by Terry Brooks
He walked to the cottage door and passed through. His life here was over. All the members of his family were gone now save the one. To wipe the slate clean and settle his mind, to give himself a measure of peace from his torment, and to find the quiet that his world so desperately required, he must end her life, too. He must find her and face her and destroy her.
His little sister.
Tarsha.
Suddenly it was easy to speak her name. It would be easier still when she was dead.
—
He walked away from the cabin toward the houses of his family’s neighbors and down the road leading away from the village of Backing Fell. It had helped him achieve his retribution that his home was set so far distant from others. It was a fact that had worked in his parents’ favor after his magic had manifested, when they were still hopeful of finding ways to keep him from shaming them. While neither of them had the gift, and his sister suffered no obvious torment from bearing it, he was the embarrassment they could not afford to reveal. His bouts of sickness were constantly surfacing in unpleasant ways, and they did not like it when that happened. He was never sure exactly why this bothered them, but they were very determined to keep his condition a secret from everyone outside the family—and believed their remote location helped with that.
It didn’t, of course. Not for long. Others found out quickly enough that he was not like them. Now and then, some of them would test him in unpleasant and invasive ways. He was forced to do what any boy would do and fight back. But his control over his gift was limited, and frequently his response to his attackers was severe. He left a handful of them permanent victims of night terrors that would never leave them in peace. He even killed one, but he had been smart enough to carry the body deep into the woods and bury it where it would never be found. There were suspicions, of course, but no one could ever prove it was his fault.
Only Tarsha had ever seemed able to quiet his demons, sometimes using her own magic to do so, singing to him in ways that only she could, her clear sweet voice attuned to his suffering, offering him healing. But the healing lasted only for the moment and never for good. She could not do more, as much as she claimed she wanted to. Yet even though she had her limits, when he needed her she was always there. It was a battle she could not win. His magic was harsh and cutting. It was debilitating. It stripped him of all sense of self and bore him into such darkness that each time it felt as if this was the last and he would not find a way out again.
Until even she had run from him. Even she had fled him, abandoned him, betrayed him, and left him to his suffering and his demons.
Tears ran from his eyes. Tarsha!
Ahead, on the roadway, a figure appeared. Big and shambling, heavy-headed with his shaggy hair and beard, a giant with his great powerful arms and massive shoulders—there was no mistaking Squit Malk. He slowed involuntarily as the other approached. Malk was another of his childhood tormentors, one of the worst. One who had survived his reprisals by being able to shake off the effects of his magic.
Malk saw him approaching and did not change direction. He kept coming, and in his insistence the boy saw his own demons gathering once more, intent on bearing him away.
“Tavo!” the other boomed. “Tavo Kaynin!”
He stopped where he was, feeling anger and hatred stir.
“Where are you headed, boy?” Squit Malk demanded. “Shouldn’t be out alone like this, should you? I thought you were locked away on your uncle’s farm. How’d you get out of your cage? Other animals throw you out, maybe?” He glanced around. “Where’s that snippy sister of yours, the one who keeps you on a leash? Did the smart thing, I heard. Run off and left her brainless brother behind.”
The boy shook his head. He didn’t like talking. Especially to people he distrusted and even more to people he despised.
“Is that blood on you? There, on your face and arms? That looks like blood to me.”
The boy said nothing.
“Humph, still voiceless, are you? Or pretending at it, at least. I’ve waited five years for this. I should have squashed you the last time we met up, but you tricked me. I think maybe this time things might be different.”
The boy’s lips tightened further.
You better not try to find out.
“I think maybe you realize what you’re up against. Why not take your beating and get it over with? Wouldn’t be so hard for a voiceless freak like you to put up with, would it? Come on; let’s get it done. You’re all alone out here, sisterless and parentless, and there’s no one within shouting distance.”
The boy straightened slightly.
Which should concern you, not me.
“Hey, say something! Go on, say something! Use that voice you think’s so powerful and see what good it does you. Go on! Don’t just stand there like a stump.”
But Tavo kept silent. He had done what he had come back to do and was on his way out. He wanted Tarsha, not this creature. Time mattered, although he couldn’t have said why. He needed to get things done, and Squit Malk was making it difficult.
“Guess I’ll just have to beat it out of you,” the other growled. “You really shouldn’t have come back. You should have known I’d be waiting.”
He started forward, fists bunching, shoulders rolling as if he meant to charge. Tavo waited, resigned to what was going to happen.
But suddenly a cart appeared on the path behind Malk, wheels creaking, pulled by a mule and driven by an old woman. “Hey, now!” she called out sharply. “You there, big timber! You leave that other boy alone!”
Malk turned in shock. He couldn’t believe anyone was talking to him like that, least of all an old woman. His first reaction was to take a few steps toward her, thinking certainly that to bash her head in would silence her quick enough. But the old woman brought up a wicked-looking scythe from beneath her seat and stood waiting on him, looking very much as if she was ready to defend herself.
Malk stopped and turned back to Tavo. “This will wait. Another time, another place will do for you.”
