuffs’ nose crumpled in distaste. “Wrapped them up and disappeared. Ours and the wysheas’.”
Camette’s stomach boiled and her hands shifted to claws beneath the table. Mageen again. Helping F’ahbay. It sickened her, yet she was no closer to finding F’ahbay or his mageen. Every time she had gone out looking, she had found no sign of either. The mageen, one or more, might even be in the Dead Lands. She couldn’t go back there. It was too desolate, too violent, and too lonely.
“Gasten’s gone.” Tuffs had tears on his face again.
Sighing, she calmed herself enough to bring up a hand and pat his arm. “I’m sorry, Tuffs.”
He sniffled. “Without Jennelle, we’d all be dead.”
For several hours Camette sat with the older man as he grieved for Gasten. Afterward, she walked him to his bunkhouse to retire for the night, giving him a hug at his door. The older man needed comfort.
She barely slept all night. Instead, she lay awake in bed, planning how she would make the wyshea pay. The next morning, right after a hearty breakfast and drinking several gallons of water, she walked the big yellow out of the stalls. The one-horn was half again as big as any maqal.
Northerners stopped what they were doing and stared, curious because she never rode the one-horn. She wanted to wear her armor in the chest too, but that was too risky, and too revealing. F’ahbay would sense her presence if she wore it, and she needed the element of surprise to defeat him. She would have to settle for claws.
Mounting the big yellow, she walked to the main gate behind the morning field workers that were going out to tend the crops. Impatience filled her. Tuffs had given her a general description of the battle site. She was eager to find it.
When she passed through the gate, one of the sentries called to her; “Stay close, Camette, we’d hate to lose your cooking.”
She brushed back her blond hair and smiled. “Don’t fret. I’ll be back in time to cook dinner.”
The guard’s face grew serious. “We’re going to have the ceremony to Dosh and Deve for Gasten and the others this afternoon.”
“Blessings. I’ll be here.” She would have to hurry. She didn’t want to miss the ceremony. Even though she didn’t believe in their gods, she didn’t want Northerners to conclude that she didn’t care about Gasten and the others.
When she reached the distant north woods, and was out of sight of the citadel’s watchtowers, she let the big yellow have her way. The mare greedily galloped in long strides, twenty-foot stretches no two-horn maqal could match. The one-horn was as excited as she was for battle. To find F’ahbay. Three water flasks were hung over the riding blanket, and Camette drank from one as she rode. Thirsting for battle, she felt heat building inside her stomach until her hands were suddenly yellow claws.
When she had ridden an hour, she smelled dried blood on the ground, making her feverish. She tracked the wyshea. Shadows left no signs anyone could follow, but the wounded wyshea had left a faint blood scent hanging in the air. It led her northeast, toward the wyshea homeland.
Maybe she would have to fight a hundred of them. Or a thousand. She clenched her claws. They were F’ahbay’s slaves, she was convinced of it. Sontay and countless others had been ruined by F’ahbay. And now he planned to kill Northerners with wyshea warriors riding shadows. Images of past battles swirled in her as the woods slipped by.
Abruptly, the big yellow stopped.
Camette let the memories fade and peered into the forest. The blood scent had vanished, but among the distant trees emerald figures were moving. The wyshea hadn’t returned to mrilwood. Probably planning their next attack. Bold.
For a few moments she enjoyed their graceful movements, their alertness, and the way their emerald skin blended into the forest. How had F’ahbay corrupted them? Especially since they stood to lose everything to him. Another disappointment. But F’ahbay told lies as pretty as any truth.
She hesitated, hearing a lyrre bird sing, the lilting melody at odds with her emotions. Nearby songbirds added to the melody, a weasel preened its fur beside a tree, and a forest tortoise lumbered along some hundred yards away from her. She wanted to walk away from everything then, the fighting, the bloodlust, and killing, but the thought of Sontay suffering wouldn’t allow it.
Sliding off the big yellow, she ran barefoot, her feet changing to yellow claws too. She moved fast enough so even the wyshea keen senses wouldn’t detect her until too late.
Her features contorted. She knew what they would see. A wild mouth of fangs and a beastly yellow head—half-scales and half-skin. She wanted blood now, almost out of control for it.
Closing on the group, she noted several dozen wyshea eating and whispering softly, with the massive shadows lying alongsid
e them. The creatures were powerful, but she didn’t fear anything. Other wyshea with bonded wolves were scattered throughout the camp. It enraged her that they sat around casually after murdering Gasten and his Northerners, as if they had done nothing wrong.
