by G. H. Duval
Cautiously, he let his mind graze the edges of the one advancing on his home. At first, he could not tell if the mind he touched was that of man or beast, so ugly were the thoughts that assailed him. His slight frame shook from the grim intentions he found there, and he forcibly fought down the bile rising in his throat. His stomach threatened to rebel.
Mykal wanted to run. Run now. Far, far away! But he knew he could not simply save himself. His Doyen had made that clear. She had failed to save herself in order to send her warning to him. His lips trembled and his voice came in small, strangled gasps as he felt her mind wink out of his—the connection lost. His Doyen was gone, forever. And still his parents slept, oblivious to the danger. Doyen Nylae had been right. He had to reach them.
He hurried from his room to theirs—easily done in their small home—and quickly let himself inside. He had to be careful not to startle them awake and alert the creature now stalking them, but he had to move quickly all the same.
There was so little time.
His father would want to fight, to defend them as he always had, but there was no hope in that. Nylae had made it clear that the creature outside was too powerful, and worse, it was not alone. Mykal felt the presence of the other dark, buzzing minds roving through their village, but he couldn’t reach them fully—wouldn’t want to even if he could.
He went to his mother first, shaking her gently but urgently. She blinked, confused, then focused on his face—a small, sleepy smile blossomed as their eyes locked. He placed one of his small hands on her mouth to keep her from speaking. The creature outside might hear—the very air around them was now their enemy.
He stared into her eyes, focused so hard his entire body trembled, and he reached. There’s danger, Mama, he spoke directly to her mind, desperate that she hear him. Her eyes widened, and he felt her suck in her breath, a warm burst of moisture against his palm. She’d heard him!
It’s a Shepherd, I think. At least, he was once. But…Mykal faltered, his child’s fear at war with his determination to live. He’s angry, Mama. Hungry.
Evil, he thought, but tried not to share this with her. His mother went very still, straining to sense the danger just outside their home. She knew the effort was futile, and Mykal ached as he shared her despair. The important thing, he reminded himself sharply, was that she trusted him.
She nodded, turned to wake his father, touching him tenderly to avoid alarm. As Mykal had, she covered his mouth and motioned to Mykal, who repeated his warning to his father’s mind as he moved silently to collect their cloaks from pegs near the door. He threw them to his parents, and the look his father spared him spoke volumes. He understood the situation.
We have to run, Mykal sent to his father, failing to keep his fear from the connection as his father hurried over. He squeezed Mykal’s shoulder quickly before leading them from the room. There was only one way out of their home, and the mad au Ciele outside might reach the door first.
His father rushed to the front door, stopping only to collect a thick piece of firewood on the way, hefting it as a weapon, and stared intently at his son. His father mouthed the words, stay behind me, and Mykal could hear it in his mind. He relayed the directive to his mother. She took him by his shoulders and pulled him with her to the side of the door. They would be out of sight after his father opened it, which he did presently, inch by inch.
They lived near the thick forests that sat just before the natural border between Coerdom and Kirin; the last touch of verdant land before the countryside fell to plains that swept up to the staggering peaks of the Golden Dragon’s Fangs. As small as their village was, every house was near the forest, and Mykal understood that the intruders had used that cover to close on the village undetected—not even one dog able to alert their sleeping owners. That forest would now be their best hope of survival. His father was a woodworker, knew those woods by rote; they had only to reach them.
His father glanced over his shoulder, nodded toward the door, then pointed at them before gesturing in the direction of the closest stand of trees. Then he opened the door wide, rushed out and to the right while Mykal and his mother turned left. They ran for the trees with skin prickling and hearts pounding. His father was behind them, thinking he’d protect their rear, but Mykal knew that was impossible. He wished his father would just hurry.
He pulled his thoughts from his father, concentrated on the darkness-within-darkness that meant the safety of the woods. It grew closer, just another twenty yards or so, when the night exploded in light.
