by JA Andrews
He opened up to them and a mixture of envy and loathing filled his chest.
“Come to tell us a story, did you?” one of the old men asked quietly. His hair was white and his back bowed beneath his grey tunic.
“He came to offer us that fine horse,” another said, “because he doesn’t want his elders to walk for a fortnight while he rides up and down the line, whenever he pleases.”
“I…” Will stopped, searching for a response.
“Move past, fetter bait,” a sharp voice called from past them. A small Roven woman moved through the crowd toward them, her face furious. “The Torch may want your company, but the rest of us do not.”
Will bowed his head slightly to the Roven woman, and again to the slaves. He turned Shadow toward the front of the caravan, an odd mix of insult and embarrassment washing over him.
He finally caught a glimpse of Hal and trotted towards him, relieved until Sora rode up as well. Hal greeted him enthusiastically. Sora gave him her usual scowl.
“The Torch ordered you to walk with him,” she told Will.
“Ordered me?”
“His exact word was invite, but I thought I’d translate it for you. Because you don’t seem very bright.”
Hal laughed. “He seems bright enough to me.”
“He comes to a Roven clan as a foreigner”—Sora’s gaze dug into Will—“and then spins stories and lies.”
“Sora doesn’t like stories,” Hal explained.
“You don’t like stories? Everyone likes stories of some kind or another.”
She just looked at him, her face set.
“Did you like the story I told last night? About Tomkin and the dragon?” He hadn’t bothered to read Sora after the story ended. Killien had been entertained, Hal and the crowd had loved it.
“You stretched the tale and molded it to manipulate the crowd,” she said. “Every word was chosen to do something. Every word was a lie.”
A thin claw of fear squeezed Will’s chest. The lie part was wrong, but not the rest. He had judged every word, every line, weighing it against the audience, drawing out the parts that pleased the Roven, softening the parts that would feel foreign to them.
He opened his mouth to answer her, to find some sort of defense for it, but Hal spoke first.
“That’s the point of a storyman, Sora. If we wanted to hear something boring, we’d ask about your last hunt.”
She turned and trotted ahead. “It’s not bright to keep the Torch waiting.”
Will nudged Shadow to follow her. “This is the second morning you’ve come to find me. Should I start expecting it? I could have a cup of saso ready for you.”
She shot him another glare, the hundredth he’d received that morning. “Unless you don’t drink saso.” His voice sounded snippier than he’d intended. “Then we could have tea. I know of a red tea from Baylon that would be perfect for you. It’s bitter and disagrees with almost everyone.”
That earned him the slightest uptick of the very edge of her mouth. She turned into the caravan and led him past dozens of rangers.
The Torch came into view, walking alongside his small fiery-haired wife. Will straightened, looking for any sign of Ilsa. Lilit caught sight of Sora and Will, and her expression sharpened.
“I’ve brought you your liar,” Sora announced.
Killien turned with a raised eyebrow.
Will flung a glare at her. “They’re stories. Not lies.”
Sora didn’t bother to look away from the Torch. “I ride west today.” Without waiting for acknowledgement, she rode into the grass.
Lilit whispered something to the Torch that ended with a harsh “fett”. Sending a cutting glare toward Will, she walked away.
Killien mounted his horse and glanced back toward her. “I didn’t introduce you last night, but that is Lilit, my wife. Flame of the Morrow Clan.” He worried his thumb across his lips, watching her walk away, and the burning stones in the rings on his fingers glinted in the morning light. “Carrying our first child. The healers assure me that the child will not come until we reach the rifts.”
Lilit walked back to a wagon covered with a tall canopy of undyed wool, colored silks draping the front and back to make fluttering doorways. A hand reached through the silks to help her climb in and Will’s breath caught at a glimpse of brown hair. Both disappeared into the wagon.
“Flame?”
“A Torch is not much use without a Flame.” Killien squinted back towards her. “She’s not happy that I invited you along. I’m expecting you to be so entertaining she changes her mind.”