Still Tavo said nothing. He just stood there in silence as Malk trudged past him, heading toward Backing Fell. He watched the other until he was out of sight and then turned to the old lady.
“What’s your name, boy?” she asked at once.
He surprised himself. “Tavo.”
“Well, Tavo, you come from Backing Fell?”
He nodded.
“Know some people named Kaynin?”
The boy froze. Some part of him recognized that saying anything at this point was dangerous. “I think they moved,” he said finally.
The old lady made a dismissive sound. “Odd, since they just placed an order with me for plants and bulbs for a garden. I hauled them all the way here from Yarrow. You sure about them moving?”
He shuffled his feet. “I’ve got to go.”
He started past her on the path, trying not to look her in the eye. If he did, she would see the truth. They saw the truth when he lied. It was in his eyes or on his face or somewhere, but it was always there. He waited for her to ask him, to call him out, to make it clear she knew. But she only shook her head and gave him a shrug.
He was just past her when he remembered she’d helped him. He turned back. “Thanks for standing up for me,” he said, eyes downcast as he spoke, already turning away again.
“You watch your back,” the old woman called after him. “He’s the type doesn’t forget. You be careful.”
He waved to her in response and kept walking.
—
That night he slept out in the open in a hay field with great, circular bales gathered and tied with twine and left to season. The weather this time of the year was warm and dry, and even a light rain would cause no problems for the hay. These bundles looked new. Probably the farmer thought to collect and haul them off to market by week’s end, but tonight they gave Tavo something to curl up against.
By now, Fluken had joined him, as he knew he would. Fluken appeared
just after he stopped by the hay bale, seemingly coming out of nowhere as he always did, a little late, but welcome nevertheless. Fluken was loyal, where too many others were not. It didn’t matter that he seldom talked. Tavo always knew what he was thinking anyway, because the two of them were so much alike. Close friends didn’t need to talk. They only needed to be there for each other.
Together they lay down. Tavo was wrapped in his travel cloak, wearing nothing underneath. He had removed his clothes and washed out the blood in a creek he had crossed earlier. He would have been content to leave them soiled, a sort of badge for what he had accomplished, a statement of his independence and his retribution, but he knew they would draw attention. Blood always drew attention. He didn’t want that. He wanted to be invisible until the very moment he confronted Tarsha.
While his clothes dried, draped over the hay bale he was lying beside, he looked up at the stars and fought to keep from falling asleep. Sleeping was not a pleasant experience for him. He was haunted by dreams, terrible visions brought to life by the curse he carried within him, black nightmares that would not leave him alone. His dreams were warped and twisted things, stark reimaginings of how he had been forced to give way to his demons and use his magic to save himself. All of the deaths and injuries he had caused were brought back to him in new and terrifying ways. It was like being torn apart from within, and no amount of self-reassurance would free him from their relentless grasp.
But when he fixed his gaze on the stars, he could escape his dreams and his inner demons. He could imagine other worlds and other lives, and he could think himself into those worlds and lives and make them seem real. It never lasted, but even a few brief moments provided some relief. He could never use his magic to aid in this, of course. Not in the way that Tarsha could. Her magic was dependable and safe. It allowed her to create without worrying that whatever she conjured would end up broken and lifeless. She could sing anything to life, could make it be so pleasing that anyone would feel comforted.
He could not do that. He could not conjure anything that would not in the end become terrifying. He had tried. Over and over. But his efforts always seemed to turn back on themselves, violent and frightening parodies of what he intended. So he no longer tried to do what Tarsha did so easily. He no longer attempted things he hoped would please people but only caused them to look at him in disgust and horror. He kept his magic a secret, tucked carefully away. He had not summoned it for almost a year. He had not used it even once.
Until his uncle had come for him one too many times.
Until he had returned home and his sister was gone.
Until he knew there was no hope for him.
He was still thinking of this when his eyes closed and sleep claimed him. It was not a kind and gentle sleep, for sleep of that sort had never been his. Sleep for him was familiar enough, but not in a good way. The nightmares came swiftly, snippets of all the incidents that his magic had generated, all the people who had paid the price. And now, too, images of Tarsha slipping away from Backing Fell, disappearing into the shadows, a sly and cautious figure distancing herself from a brother whose very presence she found impossible to tolerate. He was standing there as she left, close enough that she could see him as clearly as he could see her.
“Goodbye, little brother,” she was saying as she turned to him. “Find your own way in this world, and I will find mine. But we cannot go together. You are not like me and never will be. You must go alone.”
He grappled for her, but she twisted out of his grip, laughing as she did so. Laughing as if she had never seen anything so funny as her brother trying to hold her back.
He woke an instant later, grappling not with her but with someone else altogether.
“Hold still, little man!” a voice hissed in his ear. “I will only break a few of your worthless bones! A few to make up for your disrespect!”
He was in the grip of Squit Malk, who had somehow tracked him down and was grappling with him, intent on delivering the beating he had promised earlier. He tried to say something, but tape bound his mouth so tightly he could not speak. And if he could not speak, he could not use his magic to defend himself.
Fluken had disappeared. There was no help to be found there.