When she was fifty paces away, the wyshea butcher stepped out from behind a tree to face her, directly in her line of path. Half the butcher’s emerald hair was braided and her jade skin shone. Her male companions hastily joined her and drew their weapons.
Tall for a wyshea, the butcher unwound her thrip but didn’t float it. Confident, and her beautiful face dark with fury.
The stone on the wyshea’s chest startled Camette. Even from a distance she recognized power—the glow of sahr—and Beloved’s influence. It didn’t matter. The wyshea butcher had murdered Gasten and was allied with F’ahbay. Beloved had failed.
On one side of the butcher stood a heavily muscled male, and on her other side was a male with an oval, honest face whose closeness to the butcher told Camette he loved her and was ready to die for her. So be it. They didn’t deserve love when they were taking it from others.
She snarled, the sound wild in her ears. It amazed her when the butcher didn’t show alarm.
Two blurs hit her from opposite sides, one high and one low, knocking her to the ground. She thumped, rolled through leaves and grass, and rose to her knees, sweeping her flashing claws at the shadows’ legs. But the beasts scrambled out of her reach. Their speed surprised her.
Two singing daggers struck her chest as she stood up. She yanked them out and dropped them. She sensed the shadows charging her from behind, and the female wyshea finally looked astonished and leveled her thrip, but didn’t run. Great courage. Neither of the two males beside her showed fear either, but their eyes revealed protectiveness for the female.
Light erupted in Camette’s peripheral vision and the sahr melody increased. She ignored it. Wyshea were throwing blades while she ran forward.
Jumping ten feet off the ground to the right, she avoided the blades and one of the shadows leaping at her back. When her feet hit the tree trunk, she sprang forward to the left, avoiding the second shadow’s jaws. She landed on another tree trunk, and immediately leapt down to the ground, five feet in front of the female wyshea.
The wyshea butcher rolled backward, very fast, rising with her thrip ready. The males crouched near her side, their thrips leveled too.
A dozen shadows stalked Camette from all sides. She would have to kill them all or die trying.
The female wyshea’s gaze slid sideways and the warrior froze.
Camette dug her claws into the soil, ready to spring forward, but bright light made her hesitate. Radiance blossomed around her as hundreds of mril flitted between her and the wyshea butcher, floating in front of Camette’s face and dancing around her raised claws. Her rage dissipated and she suddenly wasn’t clear why she was here.
Shadows leapt, daggers flew, and thrips arced through the air, except for the butcher’s; the female wyshea didn’t move and instead stared wide-eyed at the mril.
Jumping almost straight up, and slightly to the side, Camette avoided all the attacks and landed on a norre trunk, grasping it with her claws. Pushing off, she flung herself from tree to tree, lowering herself slowly along the way until she landed on the ground, a good distance from the wyshea camp. She ran back the way she had come, the howling shadows chasing her.
The beasts soon ended their pursuit, but stared after her until trees hid her. Breathing hard, Camette’s throat felt parched, her belly on fire.
By the time she reached the big yellow, she had to lean against the mare to rest. Her blouse had two cuts and blood on it. She was unsure how she would explain any of it. She would have to hide the clothing or Sparks or one of the other menders would ask questions. At least her wounds were already healed.
Her facial features slipped back to human, and she raised a claw—shifting to a hand—and lifted one of the water flasks off the maqal, draining it in moments. The second went just as fast. Barely enough. But it had to last until she returned to the citadel.
The big yellow twisted to her, as if to say, That’s it?
“I know,” she said. “Stupid.” She mounted the one-horn, which cantered of its own accord in the direction of the citadel far to the southwest.
It had been many centuries since she had witnessed mril acting like this. The wyshea female had Beloved’s blessing and Camette couldn’t ignore it. Mril and Beloved were sworn enemies of F’ahbay. Thus, the wyshea were not F’ahbay’s allies either.
But what did it mean? Beloved’s forces had killed Gasten. Was the goddess turning evil like F’ahbay, killing anyone in her path? Sponsoring the wyshea butcher seemed like an act of desperation, even for Beloved.
Camette shook her head. She had lost control coming here, seeking revenge. It bothered her. Gasten’s death had shaken her. She hadn’t cared deeply about anyone for a long time, except for Sontay. F’ahbay never lost control, and she swore not to do it again.