“I could ride with her,” Will offered, a little quicker than he’d intended, “tell stories to pass the time.”
“That’s a terrible idea. Last night she called you a danger to the clan. Thought I should kill you in your sleep. I pointed out that you were a protected guest, she said you weren’t her guest, and if she killed me in my sleep, she’d be free to kill you.” Killien smiled, but it was a bit strained. “The best thing you can do is stay away from her. Your new goal here is not to entertain the clan, it’s to convince my wife to like you. So she stops being mad at me.”
The curtains shifted at the front of Lilit’s wagon and Will caught a glimpse of movement inside. “I’ll do my very best.”
“Lilit will come around,” Killien said, pulling Will’s attention away from the slaves. He did not sound entirely hopeful, “But Sora was right, it’s your familiarity with lies I’m interested in.”
Will threw up his hands. “A story is very different from a lie.”
“Is a rumor? My rangers have found rumors of frost goblins as far west as they’ve traveled. But since you have been quite a bit farther, I was wondering how far west the rumors went.”
“Rumors of frost goblins was the only thing I heard agreed on in every city along the entire coast. They’re talking about them in Bermea just as much as here.”
Killien blew out a long breath. “That’s not the answer I was hoping for.”
They topped a small rise and the emptiness of the Sweep felt like a facade. The serpent’s wake slithered over the hills ahead of them, dipping into countless unseen valleys. There could be hidden ravines everywhere, full of frost goblins. The earth beneath them could be riddled with warrens.
“Frost goblins aren’t a threat to a caravan of this size, are they?”
Killien didn’t answer right away. “It’s been generations since anyone’s seen hives large enough to attack a clan.”
“What do they want?”
“Meat and metal. They are especially drawn to silver and gold, but they also gouge out nails, hinges, any metal they find. And they eat raw meat. They’ll rip chunks of meat off an animal and leave the rest to rot.”
“Do they—” Will hesitated. “—eat people?”
“They seem to prefer animals.”
The empty expanse of the sky settled down heavily over the grass, the wind rippled across one hill and spread onto the next, jostling against them constantly.
“They dislike heat. Usually the spring weather drives them into the mountains, which is why we have heatstones. If you bring a stone near a fire, it’ll give off tremendous heat for an hour or two.”
Killien turned and gave instructions to a nearby ranger, who rode off down the line.
Pairs of riders cantered out from the main caravan, taking up positions on a perimeter around the main group. Killien gave the riders a brief glance before turning back to Will. “Yesterday you mentioned you’d been to three other clans. How does a storyman from Gulfind end up so well-traveled through the Roven Sweep?”
“I didn’t intend to be.” When he’d first stepped foot on the Sweep, following rumors of a gathering war, he’d thought it would be easy to confirm or refute. How hard could it be to find a single holy man proclaiming that Mallon the Rivor still lived and calling warriors to his banner? He thought he’d find the old man, figure out whether the Roven were amassing an army, and get back to Queensland wit
hin a fortnight. “I was chasing a story, actually. Following rumors of an elderly fellow who claimed a dead man had sent him on a mission.” Which was true, from a certain point of view.
“Did you find him?”
“It took a while.” A long while. Weeks and weeks of following rumors about the man. “And when I found him, he was a complete disappointment.” The old man had been so ridiculous. Will had finally caught up to him in the summer valleys of the Boan Clan and instantly dismissed any rumors he’d heard of the man actually gathering an army. “He was just a doddering old man giving foolish speeches that no one listened to.
“But by then it was late in the fall, and the clans were heading south, so I followed and got caught up learning Roven stories.” Especially Roven rumors about wayfarers and whether or not they sold foreign slaves on the Sweep. “It’s taken months to work my way east again. I planned to go back to Gulfind before I met you.” He kept himself from glancing back at Lilit’s wagon. “And your offer was too interesting to refuse.”
Killien studied him before nodding slowly. “All my books are in crates, sealed against the weather. But the ones you saw in my house are in a red oilcloth sack at the back corner of the book wagon. I’ve left them available for you.”