A bonfire had been sparked in the center of the village. It flared to life unnaturally fast, for there was nothing natural about it. In the brief glance Mykal spared for the commotion, he made out a figure in silhouette—sculpting the fire that was spreading across a pile of debris. Debris that had been, when he had gone to sleep, the objects he and his neighbors had created, valued, and depended on. His parents, too, turned automatically to stare at the fire, buffeted by shouts of surprise, which quickly turned to alarm and dismay, as the rest of the village finally learned what Mykal already knew: their village was dying.
He watched the unveiling havoc for barely a moment, the extent of destruction obvious in a mere glance, as the invaders pulled apart their lives. As best he could tell, there were at least four bodies moving throughout the village, their movements rendered all the more menacing as they slithered in, then out, of the angry shadows cast by the bonfire.
Their neighbors were pulled from their homes and hiding places by invisible hands—dangling, shaken, and thrown—as air currents commanded with ruthless efficiency bore down upon them. The au Feur who had ignited the bonfire set many of the screaming, impotent villagers aflame before their bodies could even land.
“Keep running!” His father barked, his voice barely audible over the commotion.
Mykal turned back toward the wood, his mother’s hand in his, and they ran—throats dry and choked with horror. Behind them, his father screamed. Mykal turned in time to see him dragged along the ground toward the au Ciele stalking toward them, ostensibly looking for more fuel for the fire. Mykal opened his mouth to scream and felt the need to shout stick in his throat, the pressure overwhelming. His mother was more successful, and her cry mingled with the terrible sounds of those suffering around them.
His father did not waste precious seconds struggling, however, and his arms stretched almost calmly on the ground before him as he slid away. He locked eyes with Mykal.
Go! Protect your mother! He heard his father’s voice directly in his mind. He knew that, because of his affinity, his father believed that Mykal would be more useful in this situation, and he had trusted Mykal to hear his last desperate thoughts.
Protect your mother.
Mykal, still dazed from the force of his father’s reverberating command, realized with a start that his mother was pulling away from him, straining toward his father. When he managed to touch her mind, it was chaos, slipping dangerously close to the shelf beyond which existed only madness. He shook, attempting something new as he pushed not at his mother’s mind but into it.
Come! He commanded, shoving a compulsion into her psyche, and prayed it would work. He scarcely understood what he was doing; pure instinct had taken over.
They’d already experienced more luck than he dared hope for—the crazed Air Shepherd had not seen them in the shadows. His father sensed this and had trusted one last effort to speak to his son mind to mind, hoping his son’s talent might save what remained of his family. Mykal had to succeed.
Miraculously, their luck held. His mother watched him attentively with blank eyes, and she followed him when he pulled her behind him. He tore his eyes away from his father as the au Ciele’s hands closed around his father’s ankles. He sped up, refusing to look back or even slow until the trees closed around them. Even when they reached the trees, he drove them still farther until the screams behind them diminished. Time ceased to exist, and he had no idea when it was that he finally allowed t
hem to stop, collapsing into a narrow ravine.
His last truly coherent thought was that the madmen might have an au Terre with them—they were still not safe. He concentrated on the governing band, knew that the Doyen had used it to harness their shared Aspect. Could he use it that way, too? He surrounded himself and his mother with the thought: NOTHING—HERE—DON’T—LOOK. Then he focused on the band and willed the thought into it—begged it to take the words and repeat them. The bracelet flashed for a moment, then went dark. He prayed his trick would work and that the mantra would hold.
Finally, he dared to look at his mother’s face. Her eyes were still blank ovals, empty. But he could not withdraw the compulsion he’d planted. He did not know how.
At least this way, the grief will not touch her. But it touched Mykal enough for both of them. My father is dead, he thought, as he folded himself into his mother, settling against the ground with their cloaks pulled tight. He was faintly aware that he still wore only his wool bedclothes beneath his cloak, and he sighed as sheer exhaustion finally came. His body shook, a series of deep shudders in place of the tears he was yet too dry to produce.