But regardless of Beloved’s plan, if the wyshea butcher tried to kill Jennelle a second time, Camette would kill her, no matter what the goddess wanted.
She sagged, her yellow hair framing her face. Sontay’s image drifted into her thoughts. Bright, beautiful Sontay. She wanted to roar with loss, but didn’t have the energy. Instead, tears rolled down her cheeks.
10
Harken
Ison waited in the bare room, the stone cool beneath his feet, quietly facing Power Mageen Harken.
Harken wore the same glowing gray robes, and his cropped white hair, trimmed beard, and thinned skin added authority to his stern face and cold gray eyes. He wore sandals.
They had only met once before, a month ago, and Ison had tried to fight Harken without any preparation. Harken had easily defeated him. Ison wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. This time he was ready to kill Harken.
Four walls of glittering stone surrounded Ison, a single solid door in one wall. The door was wide open and the power mageen stood alone in the opening, as if taunting him. Harken didn’t move, his expression emotionless, his robes gleaming.
Ison hated him, but kept his eyes neutral. He could outwait Harken.
The rock of the stone cell sang softly with the melody of sahr. Ison had never heard any wyshea talk about stone containing enough sahr energy to sing its melody. But the cell still felt like death to him. No norre, no green meadows, no running water or lakes, no forest brethren and singing birds, and no dancing mril. He detested all of it.
At first he had been desperate to escape. But after trying many times to transport himself out of the cell by using his sahr, he realized it was impossible. He guessed that the sahr-stone walls blocked him. Thus he had forced himself to be patient, to withstand his sense of loss and wait. Harken would come again.
When younger, he had never hated anyone until slayers had killed his parents. All the mageen he had seen thus far were slayers, so he wanted to kill all of them. Especially Harken.
The power mageen had destroyed his chance to become the wyshea guide. Everything he had planned for and dreamed about had crumbled: showing Darkas his abilities in battle, pledging to Famere, and leading his people. All gone.
Famere’s absence hurt the most. Her love and loyalty had steadied him after his parents had died. He ached when he thought of losing her.
“Do you submit, Ison?”
He bowed slightly, hiding a smile. Harken was weak. He knew it. “Yes.” He began pushing energy through his body and into his hands.
“You swear to follow the rules of the Order?”
“Yes.” He would burn Harken to ash, and then leave this dead place of stone.
“You swear to channel your energy into the power mageen, when called to do so?”
“Yes, beginning now.” He raised his palms and sent two streams of sahr at Harken, enveloping the power mageen’s head with silver flame. He almost shouted in victory.
The power mageen didn�
�t move or utter a sound, surprising Ison, and instead flicked a finger. A ribbon of light speared Ison’s chest, lifting him off his feet and slamming him into the wall behind him. Slumping to the floor, barely conscious, he looked up in disbelief as Harken loomed over him. His sahr hadn’t even singed the power mageen’s white hair.
“This is the second time you’ve lied.” Harken said it without any detectable anger. “It’s time you learned the price.”
When the sahr struck his body, Ison released the first of many screams.
***
Ison sat in the dry stone cell, his back to the wall, the closed iron door in front of him. His eyes flicked to the gray robe lying at his feet. Harken hadn’t visited him for weeks, but his chest still burned where the power mageen had tortured him.
Someone came to his cell daily with food and water. They never spoke to him, slipping the plate of fruit and nuts under the door, which resisted all of his efforts to open it. At least they hadn’t offended him by offering meat.
His memories drifted to his birth parents. He clenched his hands. They had loved him, walked with him in the forest, and taught him to love life. He had been happy. Then one day his father had died in battle and his grieving mother later ran into battle and died too. At the age of thirteen he had found himself alone in the world.
But Darkas had noticed his abilities in warrior training, and quickly chose him as next in line for wyshea guide. And he had fallen in love with Famere. The idea of never seeing her again made him slump.
One thing soured his mouth. At the bonding ceremony, Mereeth had given stone tester to Famere. He burned over that slight. If Mereeth had given him stone tester, the shadows would have chosen him. But Harken might have taken him anyway.
He was certain that if he returned to his people, Famere would pledge to him and give him stone tester. He imagined her shadows choosing him, and what it must be like to ride them.
Speculating on who his people might have chosen as guide while he was absent, only a few names came to mind. Bosho was strongest, but too young. Probably Toash. And they would name Famere the next seer. He ached for her smile, her clear voice, and to hold her and kiss her.
Wyshea Shadows Page 10