Will sat straighter in surprise. “Thank you.” The long trip north suddenly felt a bit less grim.
“There is also paper,” Killien continued. “Write stories for me that I don’t know and we can discuss them as we ride.”
Will gave him a bow of acknowledgement.
“Everything you know about Queensland.”
Will’s bow stuttered before he recovered.
“And don’t wander far from the front of the caravan. These are my rangers and won’t trouble you. Everyone else in the clan knows the storyman from Gulfind is my guest, but accidents happen to foreigners on the Sweep.” He glanced at Will’s shirt. “Stay dressed like a storyman. And stay close to me.”
Behind them, the line of the Morrow stretched back over the next rise filled with thousands of Roven. “I won’t wander.”
“Wise choice. The book wagon is that one with the orange oilcloth covering the back.”
Will bowed at the obvious dismissal and turned Shadow toward the books.
He hadn’t gone far when he reached Lukas riding toward Killien, his face bleak. The slave rode directly into Will’s path. “Enjoy wearing the red shirt while you can,” he said quietly. “It’ll be grey soon enough.”
Will reined in Shadow and opened up toward Lukas. A coiled, venomous hatred slithered into his chest.
“The only difference between you and me”—Lukas continued, his voice pitched low—“is that Killien’s wayfarer dogs dragged me here, fighting the entire way. You just walked right in.”
Will drew back, both from the man’s fury and his words. “Killien’s wayfarers?”
With a last hateful look, Lukas turned his horse away. “The wayfarers may not have brought you,” he said over his shoulder, “but Killien owns you all the same.”
Chapter Twelve
The rest of the day passed in a vaguely unsettled way, Will’s mind gnawing on the problem of how to reach Ilsa. He rode Shadow along the eastern edge of the caravan, keeping Lilit’s wagon and Killien in view. Lukas’s warning left a knot in his gut and there was something reassuring about being closer to the Scale Mountains than the Roven. Even if only by a handful of paces.
The path of the serpent’s wake stretched ahead of them, slithering over the hills, the trail of years of migrations etched into the Sweep. It was strange how a place as vastly open as this could feel so confining.
He kept busy thinking of rescue stories, hoping he’d land on some idea of how to get Ilsa away from the Roven. Keeper Terre had rescued six children from a pack of direwolves, but even if Will had mastered the skill of making trees topple strategically, there were no trees on the Sweep. Knocking over blades of grass was bound to have a less terrifying effect.
It was a much needed distraction when Rass appeared. He dismounted and walked with her for a few hours. She ate the food he offered and chattered at him about the grass or the sky or whatever struck her fancy. It had been such a long time since anyone had talked with him so comfortably, it felt both delightful and overwhelming.
Around midday she ran out into the Sweep and Will found Killien’s book wagon, wide with low side walls, open in the back. A burnt-orange oilcloth spread across the bed. The last arm’s length of the wagon was open and he climbed onto it, lifting the edge of the oilcloth. Beneath it he found crates of books wrapped tightly in more oilcloth. In the nearest corner sat a red bag holding the books from Killien’s shelf, a thick stack of paper, four pens, and a bottle of ink. Sitting on the back of the wagon, he set to writing some innocuous stories from Queensland.
As the sun set, riders came by ordering the wagons to a central location. A haphazard city grew along the top of one wide hill with wagons spilling down into the shallow valleys around it. The entire perimeter of the clan was dotted with fires as well, each with a mound of dried grass and dung next to it, ready to be thrown on if larger flames were needed.
Around him the Roven gathered into small knots talking and laughing and eating together and he sat feeling awkward, wondering where he was supposed to find his dinner. The night cooled quickly and a cold breeze blew across Will’s back.
He cast out toward the nearest fire, feeling the vitalle blazing up in it. It was too bad Alaric wasn’t here. He could pull a blanket of warmth from a fire all the way across a room. Don’t move the heat itself, create a…sort of a net around it. Then pull the net, not the heat, he’d say.
