by JA Andrews
Sora gave a single nod.
“How many?”
“Three.”
Will stared at her. “Were you alone? Are you alri—?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” she interrupted his fumbling questions.
Will closed his mouth and looked around the Sweep, feeling suddenly exposed on the wide open grass. “Should I be worried?”
Sora gave a short laugh. “We should all be worried.”
She didn’t elaborate, and Will didn’t push. He watched Lilit’s wagon as they passed near it, and while he could see movement within, the interior was too shadowed to see if it was Ilsa.
When Killien came into view, Will turned to Sora. “How come you stay with the Morrow?” He pitched his voice low so only she could hear.
Sora started and looked at him as though she’d forgotten he was there. Her eyes flickered away from him and rested on the Torch, her face unreadable. “Killien pays me well.”
Surprisingly, he couldn’t sense any sarcasm in her answer. “That’s very mercenary of you. But wouldn’t your own people benefit from your skills?”
“My people have enough hunters.”
“So, what?” The irritation from her terse answers rose to the surface. “You’re here because you’re not special enough among your own tribe?”
Sora let out a harsh laugh and turned her horse away. “That was never the problem.”
He watched her ride off, wondering why he’d bothered to ask.
Turning back toward Killien, he tried to push her out of his mind. The man had been growing more irritable lately. He’d stayed distantly polite to Will, spending a few minutes questioning him about a Baylonian duke Will had written about. But he’d been short with the rangers who reported to him and snapped at Lukas for riding too close. Sini and Rett had taken to riding a little farther back.
Today, though, when he approached, the Torch was in an animated discussion with Lukas, both their faces bright as Killien clapped the slave on the back, and Lukas closed up a book. Even making eye contact with Will didn’t totally dampen Lukas’s spirits, and he fell away from the Torch, leaving room for Will to approach.
Killien greeted Will with an enthusiasm that was almost overwhelming. “Will! I don’t feel like I’ve properly thanked you for all the writing you’ve done for me on this trip. Thank the black queen you showed up in Porreen when you did.”
Will gave him a bow, his fist pressed to his chest. “It’s been my pleasure. I should thank you for the books you’ve shared.”
Killien waved off his thanks. “No, you deserve a gift. Tell me, what payment do you want? A book?” He motioned to Will’s hand. “Another gold ring?”
Something glinted blue on one of Killien’s fingers—the ring they’d taken from the traitor sat between Killien’s other rings, and the light from the blue burning stone in it was visible even in the sunshine. He could see vitalle in several of his rings, actually. Maybe Killien’s actually held magic.
Will shook his head and opened up to the Torch. A wide undercurrent of satisfaction and pleasure flowed into Will. Whatever Killien was happy about, it was strong.
“There must be something you’d like from the Morrow.”
Yes. Will kept his eyes away from Lilit’s wagon.
“There is one thing.” Will paused. “Would you consider selling me one of your slaves?”
Killien raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t take you for a slaveholder.”
Will forced a smile. “We all have our secrets.”
Killien let out a short laugh. “We do. But you haven’t done nearly enough writing for me to earn a slave.” He looked calculatingly at Will. “It would take three month’s wages for most Roven to buy a slave, and that only gets them a mediocre one.” He paused. “Although if you’re talking about that tiny girl you seem so fond of, we could come up with a less expensive agreement.”
Killien knew about Rass?
Will’s pulse quickened.
It wasn’t freeing Ilsa like he needed to do, but freeing Rass was a good first step. “Her name is Rass.” He tried to keep the disgust out of his voice at the next question. “How much would she cost?”
Killien rubbed his thumb across his lips, watching Will closely. “Do you read ancient runes? I have some I need translated, and that would be worth quite a bit to me.”
You’ve got the wrong Keeper for that. “I’m familiar with some runes, but I’m not an expert.”
Killien considered this answer. “Where did you learn them?”
