The Cycle of Galand Box Set

by Edward W. Robertson

  "One more day," Dante said. "But Sonn better be good."

  Sonn turned out to be a fifteen-year-old girl—though, being norren, she was still taller and heavier than he was. Seeing how young she was, Dante felt mild disappointment in his prospects for a challenging match, but as long as she wasn't a complete pushover, he still expected to have fun.

  As they laid out the board and selected their pieces, half the clan dropped what they were doing to come watch. Bets of nulla flew fast and furious. The action was mostly on Dante, but the bets on Sonn were large enough to make him suspect the game would be better than he'd thought.

  They began. Through the first few rounds, both Dante and Sonn played cautiously, until a minor skirmish of slingers turned into a wholesale slaughter of drakes, swordsmen, and sorcerers.

  Both sides withdrew in tatters. Dante consolidated his forces on favorable terrain, then advanced with methodical precision. Sonn arranged her defenses with impeccable strategy until Dante played a run of three cards that allowed his cavalry to ford a river and rush her flank. The attack should have been crushing, yet Sonn fought back so hard that Dante wasn't certain he'd win until six rounds later, when he claimed her last pieces.

  Sonn pressed her lips tight, face going red. "You got lucky. You should have lost the first battle."

  "Strange, considering I didn't," Dante said. "Then again, 'you got lucky' is about the level of analysis I'd expect from someone who thinks you need to keep your sorcerers hidden in the rear." Suddenly aware he was taunting a teenager, he stuck out his hand. "Thanks for playing me. It's been too long."

  She shook his hand. After a moment, she returned his smile, too. She'd said her nulla was sculpture, but it took a form he'd never seen before: the skeletons of mice glued together and equipped with tiny spears, bows, armor, and little tiny bossen, all of which she'd also made. Sonn presented his figurine with her eyes downcast, blinking rapidly.

  "Are you embarrassed?" He lifted it for a closer inspection. "The craftsmanship is great."

  "Yeah, but it's…" She risked a look up. "Silly."

  "You're right. It's a mouse with a spear."

  Her voice fell to a whisper. "I'm sorry."

  "But that's part of what makes it great," he said. "Life is serious enough. We need songs and stories and armored little mice to remind us it can be silly, too."

  Sonn lifted her eyes to his, blushing harder than ever. She made a small noise that might have been gratitude, then bobbed her head and walked away.

  Blays ambled up beside him, watching her go. "You do realize you essentially just stole from a child?"

  "It's not stealing if you earned it." He leaned closer to Blays, sniffing. "How much beer have you had?"

  "Lots! They've got a guy whose nulla is brewing!"

  This was interesting enough to occupy them through the afternoon. It likely would have held their interest throughout the night, too, but they were interrupted late in the day by the arrival of another clan. In most cases, this would involve the hoisting of weapons and the preparation of threats, but the Nine Pines looked completely unconcerned.

  As the other clan neared, Dante found Mourn hanging around at the fringe of the camp. He stood beside the norren. "Expecting guests?"

  "Bet you'll recognize them."

  As the other clan grew nearer, Dante thought he recognized the gait of the man in their front. Seeing him, the man gave a cheery wave.

  "The Broken Herons?" Dante's jaw fell open, then lifted in a grin. "Was this why you wanted us to wait another day? Why didn't you just tell me Hopp was coming?"

  Mourn gave him an affronted look. "If you had a good reason to stay, then what would it prove if you did so?"

  The two clans met, exchanging handshakes and hugs. Once Hopp had done some chatting, he made his way to Dante and Blays. He was starting to sport some silver around his temples and in his beard, which he'd finally allowed to grow long enough to cover the R branded on his right cheek—once, he'd kept it shaved to remind the world he'd once been a Gaskan slave. It seemed he no longer felt the need.

  "Are the rumors true?" Hopp said.

  Blays tilted his head. "You'll have to be a lot more specific than that."

  "That you were going to go straight to Narashtovik without so much as saying hello to your own clan. What have we done to earn such disgrace?"

  "You made the mistake of not causing a disaster worthy of Dante's attention."

