Plague of Shadows

by Michael Wisehart

  As it was, they had a long way to go with few places to stop and resupply, so Ferrin and Myron hunted game while Rae and Suri foraged for wild berries, roots, and nuts. Rae had to be shown which were safe to eat and which would leave you with gut rot or worse, but with winter setting in, their selection was rather limited.

  Dried leaves crunched behind him, and Ferrin turned to find Myron sauntering in from where he’d been keeping watch on the outer perimeter. He knelt and warmed his hands near the flame. “Ahh, much better,” he said, looking over at Ferrin. “Are we going to talk about our encounter with those wolves or go on pretending like nothing happened?”

  “I was as surprised as you,” Ferrin said softly, not wanting to wake Rae. He sat down on his bedding and watched Myron work the numbness from his fingers. The wolves were a topic Ferrin had purposely shied away from. After seeing Rae’s reaction to Suri’s magic, he didn’t care to stir the flames. He wasn’t sure if her anger was due to her daughter having magic or just an overall resentment of magic itself.

  “She will never use it again,” Rae said, startling the two men as she slipped out from under the blanket she shared with Suri. She moved a little closer to Ferrin’s side of the fire, sat, and hugged her knees to her chest.

  “Did you know?” Ferrin asked.

  Rae shook her head.

  “You had no idea your daughter could talk to animals?” Myron said, sounding skeptical.

  “How would I? I’ve never even seen an animal before, unless you count the men inside the Tower.”

  Myron nodded. “Good point.”

  Something about that night had left Ferrin puzzled. “Do you have a second crystal?”

  Rae looked at him like she didn’t understand the question.

  “You threw me your crystal during our standoff with the wolves.”

  “I only have one,” she said, lifting the chain around her neck to confirm it. “Why?”

  “Then how did Suri use magic?”

  Her face tightened, apparently not liking the implication as she picked at the frayed hem of her dress. “I don’t know.”

  “Azriel, the old seer, told me that there are some people who are born with innate gifts that don’t need a transferal.” Ferrin looked at the sleeping mound underneath Rae’s bedding. “Suri must be one of them.”

  “But why is her magic different?” Rae asked. “How could she be able to do such things if I cannot?”

  “From what I understand, most families tend to pass on one specific trait.” Ferrin hadn’t thought about it until now, but maybe that was one of the reasons the Tower wanted him so badly. Would they use him the same way they had Rae, to breed metallurgists?

  “Maybe what she has wasn’t passed down from your side,” Myron said. “Maybe it was passed down from her father’s.”

  Rae bared her teeth and growled.

  Myron scooted back. “What did I say?”

  Ferrin looked at Myron. “Suri’s father was Chee—I mean, Sylas.”

  Myron swallowed. “Inquisitor Sylas?”

  Rae turned her head, not looking at either of them.

  Ferrin nodded.

  “Oh. Do you think the inquisitor had this gift as well?”

  Ferrin looked at Rae, but when she didn’t respond, he finally shrugged. “After what Suri said the wolves were there for, I’d wager a yes.”

  “You know,” Myron said, “with a gift like that, Suri could be of help catching game. We wouldn’t be so—”

  “No!” Rae spun back around. “She will not be used to fill your bellies.”

  Myron exchanged a nervous look with Ferrin. Even for Rae, the outburst had been harsh. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean any disrespect. I just thought her gift might help keep us alive. But if you don’t want—”

  “I don’t. She’ll not use magic again.” Rae stood and marched back to her bedding, crawling in beside her daughter and pulling the covers over their heads.

  Myron looked at Ferrin. “Was it something I said?”

  “Don’t take it personally,” he said as quietly as he could so Rae wouldn’t hear. “She’s scared.”

  “I didn’t mean to upset her. We really could use a gift like that.”

  Ferrin nodded. “Hopefully she’ll come around.”

  The two stared at the fire for a moment, enjoying the silence.

  “So,” Myron said, trying to sound casual, “what’s this twin sister of yours like who we’re risking our lives to save? Is she married?”