“When I was twelve, I moved to a place with a library." The first time he'd stepped into the library at the Keepers Stronghold, it had taken his breath away. Floor after floor of books. “The man who kept the books had some with ancient runes”—which Gerone had constantly and unsuccessfully tried to get Will interested in—“which he loved, but I was never terribly good at.”
“How big was the library?”
“To my eyes, it was enormous.” He glanced at Killien. “You won't like this, but the largest library I ever saw was the royal library in Queenstown.”
Killien’s brow darkened. “How big is it?"
“The main room is as big as the Square in Porreen.”
The Torch’s eyebrows rose.
“And there are a dozen smaller rooms off of it, all filled with books.”
Killien was silent for a long moment. “That would be something to see.”
“You should come there with me, we’ll take a trip into Queensland.” Will motioned to the notch in the Scales that was almost next to them. “It’s only two or three days past Kollman Pass.”
The Torch laughed. “Even a library that big isn’t a strong enough draw.”
“Is there a particular reason you hate Queensland more than other countries?” Will tried to keep his tone merely curious, while he focused on Killien’s emotions. “I’ve never totally understood the Roven’s animosity.”
“Queensland drove us out of our homeland and forced us to live on the Sweep.”
He chose his next words as carefully as possible. “That happened a very long time ago. When you talk about Queensland, the animosity feels…fresher.”
A jab of irritation lanced across Killien’s satisfaction, and he studied Will for several heartbeats.
“If that was too personal of a question,” Will said, “I apologize.”
“It’s hardly a secret. You know that the warriors of the Morrow went with Mallon when he attacked Queensland?”
“I heard a story about it my first night in Porreen. I remember there was a giant.”
“Yervant tells the story every year because their company only lost one battle during the entire war. And they were winning that one too, until a Keeper showed up.”
“How many men did the Morrow lose?”
“Many.” A sharp grief cut into Killien’s emotions. “Among them my uncle, Andro, who had been my closest advisor, and my cousin Adaom, who was like a brother to me.” Killien turned a hard gaze toward the Scales. “They were the only family I had left. And a Keeper burned them alive.”
Killien’s grief and vengeance flowed through Will’s chest and he almost shoved them out. But the emotions were so familiar, he let them stay, mirroring his own losses, resonating in the deepest part of himself.
“Adaom was Lilit’s older brother. She idolized him. It’s why she hates you so much.” Killien looked slightly apologetic. “And why she always will. You look too much like you’re from Queensland for her to see anything else.”
They rode in silence until Will felt Killien’s emotions settle. That at least explained Lilit’s animosity. And why a peace offering of a story wouldn’t be nearly enough. Maybe nothing would be enough. How would he ever get Ilsa away from her?
Needing something else to think about, Will asked. “Why did Mallon attack? To Queensland it seemed unprovoked. Did they do something I’m unaware of?”
Killien looked at him in surprise. “Because it was personal.” At Will�
�s blank look, he added, “Mallon was from Queensland.”
Chapter Seventeen
Will’s mouth dropped open. “What?”
Killien’s gaze turned piercing and he nodded slowly. “Mallon came to the Sweep as a child, ten years before my father was Torch. His father had debts, and to pay them, the duke sold his children to the Sweep.”
Will stared at him, stunned. “Sold? They don’t do that in Queensland. It’s unlawful to sell slaves.”
Killien let out a laugh. “And so you think it doesn’t happen? Mallon was sold to the Morrow, in fact, when my grandfather was Torch. He was with us for two years and already training to be a stonesteep. Already promising to be stronger than any we’d seen.” His face sobered. “Before Kachig the Bloodless took him from us.”
Mallon was from Queensland?
“You thought Mallon was Roven?” Killien asked
Will nodded. “Everyone does.”
“He had black hair,” the Torch pointed out.
“That does seem like a clue right now,” Will admitted. “Although until I came to the Sweep, I didn’t know every Roven had red hair. I just thought a lot of you did. I’ve never heard from anyone that Mallon wasn’t Roven.”
An idea snagged in Will’s mind. “How long ago did Mallon come to the Sweep?”
“Fifty years ago.”