My father is dead.
*
Siare blinked into the rising sun, too weary to cry. The boy was one of her own. Not simply one of her “children” as all of Coerdom’s Shepherds were, but one of hers—an au L’espri and a budding Seer at that. He had been identified years earlier, allowing Mother to attach his tether to a governing band, and that band was further linked to both the boy’s Doyen and a Spirit Shepherd in Coer. It was the failsafe they used to protect all au L’espri children until they expressed fully and were brought to the Steading—as they had long ago learned that it was unwise to remove the Sprit-touched from their normal lives too soon.
So it was that Mykal’s unknown and unseen guardian in Coer received the distress call—the boy’s terror-stricken state a beacon across the leagues—and relayed it instantly to his First. Still, at least an hour had passed by the time the Coerdan Shepherd understood the tug on his tether, pulled the boy’s thoughts from the governor, and finally alerted Siare. Most likely, by now, he had been found by the attackers…found and killed. Why the Kirin had decided to send mages against them, she could not fathom. Yes, there had been signs of a growing defiance by Kirin in the last decade or so, but nothing pointed to such blatant revolt. Surely, she was not that far gone in her reign for this!
And yet, it must be mages she’d glimpsed in the midst of the carnage. She guessed that Mykal’s mind had failed to grasp that nature of the attackers, assigning the only label he had for those who could so distort the use of nature’s elements.
Thank you, Cantor, she sent to Mykal’s guardian. Continue to hold a bit longer if you can, she asked, gently, as the young Spirit Shepherd was distraught to the extreme by what he had relived. He feared for his charge, of course, anguished that he had failed to keep the boy safe. But that was not Cantor’s job. Not truly. That job rested on her shoulders, and she would ensure that she bore it as was proper.
Cantor complied and she sent her mind into his, seeking first his Aspect tether, then further, the tendril connected to Mykal’s band. She reached into the band and did what only she and Mother could. She woke the governor and used it to connect directly to its charge. If Mykal were alive, she should be able to touch his mind.
And there it was. NOTHING—HERE—DON’T—LOOK. NOTHING—HERE—DON’T—LOOK.
Siare let the mantra wash over her though she was easily able to resist the compulsion.
He lives!
Her clever little boy had managed to keep himself safe. He would never have to fend for himself again. She vowed it to herself as much as she did to him.
She would wake him, then she and Mother would ride his mind by turns as needed until she could bring him to safety. They would see to any danger he encountered through the band and through his own gift. She would wrap him in comfort and safety, promise him that help was on its way. She would heal his mother and avenge his father.
All of this she would do. But first, she had another to whom she’d made a promise.
Well done, she told Cantor. She beckoned his mind to her own, drawing it in. She issued him a series of instructions, chief among them the summoning of the Beast Wardens, whom she would send in full Complement to Shepherd’s Seek, for she knew they could move more swiftly than most Shepherds and she had every confidence they would dispatch any manner of threat along the way. While Cantor was intent on her instructions, she plucked the thread that was his memory of Mykal—all of it, the fact that Mykal had ever existed—from his mind. He had served her faithfully, and the pain of what had befallen Mykal and his neighbors need not burden him ever again.
There was also the matter of what Cantor had seen, and she needed to ensure that no others learned of it before Siare had determined what, precisely, had happened to the outpost.
At once, my First! Cantor acknowledged before she released his mind.
Mother, she called, I have need of you. Immediately. And with the command, she sent the entirety of what she’d witnessed.
I come, Mother responded, calm as ever and ready to do what needed done.
Nineteen
“Shepherds, heed well your duty. Yours is to protect the herd and to drive off the wolf! Grasp thy rods, my Shepherds, and stride confidently in My name.”
–Helig Ra’d, Teachings of the Great Shepherd
“Must you leave?” Mykal asked, voice small.