  Ferrin picked up a pine cone and tossed it onto the fire. “No, not married. Too busy looking out for her brother to worry about something like that.”

  Myron smiled. “I hope she doesn’t look like you.”

  Ferrin laughed. “Thankfully, no.”

  “Think she’d be interested in a well-mannered former captain of the Black Watch?”

  “I hope not,” Ferrin blurted out before he could stop himself.

  Myron looked a bit taken aback.

  “I’m sorry. But the last thing she needs is to get caught up with a sellsword.” Especially one who was willing to pledge his allegiance to the Tower, he thought. “That line of work doesn’t exactly lend itself to home and family, always on the move, never sure if the next job is going to leave you with a sword in the chest or an arrow in the back.” Besides, Myron was old enough to already be showing a little grey, not that the age difference would have mattered too much to Ferrin, but it might to Myriah.

  “Guess I can’t argue with you there.” Myron sighed. “Do you think—”

  A sharp cry from the other side of the fire had both men hopping to their feet.

  Suri was sitting up in her bed, face white as a swan’s neck.

  Rae hugged her close and gently patted down the little girl’s disheveled hair. “It was just a dream, Suri. Go back to sleep. Everything’s fine.”

  “I’m scared, Mommy.”

  “There’s nothing to be scared of. We won’t let those Tower guards get you.”

  “No,” the little girl said, shrugging off her mother’s embrace. She pointed up at the tops of the trees behind them. “They scare me.”

  Everyone turned to see what the little girl was looking at. Ferrin scanned the upper branches behind them. He didn’t see anything, but it didn’t stop the hairs on the back of his neck from rising. What was she looking at? Was she using magic again?

  “What scares you?” Rae asked. She, too, kept her eyes on the swaying boughs overhead.

  Suri pointed up once again. “Those birds.”

  “Birds? What birds?”

  Ferrin held his breath and listened but couldn’t hear any birds. It was the middle of the night. Most birds were asleep.

  “Maybe she saw an owl,” Myron suggested.

  “The birds aren’t going to hurt you, Suri,” Rae said, glancing at Ferrin as if to make sure what she was telling her daughter was true.

  “Your mama’s right, Suri,” Myron said, finally turning back around. “The birds won’t hurt you.”

  “Those are very bad birds,” Suri whispered, her gaze still locked on the top of the trees. “They said they’ve been looking for us. They said they’ve been watching us.”

  Myron drew his sword. “I think I just felt a chill run down my back.”

  “You’re not the only one,” Ferrin said, pulled the stone knife from the back of his trousers. Something wasn’t right. He was starting to feel like they were being watched. He had thought maybe it was the wolves again, following, but now he wasn’t so sure.

  A loud, throaty caw pierced the silence, and Rae yelped. Ferrin tensed at the unexpected shriek. Above them, an enormous raven-like creature spread its black wings from where it was perched in the shadows of one of the larger pines. Whatever it was, it looked more reptilian than bird. Its enormous wings had no feathers, only stretched skin, similar in shape to a bat. It lifted into the star-filled sky and disappeared from view.

  Myron half choked as he stared up at the branches overhe
ad where the creature had been perched. “Corax.”

  “What?” Ferrin asked, moving closer to the fire.

  “It looked like a corax. They are the White Tower’s eyes. They can track almost anything.”

  Ferrin grabbed his bedding. “It’s time to go.”

  Chapter 24 | Lenara

  LENARA WOKE TO THE sound of Sylas stirring on the other side of the fire. She was still having trouble adjusting to the inquisitor’s new body. She couldn’t look at him without remembering how innocent the young guard, Joren, had been, or the fear in his eyes at the end.

  Their campsite in the glen consisted of four firepits. Three were shared by the twenty members of the Black Watch, while the fourth—which had been placed well away from the others—was occupied by Lenara and Sylas. The distance set between their fire and the others was as much for the guards’ benefit as it was for theirs.