  "Sorry about that," Dante said, meaning it. "There's trouble in Narashtovik. It could be bad."

  Hopp studied him. "Have you ever noticed that there seems to be trouble everywhere you go?"

  "So just imagine how much more there would be if I didn't show up to deal with it."

  Hopp went to greet a few of the other Nine Pines, who'd remained on relatively terrific terms with the Broken Pines ever since the war. In time, Hopp joined them outside Mourn's yurt, where they were continuing to appreciate the craftsmanship of the Pines' brewer.

  Hopp took a tankard and then a seat. For close to an hour, he rambled on about the particular coldness of that winter, his recent squabbles with nearby clans, and an expedition into the Woduns he was planning to make during the coming summer. After asking several dozen questions about the kappers that infested the mountains, he fell silent. Blays and Mourn excused themselves to find more beer.

  Once they left, Hopp's eyebrow perked up. "Did I tell you why we're here? No, of course I haven't. Or why wouldn't I remember it?"

  He twisted in his chair and rooted around in his pack. With a noise of satisfaction, he turned back around and extended his hand.

  An empty shaden shell rested on his broad palm. "Do you know what this is?"

  Dante blinked. "Do you?"

  "Is it the former home of a snail?"

  "And this is remarkable to you?"

  "It's a large, fine shell, isn't it?" Hopp ran an oversized finger over the shell's black swirls. "Very pretty."

  "Why don't you tell me what you know?"

  "Why don't you ask the right questions?"

  Dante pressed his lips together. "Where did you find it?"

  Hopp waved a hand at the low hills. "Oh, somewhere out there."

  "Which is strange, right? I know I've been gone for a while, but I don't think it's been long enough for a new ocean to form in the Norren Territories."

  The older norren smiled, fox-like. "That's what led me to ask our clan about it. And when they didn't know what it was, to start asking other clans."

  "You were that interested in an empty shell?"

  "I should see a strange thing, say 'How strange,' and think nothing more of it? If you found something unusual in your house—someone else's shoe, say—you wouldn't wonder how it came to be there?"

  "At this moment, the only thing I'm wondering is if this conversation could be any more baffling."

  Hopp gave him a crooked look. "What do you think matters more? The point? Or how you come to reach it? No matter how widely I asked, no one knew much about the shells. But I did hear that you'd know about them."

  Dante blinked. "How did you hear that?"

  "With my ears."

  "You norren gossip worse than fishwives."

  "Do you humans think you're so clever that no one else will notice what you're up to? Don't answer that question. Answer this one: should I be concerned to find the shell inside the Norren Territories?"

  Dante took the shell, turning it over in his hand. "They're called shaden. They come from an island far to the south. The meat is like a warehouse of nether. Exceedingly useful to people like me. Until very recently, the Mallish priesthood was gathering them in great numbers."

  "Am I to infer this practice stopped when you arrived?"

  "More of that 'trouble' you were referring to earlier."

  Hopp's face had been sobering rapidly. "Why would Mallish priests be using the nether inside the Norren Territories?"

  "I have no idea. Could be they were just passing through on their way to Nara
shtovik. If so, these people might be the same ones I'm on my way to deal with. But we can't assume it'll be that easy to settle. It could also be an arm of something far more sinister. Will you and the Herons keep watch on the pass?"

  "What are we to watch for?"

  "The aforementioned Mallish priests, for a start. And anyone else who looks suspicious."

  "What if all humans look suspicious to me?"

  "Then only tell me about the ones I'd think were suspicious."

  Hopp nodded, satisfied. "What brought you to this island of nether-snails in the first place?"

  Dante took a deep breath and began to explain. He hadn't meant to say more than a few vague sentences, but before he knew it, he was relating a detailed account of the last half year since being called away from the tunnel he'd built for Gallador. The note from his "father," the business with the Kandeans, the pursuit of Gladdic, the warring in Collen. It took some time.

  When he finished, Hopp was frowning. "That sounds dreadful. Why take on so many worries for people you'd never met before?"

  "It seemed more polite than letting them get slaughtered."