Will’s grip tightened on the reins. The fact that there were no Keepers younger than Will wasn’t the only gap. Historically Keepers were born every five to ten years. Between Will and Alaric was a twelve year gap, but that length wasn’t unheard of. The bigger question had always been that between Alaric and Mikal, who was seventy-one, the gap was over twenty-five years. The space between them was generally thought to have belonged to at least two Keepers who, it was assumed, had died during childhood, before their abilities were awakened. But if Mallon was born fifty-some years ago, and came from Queensland, with powers like he had—he would fit in that gap.
Mallon should have been a Keeper.
The thought struck an odd note. Keeper Mallon, puttering around the Stronghold with the other old men, browsing the library, wearing a black robe.
It was too far-fetched. What were the chances that the one child of his time who should’ve ended up a Keeper had been enslaved to the Roven?
Still, the Keepers hadn’t known of any children born during that time with abilities.
Until now.
“Someone in Queensland knows,” Killien scoffed. “The people in power know. The Queen. The Keepers.”
Will clenched his teeth down on the answer that he was positive they didn’t.
“They’re just keeping it quiet,” the Torch continued. “They wouldn’t want their people to know it was one of their own trying to kill them. Better to blame the nomads, right?”
“He came with an army of Roven.”
“We didn’t have a choice,” Killien objected. “Mallon gathered the clan Torches together and told them he was going to conquer Queensland and required our warriors. He said if we helped, he’d give us some of the land.”
“Did anyone refuse?”
Killien looked at him incredulously. “You understand what he was capable of. No one refused who valued their lives or the lives of their clans. We were commanded to gain the support of our people and send all our troops.”
“All of them?”
Killien nodded, his face dark. “Every man between fifteen and sixty. And to send weekly shipments of food and supplies.”
Will looked away from Killien, letting his eyes run over the Scales. An uncomfortable level of sympathy for Killien vied with an illogical guilt that Mallon was from Queensland. Will shifted his cloak, pulling more of it around himself to block out the little fingers of cool morning air wriggling in through the gaps.
A half-dozen rangers appeared over a rise to the east and Killien studied them for a moment. “I’ll send Lukas with the runes I’d like you to translate,” he said. “When we reach the rifts, we’ll discuss the little slave girl again.”
Will took it as a dismissal and left, conflicting thoughts about the Roven and Killien and Mallon butting against each other in his mind. And the idea of buying Rass’s freedom was bittersweet. Certainly he’d love to take her away from the Roven, but she was small enough he could have snuck her out. It was Ilsa he needed to get to.
When he reached the book wagon, he found Rett driving it. Will gave the slave a friendly nod and the man nodded back. There was a general sadness about him this morning.
“Looks like a big storm is coming.” Will nodded toward the clouds piling up on the horizon.
“I don’t like thunder.” Rett kept his attention forward. Ahead of them was another wagon, loaded with baskets and sacks. And ahead of that one, another. The clan moved forward doggedly, each person and animal and wagon following the one ahead of it with no real need for thought. But Rett concentrated anyway, his hands gentle on the reins, his eyes determined and sad. Next to him sat his lumpy bag of heatstones.
Will couldn’t quite figure out the man. He was older than Will by a few years, and his mind didn’t seem slow as much as…distracted. As though there was too much going on and the simplest tasks required enormous concentration.
“I’m Will.”
Rett glanced toward him. “I know.”
“You drive the wagon well, Rett. Some of the others aren’t careful about what they’re doing.”
Rett shook his head disapprovingly. “The Torch’s books are very important.”
Will agreed, and when Rett kept his focus forward, he rode around to the back of the wagon, and dismounted. Walking behind it, he moved the oilcloth out of the way and opened the red bag of his books. He pulled several out, laying them across the back of the wagon. He’d already read most of them. The only two left were genealogies, and he couldn’t quite bring himself to commit the rest of the day to reading something that boring. Stuffing them all back in the bag, Will tugged at the leather straps cinching the bag shut.