  Though they served the Tower, the Black Watch resented the bulradoer. More importantly, they feared them. Those that had been in the Tower for any given length of time were well aware of the bulradoer’s power and were eager to keep a safe distance from Lenara, for which she was grateful.

  Thankfully, none of the Watch chosen to accompany them were part of the new recruits, so Lenara didn’t find it necessary to worry about anyone confusing Sylas with Joren, the young guard. However, that didn’t stop them from keeping a distrustful eye on their new leader. And why not? He was half their age. In fact, if Valtor hadn’t demanded they recognize Sylas’s position, they probably would have killed him and dumped his body in the Pass of Arnon on the way out, leaving Lenara with the unfortunate duty of informing Valtor that all their work in reviving the disturbed inquisitor had been for nothing.

  She didn’t want to consider the consequences of that. Valtor had specifically told her that Sylas was her responsibility, so like it or not, she had to keep him alive.

  As it was, the Watch seemed willing to cooperate, but from the way they grumbled to each other when they thought Sylas and Lenara weren’t listening, she could tell they weren’t happy about having what amounted to a green recruit ordering them around. It didn’t help that Sylas was as experienced at hunting in the wild as a red-tailed rooster, and just as noisy. The man had spent the majority of his adult life inside the bowels of the White Tower. They were lucky he knew how to ride at all.

  Shifting to a more comfortable position on her bedding, she poked at the fire with a long stick, moving the not-quite-burnt pieces closer to the center. Sylas grunted as he turned over. She wanted to throw a log at him. Why had Valtor chosen her for this assignment? Was she being punished? She should be tracking down the faeling, not scouring the countryside looking for some swordsmith.

  She snapped the branch. She knew better than to question Valtor’s orders. The Archchancellor always had a reason for everything. He was a true batmyth player. The few times she had been given the chance to sit across the board from him had ended rather quickly. It was a game of logic . . . and the man never lost. He was always ten steps ahead of his opponents. The way the pieces moved depended on the roll of the dice and the cards you were dealt. You had to know when to attack and when to retreat. No matter what Valtor did, there was always a calculated reason behind it.

  Still, it didn’t change the fact that she didn’t want to be there. She turned and fluffed the lump out of the extra blanket she was about to use for a pillow.

  “Where am I?” a voice behind her asked. She turned.

  Sylas was sitting up on his bedroll.

  “What are you talking about?” she said. “We’re in camp.”

  He turned to get a better view of the small clearing, his eyes uncertain.

  She turned as well. Most of the guards were asleep, though a few patrolled the perimeter, half-hidden by the trees.

  After a quick sweep of the camp, Sylas turned back around, his expression odd. “I know you.”

  “I would hope so. We’ve been traveling together for the better part of a week. What’s wrong with you?”

  “I remember your eyes.”

  My eyes? Lenara scooted to the edge of her bedding. That didn’t sound like Sylas. Who was she talking to? “What’s your name?”

  “Joren, ma’am.”

  Her breath caught. Joren? “Interesting.” She leaned forward, taking time to really study his eyes. They were the same sharp brown as before but somehow softer. Which might have been from the absence of the deep scowl Sylas normally wore. In its place—bewilderment, with a hint of something else, possibly curiosity.

  “What’s interesting?” he asked.

  “Do you know what’s happened to you?”

  Joren’s eyes shifted as he thought. “I remember a cave. You were there. There were others as well.” He ran his hand through his hair. “I remember the Archchancellor and . . . the tree.” His eyes widened, and he quickly felt around his mouth. “What happened? Those branches . . .” He looked down at his chest as if trying to reassure himself that they weren’t there, still wrapped around his body. “I remember the dead inquisitor. We were trying to help him, I think. There was a voice. Up here.” He tapped the side of his head. “Then everything . . . stopped.” He paused a moment, then looked up at Lenara. “Why can’t I remember more?”

  Lenara kept her face smooth, but her mind was racing. How was she going to explain this? Should she even try? Something had clearly gone wrong with Valtor’s incantation. She doubted the Archchancellor had meant for the recruit’s soul to remain behind. And where was Sylas? Would he return, or did he somehow get dislodged from the body? Not that she would mind seeing that happen, but if Valtor found out, he’d kill the recruit to squelch any talk of what had been done to him. And to Lenara’s surprise, she didn’t want to see him killed.

