"No."
"Oh. Well. The idea is that the ground is made entirely of hot coals, you see, and you and your friends can't touch it, or you'll be hideously burned to death. So what you do instead is climb between tables and chairs, or trees if you're outside, and—"
"Get to the gods damn point."
"We stop touching the ground. More precisely, the dirt. Walk across rocks wherever possible. We might even cross from tree to tree!"
Rowe didn't seem at all impressed by the idea. "This will work?"
"What the ether is doing here is illuminating the amount of disturbance caused by one's passage. Therefore if we minimize the disturbance we're leaving behind us, the ether will have little to illuminate. Rather than tracks lasting for an hour or more, they may fade after as little as a minute."
Rowe nodded, although his face showed no sign that he understood the mechanism involved. "Get moving."
"Who, me?" Cally flushed before the words were fully out of his mouth. Rowe stared at him like he was openly defecating. "Yes. Me. Right this way."
He took a hasty look around. There wasn't much in the way of bare rock around them, but a hill to their northeast showed gray limestone sticking from the earth like the bones of a decaying giant. Cally walked toward it, trying to keep his steps light. Rowe followed a few paces behind him. Cally didn't dare look over his shoulder at the soldier, and wished very much that he knew how to observe through the eyes of dead insects, as Master Tarriman could.
Except Master Tarriman couldn't do that anymore either, could he? For Cally had watched him die. The thought seemed to drain all the vital humors from Cally's guts, and he continued toward the hill with the stiffness of a zombie. He reached the limestone juts, which were slippery with rain and lichen, and he had no choice but to concentrate on what was before him.
If the ground really had been naught but hot coals, he and Rowe would have been burned to ashes three times over on their course across the hillside, for there were multiple stretches of dirt they had no choice but to walk across. Yet there was more rock than Cally had hoped, and sometimes the trees were charitable enough to extend branches that the two of them could swing across from one patch of stone to the next.
They descended the hill's other side, returning to flat ground. The trees were too tall to see past and Cally stopped, uncertain.
Rowe cocked his head. "Toward the stream."
"Why?"
Rowe looked away in disgust.
"It's going to make it a lot harder for me to help us if I don't know why we're doing what we're doing," Cally said.
"Do you leave tracks in water?"
"Well, no."
Rowe was already striding forward. Cally hadn't even known there was a stream—if it was making any noise, it sounded indistinguishable from the rain that was still pattering across the leaves—but they were upon it within a hundred feet. The waters looked clear and shallow, with rocks sticking from the surface all over the place. The white prows of water breaking from the rocks suggested the current was formidable.
Rowe looked upstream and down, then waded in until the water neared his knees. He turned parallel to the shore and headed downstream. Cally's boots were oiled, but oil wasn't magic, and water soon seeped inside, heavying his socks. He gazed at Rowe's back, then thought better of complaining.
They continued for close to half a mile before Rowe wordlessly cut across the stream toward the left bank. Cally slogged after him, the current ripping at his thighs. He didn't dare lose his footing. Rowe came to the other side, where a pile of tightly-packed boulders ran up the bank away from the stream. He climbed out and stood on one of the rocks, waiting.
Cally took his time, ensuring his footing among the clattering pebbles of the bed. At last, he climbed ashore, dripping everywhere. "That's quite a current! I wonder if—"
Rowe flipped his bow off his shoulder, nocked an arrow, and aimed it at Cally.
"Oh, not this again."
"It's not," Rowe said. "This time, I'm giving you the choice to walk away."
"But why?"
"Don't need you."
This seemed true, but was it true? Cally glanced up into the boughs of the trees. "Where will you go from here?"
"Not here."
"But which way?"
"North," Rowe grunted. "Norren lands."
"Then the Lannovians will catch you. There's a canyon north of here that runs east to west. Impossible to cross."
The soldier narrowed one eye. "Suddenly you're a woodsman."
"Not at all. But I was born not far from here. I still remember some of it."
"How much is some?"
Cally's heart beat faster. "More than you know, I would say."
The way Rowe was staring at him made it impossible to believe anything but that the soldier was seriously thinking about killing him.
Rowe swore. "Lead on."
"Happily."
Once more, Cally took to the fore, climbing from one boulder to the next. Would the gods punish him for only sort of telling a lie? There was a canyon not far to the north, but he couldn't remember at all if it was directly north of them, let alone if there were no bridges or the like across it. All he could remember was that after his father had made the last of his trades at the Bowl of Seasons, he shook Cally awake before dawn the next day and started down the trail.
Cally had been too tired to notice at first, but when the sun began to light the eastern sky, there was no mistaking it: they were headed north, away from home. But when he asked why, his father told him to be quiet and hurry up.
He did both. The sun's red rim poked above the eastern peaks. It marched upward as relentlessly as they marched onward until it stood halfway to noon and they stood on the brink of a sheer cliff.
The ledge had appeared from the trees as if from nowhere, and Cally squeaked and fell down to stop himself from tumbling into it.
His father laughed and picked him up. "I wasn't going to let you get any closer. Now look."