A net. Will stretched his fingers toward the fire. He gathered its vitalle, imagining it forming a close woven net, capturing the heat and pulling it toward him. His fingertips stung, but he felt a wave of warmish air. He sat up straighter.
A net had too many holes. He began again, imagining a cloth wrapping around the heat. Slowly, his fingers starting to ache in earnest, he drew the cloth closer.
The enormous form of Hal stepped between him and the fire, and Will’s concentration broke. The cloth dissolved and the heat escaped into the night.
“What are you doing over here?” Hal said. “Come get dinner. Unless all this wagon gathering is your fault, in which case I hate you.”
“I may have had a part in it,” Will admitted. “Killien and I talked about goblins this morning. The entire Sweep is worried about them."
Hal glared at the sprawling mass of Roven. “This will cost an hour of travel each night. It’ll add at least a day to the trip.” Hal motioned for Will to follow him. “You can pay for it by entertaining us with a story. Something about dwarves.”
They wound through wagons, Hal keeping up a continual grumble until they reached a small fire near the edge of the clan where he dropped down next to Sora. She offered Will her usual scowl and Will gave her an especially wide smile back.
Hal passed a basket of thin bread and smoked fish before a young girl arrived, asking him a question about a herd. Will ate his piece of salty, dried fish half listening to Hal’s herd management, half watching Roven children carrying baskets of food.
Killien walked up talking to some rangers. Neither Lilit nor Ilsa was with him, but he was followed by Lukas and the two other slaves from the porch in Porreen. Lukas and the younger girl swung bags of heatstones off their shoulders and sat a little ways back from the fire. When the big man sat next to them, he clutched his own bag to his chest.
Lukas spread a book on his lap and flipped through the pages before finding a place to read. The girl leaned over and ran her finger along the page. Will stared at the two of them. Did all of Killien’s slaves know how to read? They were obviously well cared for. Maybe slavery in Killien’s household wasn’t as bad as other places. Was it possible that Ilsa’s life had been better than he’d feared?
The big slave stared disinterestedly at the fire, relaxing until his bag slouched and two heatstones ro
lled out, unnoticed.
“Keep them in the sack, Rett,” the girl said kindly, tucking the yellow stones back into the bag and cinching the top closed.
“I’m sorry, Sini,” he said absently. “I forgot.”
“It’s alright.” She patted his large hand reassuringly with her own small one.
Rett pulled the bag onto his lap, wrapping one hand firmly around the drawstring and his other arm around the bag. With it secure, he lifted his head and looked around with an aimless curiosity. There was a familial type of ease among the three of them.
Sini watched him for a moment, a little crease of worry in her brow. Lukas reached into a pocket and pulled out a small, glowing green stone.
“Don’t,” Sini pleaded.
But Lukas held the stone out toward Rett.
The large man’s eyes locked on the stone and a wide smile crossed his face. “You found one!” He reached out gingerly to take it, then cupped it in his hands, curling his body over it.
“Don’t watch it too long.” The gentleness in Lukas's voice caught Will off guard. “It’ll hurt your head.”
Rett nodded and kept his eyes fixed on the green glow, a look of utter contentment on his face.
“I wish you’d stop giving him those,” Sini said.
“I’ve said no for weeks. If he begged you all the time, you’d give in too.” Lukas watched the man. “Sometimes I think he needs them.”
The little bit of green glow was almost hidden in Rett’s hands. He watched it with a desperate sort of fascination, as though if he blinked, it might disappear.
Sini looked down at her hands. “I can’t bear how sad it makes him.”
“But it makes him happy first.” Lukas turned back to his book.
She pinched her mouth into a thin, disapproving line and sat silent for a moment before glancing at Lukas's book. “Did you figure it out? Does it work?”
Lukas shrugged. “Killien won't try it.” He shot a glare at the Torch. “He’s so fixated that he’s missing opportunities.”
Sini shushed him and Lukas answered her too quietly for Will to catch.