  There was something about him. Something innocent. He reminded her of her younger sister, Viena, at least what small part of her she could still remember. It had been so long since she had a family, those memories had quite faded. But she could recall the way Viena had made her feel . . . loved.

  Unlike other bulradoer, Lenara had come to the White Tower of her own accord and at an early age. Her survivor nature had encouraged her to accept the Tower’s offer of fealty without argument. It didn’t hurt that she had been promised the opportunity to practice magic.

  “Did we help him, the inquisitor?” Joren asked.

  She had to stop and think about what he was asking. “We did.” In a way.

  Joren turned and looked at the sleeping men behind him. “Is he here?”

  His voice, a little too loud, caused a few of the men at the next fire over to stir in their blankets.

  “He’s around,” she said, flicking a curl out of her eye. She was stuck facing a situation she hadn’t expected. Was Sylas gone for good? Should she continue with their mission? She certainly didn’t want to come back empty-handed. If she had to face Valtor and explain to him the failure of his conjuring, having the swordsmith in hand when she did would definitely lessen the blow.

  On the other hand, if Sylas wasn’t gone, how much should she tell Joren? She decided, for now, the best option would be to tell him as little as possible.

  “I don’t understand. How did we get out here? The last thing I remember, we were in—”

  “What’s wrong with him?” a voice behind her said, causing her to flinch. It was one of the night watch coming back in for a change in shift. He was a lanky man with shoulder-length disheveled hair that clung to the sides of his long face. His uniform was about as unkempt as the rest of him. The dark ring around the seat of his pants made it look like he’d spent his entire watch sitting in a pile of wet mud.

  “Nothing,” Lenara said, standing to face him, the top of her head barely reaching his chest.

  The guard took a step back.

  She glanced at Joren, who had apparently decided to stand as well. “It was a dream.”

  “A dream?” The guard looked at Joren. “He looks as confused as my late wife’s brother. And h
e’d been dropped on his head as a child.”

  Lenara raised her hand. “Voyestra.” Red flame ignited from her palm, casting menacing shadows across her face. “Are you questioning me?”

  The guard’s eyes bulged, and he backed away. “No, ma’am.” He made a swift retreat to the second fire and hopped into bed, not bothering to so much as look in their direction.

  When she turned, she noticed Joren’s eyes were nearly as wide as the guard’s as he stared at the flames rising from her open palm.

  She lowered her hand, and they vanished.

  “You’re . . . a wielder?”

  A couple of the other guards at another fire turned to see what was happening.

  “This way,” she said, motioning with her head for him to follow. She left the warmth of the fire and headed for the horse pen on the outer edge of camp, her breath leaving a trail of mist behind her as she made her way to the other side of the rope corral. She shivered as she scanned the trees to make sure no one else was listening in.

  Joren followed her lead and made a nervous sweep of the trees as well. “I don’t understand what’s going on. How did I get here? Am I going crazy?”

  She put her finger to her lips. “Keep your voice down,” she said, glancing past him to the other campfires. It was clear she was going to have to tell him the truth, whether she wanted to or not. She couldn’t keep letting him act insane around the other guards. They might decide to take matters into their own hands and kill him anyway.

  She sighed. This wasn’t going to be easy. How was she going to tell the recruit that they had tried to kill him and give his body to someone else? She took a deep breath. “First of all, yes, I’m a wielder. Like the Archchancellor said, there are a few of us who are permitted to keep our powers in order to help the Tower round up the rest of the ven’ae. And second, no, you’re not crazy.”

  “I’m not?” He didn’t seem all that relieved at the news.

  “This might be difficult to understand,” she said, looking him in the eyes, “but you’re not supposed to be here right now.”

  He looked at her the way the guard had been looking at him a moment ago—like she was completely insane. “I don’t understand.”