Savantha held the tiny boy’s gaze and ignored the aching pit that his expression opened within her. It was more than the blatant fear in his eyes. What stabbed at her was the resignation in them—the expectation of abandonment. She could not fault him for it. What he’d endured was beyond anything he should be asked to bear, burgeoning Shepherd or no.
She would not hurt him further by dissembling. This boy had seen how hard the world could be and he deserved nothing but honesty. She held his wide, fearful eyes and spoke in a forthright voice.
“Yes, Mykal. I’m afraid I must.” She took his so-small hand and squeezed it.
“I must find those who did this to you and your family. We will ensure they bring no more harm to others.”
She paused, her eyes moving to Breal—the giant mastiff that was her bondmate and the Alpha of her Kindred pack—before returning her gaze to Mykal. She knew he trusted Breal as much as he trusted her…perhaps even more.
“But I promise you, you’re safe now.”
They’d intercepted Mykal two days’ prior—precisely where Siare had guided them—and brought him back from the outskirts of Shepherd’s Seek to Callor, the closest village to the now-devastated outpost. During their brief trek back, Savantha had carried Mykal the entire time, refusing to be parted with him. With Breal’s strength seeping into her muscles, it had been a simple thing, and the boy had needed the shelter of strong arms.
Even then, the uncannily brave boy had been most concerned about his mother. It was Breal’s guarding of the mother, who still went about in an obedient daze, that had allowed the boy to finally rest in Savantha’s arms. The one night they’d spent on the road back, Breal had curled his huge figure about both mother and son, pinning them between his body and Savantha’s. Mykal had reached out to curl a fist within Breal’s fur before falling asleep, and his hand had still been thus when Savantha had awakened the next morning.
Try as Siare might to soothe the boy through their shared Spirit Aspect, she had known the boy would need a tangible sense of security for some time to come. Savantha had been honored to provide that. She was counting on the trust she’d quickly built with the boy to sustain him now. She continued to hold Mykal’s eyes until some measure of the fear abated. He looked from her to Breal and from Breal to the Spirit Shepherd sitting beside him before nodding.
The au L’espri was a slim woman named Davia. A senior Doyen from a nearby town, she’d been sent by the Headmistress to help look after the boy and his mother, keep
ing their minds whole until they could be brought to the Steading—both far too damaged to be fully healed from this distance. From the moment she’d arrived, Davia’s eyes had continually burned a deep violet, and that alone had kept at bay any who would intrude on Mykal’s convalescence—whether out of genuine concern or macabre curiosity.
Davia had been up front with all involved that a channel was being kept open between her and the Headmistress and First Siare, by turns, to look after Mykal and assist in guiding the mission of the Beast Wardens who’d been dispatched to assist any survivors and secure the area. While the flashing violet proved unsettling to nearly all of Callor’s townsfolk, Savantha had made peace with the eerie power of au L’espris long ago.
“No one would dream of hurting you or your mother now,” Davia added, the set of her jaw grim. “On that, you can be certain.”
Savantha thought of what Davia could and would do to the mind of anyone foolish enough to approach the boy with any ill intent now, and she shuddered. Acclimated to her Spirit sisters in arms or no, the swift finality with which an au L’espri of Davia’s skill could act was chilling.
“I will be back as soon as I can,” Savantha added with one final squeeze before releasing Mykal’s small, clammy hand. The boy was still fighting the shock of what he’d experienced, even two days later.
“I understand,” he said, voice serious.
Breal whined softly and brushed past her to place his head in Mykal’s lap. He nudged Mykal’s now-freed hand, and the boy immediately complied by petting Breal’s head, which appeared ludicrously large against the diminutive boy. Her bondmate’s presence bolstered the boy to such an extent it was nearly a physical change.
Is it wise to leave him so soon? Breal asked. Her Alpha’s need to protect the most vulnerable of the humans he served pulled relentlessly at him—it was the quality she loved most about him.