The canyon stretched on to east and west, a thin river shining at its bottom. The rock on the opposite wall was made of many layers, like the striations and fatty marbling of a cut of beef. Rather than being stacked horizontally, these layers lay at a hard slant.
"This is Simm's Furrow," his father said. "They say that many years ago, Simm brought a flask of rum out with him when he was plowing his fields. But the drink and the sun made him fall asleep, and so the oxen went on plowing back and forth across the same rut, deeper and deeper with each pass. When Simm woke the next morning, he found himself at the bottom of a great canyon. Can you believe that?"
The rift was so deep and sheer that Cally could very much believe it. He gazed at it in awe. After a few minutes, his dad patted him on the shoulder.
"Come on then, it's a long trip home. Don't tell your mother I brought you here."
Cally cocked his head. "Why wouldn't she want me to see the canyon?"
"She'd think it a waste of time. Maybe it is, eh? Just a hole in the ground. But I know you're a curious boy, and would want to see it."
But there had been something sad in his voice, hadn't there? Had he known already that he would soon have to send Cally away, and had wanted to show his son one last wonder before that day came? Cally liked to think so. But there was no telling now, for time had long ago claimed the answers for itself.
The ground leveled out, bringing the trail of boulders to an end. Cally couldn't see any more rocks to take, but he figured if they hadn't lost the Lannovians by then, they never would, and silently declared their game of Hot Bed o' Coals to be at an end. He guided them northeast, seeking high ground where he could get the lay of the land, but he didn't see any hint of Simm's Furrow.
The rain came and went. The day waned. Cally thought that the fall of night would bring an end to their travels, and save him (at least for the moment) from revealing that he didn't really know where they were going after all, but Rowe kept going even after full darkness claimed the fo
rest. Cally wished very badly to ask how long he meant to keep going but didn't dare.
On they walked. Cally did his best not to trip over roots and rocks, but the third time an unseen hand seemed to reach up and grab his toes, he brought the ether to him—just enough to see by, for his command was getting shaky.
Rowe walked up to him and slapped him so hard he fell to the ground.
"No light," Rowe said. "On your feet."
Cally stood and carried on, pressing his hand to his cheek. It stung—the man was very strong, and he hadn't held back—but long after the pain had run its course, Cally remained bothered that Rowe hadn't even told him why they weren't to have any lights. He supposed the man was still worried about being hunted by the Lannovians, but it was as if he thought Cally was too stupid to do anything but obey.
They walked for another two hours, neither of them saying a word. At last, Rowe called for a halt.
"Get your sleep while you can," Rowe said. "I'm on first watch."
He seated himself. Cally glanced about. They were in a bit of grass under some trees and he had expected that Rowe would construct a shelter of some kind but it was obvious there would be no such thing. He tramped down a portion of grass and curled up, folding his arms beneath his head. His feet were still damp from the stream, and the ground was hard. Before leaving Narashtovik, he would never have imagined he could fall asleep in such conditions.
Yet his belief turned out to be very wrong, for he fell asleep in a matter of moments.
It felt like just a few more minutes had passed before the toe of Rowe's boot rocked him awake. Blearily, he stood as Rowe slung himself into the grass. Rowe had been asleep for some time before Cally realized it; somehow, the soldier had trained himself not to snore.
Cally wandered just far enough into the trees that he could no longer see Rowe. It was only then, at last, that he cried. He cried for the loss of the Masters, his people, and his friends, slaughtered for reasons he didn't understand at all.
Yet the well of his despair ran deeper than that. Though he was closer to the land of his birth than he'd been in nearly a decade, he was very, very far from the place that had come to be his home. For the first time since crossing those long miles between Arrolore and Narashtovik, he felt alone.
7
A boot nudged his side. It was still dark out. Cally had been dreaming of the lively banter of the traders and travelers in the Bowl of Seasons and for one happy moment he was certain his father was about to lift him up and bring him to see Simm's Furrow.
A tall, lean figure stood over him. Even in the darkness, there was no missing Rowe's scowl. Cally cringed away.
"What are you doing?" the soldier grunted.
"You're about to hit me!"
"I should. You fell asleep." Rowe turned his head to the side. "I overslept, too. Get up."
Cally had leaned himself against a rock to prevent himself from nodding off. This had failed, but it had succeeded in leaving his back very sore. He gathered a dollop of nether to himself and sent it into his muscles, washing the stiffness from them. It was one of the very first talents he had been taught, but it remained one of his most commonly used.
He looked up. "Are you sore?"
"I'm fine."
"If you are, I have a means of dispelling it from—"
"I'm leaving in five minutes. If you're not ready, good luck out there."
Cally put a socially acceptable amount of trees between them, then emptied his bladder. He returned to the camp site, if you could call it that, and was about to ask about breakfast, but then he remembered they didn't have any. This thought was mildly upsetting, but it reminded him of something far more troubling, and he turned to face the way they'd come in, as if expecting to see the answers there.
"What?" Rowe said.
He was going to shrug it off, then he blurted out the words. "Why did they do that?"
"Kill all of you?"
Not trusting his voice, Cally nodded.
Rowe looked down on him. "You don't know?"
"I forgot to ask them as I was fleeing for my life."