The wagon creaked over the uneven ground and the bag and the boxes shifted haphazardly, making him feel slightly off balance. Will glanced up at Rett, but the man was facing forward, his shoulders slumped. He pushed the oilcloth farther to the side and opened the bag with Lukas's books, slipping out Methods of Transference again, even if there was nothing left to learn from it.
A rumble of thunder came from the storm clouds and Will flipped the book closed. He shoved it back into Lukas's bag and put it back where it belonged.
He was setting his own bag back in its place when the wagon wheel nearest him slammed into a hole and the entire wagon jarred to the side. Rett’s bag of heatstones tumbled to the side. The wagon jolted forward again and the box in front of Will slid, its edge tipping off the back of the wagon.
Will grabbed for the box, staggering forward with the wagon hearing the thunks of dozens of heatstones falling next to Rett. Will shoved at the box, trying to push it back into place, but his own bag of books toppled down into the space where the box belonged.
Shoving his shoulder against the box, Will stretched around it with his other hand, grabbing a handful of the red bag and yanking it out of the way. He’d almost cleared it when the bag jerked to a stop, the leather strap snagged on something he couldn’t see. With a curse, Will wrenched the bag toward him. The wood cracked and the bag slid clear. With a shove, he pushed the box into its place.
A rumble of thunder rolled from the dark clouds piling up to the north and Will climbed up on to the wagon to see what he’d broken. In the front of the wagon, Rett was focused on picking heatstones up and tucking them back into his bag.
A jagged piece of wood was caught in the straps of the red bag, and behind the box, one of the boards of the wagon bed had split, leaving a gap two fingers wide in the bottom of the wagon. He grabbed the broken sliver of wood and stretched around the box to put it back in place. It wouldn’t be fixed, exactly, but he couldn’t just leave a hole in the bottom of Killien’s wagon. Just be
fore he placed the wood in, a flash of blue shimmered from the hole.
Will glanced up at Rett, but he was looking forward. Will leaned farther over the box. There, just visible through the crack was a piece of grey oil cloth.
Why put oilcloth under the books? A bit of it stuck up through the hole and Will tried to stuff it back in. The cloth shifted and he caught a glimpse of blue leather, glimmering with silver letters.
Will’s hand clutched the sliver of wood.
It was the book—the one Lukas had bought from Borto behind the wayfarers’ wagons.
He pushed the cloth out of the way, the jagged edge of the wood cutting into his finger until he could read the title. The Gleaning of Souls.
He pulled the board farther, feeling the wood groan, and leaned over. Just at the edge of the shadow he saw the author.
Kachig the Bloodless.
In the center of the cover, where the silver medallion had been, there was only a darker blue circle of leather, rough and scarred. Will stared at the disfigured cover, confused for a moment before realizing Killien had pulled the metal off the book to keep it safe from frost goblins. Will tested the boards next to the broken one, but nothing moved. The book was well sealed in the base of the wagon.
Thunder rumbled overhead again. The round pile of clouds were surging closer, like some kind of flower that kept blooming, swell after swell of whiteness piling on top of each other. And underneath the whiteness, the Sweep was cast into dark shadows slanted with distant rain.
“The books should be covered,” Rett called back to him, worried.
Will let the board fall back into place, then shoved the box of books back on top of it before covering everything with the oilcloth. His fingers itched to pull it all back apart and grab the book. Instead, he climbed down off the wagon and mounted Shadow again.
The reins stung against his hand and he looked down to see a gash in his finger from the wood. Will cast out to the Sweep. The vitalle of the grass was no longer little pinpoints of energy, it now covered the ground with thin strands, like humming, shimmering fur.
He found the rough edges of his cut by the tangle of his own vitalle crowding around the wound, beginning the long, slow process of healing, which it would work at for days. The sheer amount of energy expended in healing made anything more than small cuts nearly impossible to heal quickly. Funneling the energy from the grass into his finger, he pressed it toward the cut, bolstering the healing, drawing the deepest part of the gash back together, working his way toward the surface until new skin spread across his finger in a slash of paleness.