A ringing blow to the side of his head momentarily stilled his struggling. “Better now, isn’t it?” Malk continued, groping for purchase. “Perhaps there is a better use for a pretty boy like you. Your beating could wait an hour or so, don’t you think?”
Tavo only struggled harder, fighting to break free, desperate to escape. He felt his fear growing as his efforts grew weaker. He was no match for the other, lacking strength and skill both. His magic would not come, although he grunted and groaned through the tape.
Malk had ripped open his cloak and was bearing him facedown on the grassy earth. He could smell the soil and the greenery; he could feel its roughness against his face. Roughness. Stones and hardpan dry from lack of rain. He felt a twinge of hope. He rubbed his mouth hard against it, trying to loosen the tape. He ignored the pain as his skin was scraped and torn. He ignored what was happening on top as Malk bore down.
The taped loosened enough on one side of his mouth to let his voice take shape and form, enough to release a tiny shred of the magic fighting to break free.
The force of its escape ripped the rest of the tape free and threw him backward with such force that he dislodged Malk entirely. Tumbling away in a tangle of arms and legs and clothes, he scrambled to his feet, searching wildly for his attacker.
He found him at once, tossed aside like a sack of feed, cursing and shouting and trying to get to his feet. Tavo let him rise, gave him the space and time to do so, consumed by a red haze of ungovernable rage and bloodlust. He was no longer remotely rational. This could end only one way, and he had the power to make that happen.
“Tavo!” Malk howled as he saw him standing there, waiting.
It was a plea more than a cry. It was rooted in what he saw in the other’s eyes. He would have run, but there was no time left. There was only time for one last breath.
Tavo Kaynin’s magic burst free in a white-hot explosion of sound that ripped into Squit Malk with the destructive force of a thousand razor-sharp shards. His skin tore away from his body, flesh disintegrating like a sand castle caught in a heavy wind. The bones, ligaments, muscles, and soft organs went last, pulped into a gelatinous mass of tissue. Then that was gone, too, liquid sinking into the parched earth.
Where Squit Malk had stood only seconds earlier, nothing remained but tiny particles floating on the air like ash.
Tavo went silent again, the force of his magic spent, its power dissipated. The red haze faded, and the night turned silent and dark once more. The stars shone brightly overhead in the cloudless sky, and the field in which he stood was dotted with hay bales and grasses and smelled of death.
Fluken reappeared. He was smiling. He stood next to his friend, amazed at what he had done.
Tavo smiled back, satisfied with what he had achieved.
Hungry suddenly to discover if he could do more.
FOURTEEN
The black mood of the trio that set out for the Northland to fulfill the charge given them by High Druid Ober Balronen was a perfect match for the weather that approached from the west.
Darcon Leah stared at the skies and then the horizons and frowned.
Why should I have expected anything else?
The day was cloudy and threatening. Winds swept across the country through which they flew, sudden gusts sending unsecured objects—wagons, furniture, farm implements, and small animals—scattering in all directions. Heavy clouds surged into view, a forewarning of an approaching storm that promised steady rains by nightfall. Colors were leached from the countryside by the storm’s dark shadow, and even the heavy warship that bore them north bounced and rocked as the winds caught it broadside and twisted it about like a toy.
Dar was at the helm, the position ceded him because, like all of the Leah
s in the past several hundred years, he had been raised with airships. If there was something to know of flying, no matter how obscure or trivial, the Leahs knew it. Dar had grown up with his family’s air transport business, a fully engaged member of a shipping company that had suffered its ups and downs over more than three hundred years but had come through largely unscathed. Not until he had answered a summons from Drisker Arc and chosen to accept the position of Blade had he even considered leaving a life of flying.
And in truth, he hadn’t left it altogether in any case. On most of his assignments with members of the Druid order he was expected to act as pilot. He had kept his hand in through these experiences, always remembering what his father had taught him about airships. He could still recite the words verbatim.
They’ll always do the best they can for you, but they’ll do better if you’re the one at the helm.
He liked being in control, in any case. It gave him a sense of well-being to know that his life and health did not depend on others. That he protected those who accompanied him was just an extension of that responsibility. He knew he was best equipped to keep them safe, not necessarily the most talented or skilled, but by far the most experienced. He had worked hard to succeed at what he did, and his pride and confidence in himself were important to him.
Which made traveling with Ruis Quince a problem.
Ruis did not much like him anyway. How could you blame him? They were men of decidedly different personalities, the Blade driven to resolve life’s challenges by action, the Druid by reasoning. Placed together, they tended to move in different directions. Their present circumstances were equally troubling. Dar had been Zia’s lover first, and there were clear indications that Zia still favored him. Ruis was no fool; he would have picked up on this. But it went beyond that. Ruis Quince was mindful of competition, no matter its source. His view of Dar was very much colored by his belief that Balronen favored the highlander over him. This was misdirected, in Dar’s estimation, because any favoring of Dar was heavily influenced by his position as Blade and his very real responsibility for the safety of the High Druid. Had he chosen to think this through, Ruis might have realized as much. But Quince had a tendency to see what he wanted to see, and nothing he chose to see in this case favored the Blade.