"No need to ask." Rowe eyed the sky, perhaps for hints of dawn. "Doesn't matter. Let's go." He started off, heading northeast as Cally had led them the night before.
Cally hurried after him. "Well why did they do it? Did someone pay them off? The Mallish? The Gaskans?"
"No."
"You can't know that."
Rowe didn't bother to answer.
"Then how do you know that?"
"Think like a killer."
"If I was a killer, I'd do exactly what they did. Bring us out to the middle of nowhere, then murder everyone. Make sure there was nobody around to see it."
Rowe chuckled and spat. "You would never get away with it."
"What, because the two of us got away? They weren't counting on that."
"Not talking about us."
Cally scowled and tripped over a rock, which only worsened his mood. Yet the jolt seemed to jar something loose from his mind. "You're talking about the people of Tantonnen. The baron and such."
"So you're not quite as stupid as you act."
"They saw us come through. And when we don't come back, and they learn there was a massacre, they'll know at once who did it." Cally squinted. "But what if the Lannovians paid them off?"
"First rule of conspiracy is simple: involve as few people as possible. Scores of people saw us in Tantonnen. Hundreds more heard we were there. Someone comes around asking questions, that's hundreds of points of failure."
"All right then, what's your answer? They just started killing people by accident, but once they had the ball rolling, they thought they might as well go all the way?"
"If they came here meaning to kill us, they would have ambushed us in the wilds. Paid the norren to do it. Or just made it look like norren's work and let the clans take the blame."
"But they did kill us! We know that that is something that happened!" Cally jerked back his head like he'd just walked into a branch. "You think that wasn't their original intent? It was only something they decided after we arrived. Then what changed?"
Rowe glanced back at him. "If your eyes are that worthless, suppose it would still hurt if I gouged them out?"
"Pardon me for not understanding how the mind of a murderer works!"
"That's exactly what you should know. Priests and sorcerers, of all people, should be taught the means and motives of power. Now either make use of your dullened eyes, or shut your yammering mouth."
Cally clenched his jaw, swearing internally, though only mildly in case the gods could still hear him thinking it. But his curiosity soon proved stronger than his sense of affrontery. So Rowe had seen something out of place. Something significant enough to provoke the Lannovians—people the Order had thought of as allies—into slaughtering them. When?
Cally's mouth, tensed moments earlier, swung open. "You knew! You could tell something was wrong. That's why you left—to try to save Master Tarriman before they killed him!"
Rowe didn't look back. He walked onward as if he hadn't heard Cally at all.
"Couldn't find him," he said at last. "Not in time."
"It was when Master Tarriman told them that we'd scoured the wights from the Citadel, wasn't it? They were so shocked. We all were. But it's like when they heard that…it broke something in them. But why would they want to kill us for that?"
Even to his own ears, his voice sounded plaintive.
Rowe shook his head. "Don't know."
"When they led Tarriman away—was that so they could take Merriwen's tome from him? The one he used to get rid of the wights?"
"That's where my money would be."
"But again, why? Why would that be so important to them?"
"That's for sorcerers to figure out. And I am no sorcerer."
Cally lowered his head, which was suddenly as full of thoughts as a fish pen was of fish. "So why aren't you trying to get the tome back from them?"
"
Why don't you go back for it? It's your Order."
"Well, because. Because…I am only one person. And they are a great deal of people, many of whom are happy and willing to pervert the nether to use it to slay their fellow humans."
Rowe broke his long-legged pace to regard Cally with such disgust that he felt an overwhelming urge to tuck himself beneath the nearest rock. "And?"
"And so logically, we should go back to Narashtovik so that we can inform the rest of the Order what happened, allowing them to return with a mighty force."
"No point. Book will be long gone by then. That would give them enough time to copy the damn thing."
"Then what's your solution?"
"You want to stop them from doing whatever they're doing, you have to go back for the book yourself. Right now."
"What, just the two of us? But we could be killed!"
"Always a possibility when dealing with murderers."
"But I mean there's a good chance we'll be killed. Or should I say a bad chance. Whatever it is, it's very much of it. If we tried this ourselves, we'd almost certainly die."
Rowe looked like he was about to start sweating contempt from his pores. "That's what every soldier faces every time he steps on the field. There are bad people out there. You don't get to stop them without facing the risk of them stopping you."
"But I'm not even a soldier. I'm just an apprentice. I can't even—"
"Shut up and make your choice."
"Even if we wanted to, how would we do it?"
"I said choose!"
Rowe sounded ready to slap him again. Cally blinked and swung his head away, looking south, toward the now-distant Bowl of Seasons. It was still dark and there was a chill in the air that he only noticed now that they'd stopped walking. It felt insane to go back there. At the end of the attack, their bodies had lain in heaps. People he'd known for years. The closest thing he had to family. Nearly every one of them had been far more capable and strong than he was. None of them had been able to save themselves.
He turned to Rowe to tell him that they had to return to Narashtovik. In the darkness, the man looked like a wraith, withered down to sinew and bone, but whose thirst for vengeance remained stronger than the steel he carried. Cally felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck.
The Sealed Citadel Page 7