  "And it sounds like you're sick and tired of it." Hopp snapped his fingers. "You know what you should do? Join the Broken Herons."

  "In case you've forgotten, we already did that. Blays nearly drowned himself in the effort."

  "I'm suggesting you join us and stay with us. Don't you want to walk the prairies? Explore the mountains? See the sun touch a new hill every morning? Set down your concerns, pick up your bow, and hunt the deer with us?"

  Dante was about to reject this out of hand. Instead, he found himself gazing across the trampled snow of the camp, envisioning himself out in the wilds in the company of a hundred brothers and sisters, with no worries beyond what they'd catch for the night's meal. He could still practice the nether—clearly, it would be his nulla—but from then on out, his pursuit would be purely for himself. If he wanted, he could even resume leading, to whatever extend Hopp would welcome. It would be far easier to take care of a clan of a hundred than a city of a hundred thousand.

  "It's tempting," he said. "Genuinely. But I can't."

  "Why not? If you leave, will the walls of Narashtovik come crashing down? Will the townsfolk fling themselves from the bridges in despair? Will Arawn get so angry he'll smash his fist down on the city, leaving nothing behind but a crater?"

  "If I left? No. But what if everyone tossed aside their responsibilities?"

  "Do you always worry about things that aren't happening? Do you know why norren don't build towns?"

  "What are you talking about? Plenty of you do."

  "Do you think I'm talking about them?"

  "Why don't norren build towns?"

  Hopp opened his hand as if releasing a trapped bird. "So we can always walk away."

  It would have sounded self-congratulatory if not for the fact it was true. The norren looked after themselves and their clan. Other than the occasional scuffle with a foe-clan, their lives were more or less open to do whatever they wanted, which they took full advantage of. If the norren acted like this, and were perfectly fine people, why couldn't humans do the same? Why couldn't he?

  Abruptly, he realized that he hadn't had someone like Hopp to talk to in a long time. Cally (and, briefly, Larrimore) had served that role in Dante's earlier years, and Olivander sort of had for a few years after that, when Dante had been easing into his role of leader of the Council.

  But he was Olivander's superior, and over time, any type of mentorship had ceased. Anyway, Olivander wasn't exactly sage material—competent, yes, and as dependable as a sunrise, but he lacked the mischief of a truly effective sage.

  Dante missed having such a figure in his life. He would probably never have one again: getting too old, and definitely too high up the hierarchy. If anything, people would look to him to be the mentor, the sage.

  Now there was a scary thought.

  He gave himself permission to quit worrying for one night. Instead, he ate, drank, and bullshat with the norren. In the morning, mounting his horse to leave took far more willpower than he expected. A handful of norren had gathered to see him and Blays off, but most were busy with the slow rhythm of their lives, little currents within the tide.

  ~

  Narashtovik grew ahead, a great sprawl of buildings on the low hills before the bay, its outskirts hazed with wood smoke, its center defined by the spear of the cathedral and the upthrust fist of the Citadel. He had been to many places, and would admit that some of them were more beautiful. Even so, the city was his, and the sight of it made him sit taller in the saddle, shoulders pulled back with pride.

  He didn't announce their arrival, but the word of their return beat them to the Citadel. The gates creaked, opening before them; among the battlements, soldiers in black and silver saluted. Dante and Blays clopped into the courtyard. A legion of grooms assembled to tend to their horses.

  Gant resolved from the scramble of activity. The majordomo was approaching old age, but remained as hard and thin as a nail. He was normally cheerful, and lightly, almost formally mocking of them, but that day, there was no humor in his eyes.

  He gave them a deep nod. "Sir Galand. Sir Buckler. The air always seems clearer when the lords have returned to their home."

  "You sure you're happy to see us?" Blays said. "You look like Gashen got a little too drunk and mistook your house for his chamber pot."

  "Olivander wishes to speak to you. He is currently within the Council chambers. He will explain."

  Dante and Blays exchanged a look. They hustled upstairs to the chambers near the top of the keep. There, Olivander stood alone next to the round, sprawling table. Olivander was a lifelong military man, and Dante expected his stiff posture was so thoroughly ingrained in him that they'd be able to use his corpse as a cloak rack. Yet on that day he looked shorter, somehow smaller.

  "It's Cee," he said without preamble. "She's been looking into the theft of the book—and last night, she was attacked.

  12

  She lay in bed, wan and deflated, like a butterfly that's just left its cocoon. As far as Dante could tell, she was fine. They'd healed her whole, her throat didn't show a scratch or a scar—but she'd been in a deep sleep since the attack. There was no telling when—or if—she'd wake up.

  Dante sent the nether within her, questing for damage the others hadn't noticed, but found nothing substantial. He withdrew from Cee's chambers and summoned the one who'd been with her during the attempted murder, an acolyte named Sorrowen.

  Dante didn't know Sorrowen personally, but Olivander had already briefed him. Growing up in Farning, a village in the Mallish earldom of Wicks, Sorrowen had shown a knack for the ether when he was just six years old. He'd quickly been inducted into the priesthood at Wicks, with expectations he'd be sent to Bressel's Primacy School by the time he was ten. For years, he remained in Wicks, making little progress with the ether, his promising start stalling to a standstill.

  As it turned out, this was because he just wasn't very good at it. His true talent lay in the nether. Initially, he'd refused to practice it at all—smart, considering that in Mallon, the practice was punishable by death—but over the years, his curiosity with the shadows and his frustration with the light had eroded his resolve.

  So he'd begun to practice in secret. Realizing that if he stayed in Mallon, he would at best never progress beyond an amateur, and at worst be executed by the ethereal rite of the Piercing of a Hundred Stars, he'd snuck out of his temple and made the long pilgrimage to Narashtovik.

  There, he'd been allowed to become an acolyte at one of the lesser cathedrals. He'd made progress with the nether. Changed his name from the obviously Mallish Sorley to the upstandingly Gaskan Sorrowen. Following some testing of his skill, and an investigation into his background to make sure he wasn't a spy, he'd been elevated to the monastery within the Citadel.

  At that point, he'd been fourteen. Now, four years later, Sorrowen was skilled enough to
become a proper monk, but was being prevented from doing so by some kind of bureaucratic logjam that Dante couldn't solve without alienating one half of his monks. So he'd left them to solve the dispute for themselves. Needless to say, the logjam wasn't being received well by the acolytes being held back.

  Nak, who still thought of himself as a simple monk mistakenly promoted to the heights of the Council, continued to take an interest in the monastery's affairs. It had been his suggestion to assign Sorrowen to Cee as she investigated the theft of the book. Paired up, Sorrowen would provide magical muscle for Cee. Meanwhile, as Sorrowen waited for his official promotion, the task would give him something to do and provide him real experience out in the field.

  Dante awaited the acolyte in the Council chambers. Sorrowen arrived looking perfectly anxious. Ten years the boy's senior, Dante thought Sorrowen looked absurdly young.

  "Sit down," Dante said.

  The boy's eyes darted from chair to chair as he attempted to decipher which one he was meant to occupy. He glanced at Dante for a sign, found nothing, then shot a look at Blays, who was leaning against a wall, arms folded. Looking as though he might spontaneously shatter, Sorrowen simply chose the chair closest to him.

  "Tell me what happened last night," Dante said.

  Sorrowen frowned. "I've already told Olivander. But you're not Olivander," he added quickly. "And you're giving me an order. So I should probably shut up and talk."

  Dante hadn't bothered to light a fire and the room was cold, but sweat dewed Sorrowen's forehead. He spoke with a moderate Mallish accent. "I was out with Cee. Obviously. She was supposed to meet someone named Waller. This was after midnight, I remember because the bells had made me jump—"

  "Who's Waller?"

  "I don't know. There was a lot Cee didn't tell me. Sometimes I felt like she didn't like having me around."

  "Hard to believe. Where was the meet to be held?"

  "A rooftop on Flinders Street. Next to the Green Beetle. Cee had me get up onto the roof across the street and hide behind the water barrels. Everything looked fine to me—I mean, there were a lot of dirty-looking people around, but that's Flinders Street for you—so I signaled Cee the okay.