A Blight of Blackwings

by Kevin Hearne

  “I found this on a strange ship,” I told her when she answered the door, leaving out that it was most likely the one that had prompted the invasion, “and I’d like you to examine its properties with your kenning to see if you can identify what the stain is made of.”

  “Well, hi, Tallynd,” she replied, reminding me that I’d completely forgotten my manners. After I made apologies, she took the hunk of wood from my hands and scowled at it doubtfully. “Might be all I’ll pick up is the seawater. The stain is impregnated into the wood.”

  “I understand. But I’d like you to try. Please.”

  She sighed and closed her eyes, spreading her palm flat against the wood and seeing…I don’t know what. Hygienists perceive so much that is unseen, and how they know what’s diseased and what’s healthful, what’s poisonous and what’s hearty, is truly beyond my vision. She tried to explain it to me once, that there are tiny structures that make up all substances, and after a while the patterns of those structures become recognizable and can be used to identify components of poisons and so on.

  Feryn stood in her open doorway, her expression nonplussed at first, but after half a minute of silence, a furrow developed between her brows and the corners of her mouth pulled down. A flash of teeth followed, and her eyes flew open and she spoke in a sharp tone: “Where did you get this?”

  “I told you—”

  “Yes, yes, a strange ship, I know, but where? Not on this continent, am I correct?”

  “Well, no. I mean, yes, you’re correct. What is it?”

  She walked toward me, voice pitched low and urgent. “Was this from a Bone Giant ship?”

  “Well, not exactly. I mean, there were dead Bone Giants aboard.”

  “So this is not from their flat-bottomed ships that they used for the invasion?”

  “No, why?”

  She whirled away from me, her eyes wide. “Bryn preserve us.” She put the hull scrap on her desk and immediately grasped for a piece of paper. She scrawled a quick note and address on it, talking as she wrote.

  “Meet me at this address as soon as you can with a piece from one of the invasion hulls. A piece from the bottom! I’ll explain everything there. I need to confirm something before I say more, because I could be wrong, but if I’m right this explains everything.”

  “Everything?”

  “Well, it explains exactly one thing. A rather important detail we’ve all been wondering about, like how the Bone Giants crossed the ocean.”

  I gasped and stared at her for a few seconds to see if she was joking with me, but her expression never wavered. She merely nodded once.

  “I’ll meet you there as soon as possible.”

  * * *

  —

  Fintan’s laugh echoed in my cell. Presumably he was chuckling at the crowd’s reaction for ending there.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll return to Tallynd and you’ll have your answer. For now, let’s see what happened when Abhi and I caught up with Olet Kanek in Ghurana Nent.”

  There were trees on either shore as we left Tel Ghanaz behind us, but the trees to the north were ancient, primeval, never cut, while the trees on the southern shore had been periodically thinned, harvested, and replanted over many years. Regardless, it was a lot of fuel and represented uncountable riches to us. We were rowing our glass boats through a land of treasure. Leagues and leagues of prosperity. My people were smiling, flush with hope, and I was ready to join them, for every stroke of the oars took me farther away from Hathrir.

  But word traveled up from the rear of the fleet that there was a Raelech bard and a Nentian boy who dearly wished to speak with me regarding my father. I instructed our boat to land on the southern shore to allow them to catch up and meet with us. La Mastik and I debarked and quickly built a makeshift hearth to welcome them properly. When they arrived, the Nentian boy walked down with a stalk hawk on his shoulder and a bloodcat by his side. The Raelech bard I’d met before. Jerin Mogen and I had taken him up the coast once to Hashan Khek, and he was there at the Battle of the Godsteeth too, when we surrendered. The Nentian boy introduced himself as Abhinava Khose, a plaguebringer of the Sixth Kenning, and I thought I remembered seeing him at the surrender too, though we hadn’t spoken.

  “This is Murr and Eep,” he said, pointing to his animal companions. He looked to be in his early twenties, very handsome for a tiny Nentian person, and he wore khernhide boots. That told me he was either rich or a hunter. I was betting on the latter. He was very polite and begged us to excuse him as he gave his animal friends some time to hunt on the shore while we spoke with the bard.

  “We arrived at Talala Fouz a few days after you,” the bard began, “and we were in the skylight room with the king when your father arrived with his fury, Pinter Stuken, demanding that you be rendered unto him.”

  “What? Is he coming after me?”

  “No. Not anymore.”

  “What happened?”

  “Please keep in mind I’m only the messenger, all right? Your father demanded permission to pursue you, and the king refused. So your father ordered Pinter Stuken to burn down the city, and he did. But King Kalaad was slain by your own father’s hand: I witnessed this with my own eyes. At that point it was war, because Winthir Kanek killed the king of Ghurana Nent and ordered the razing of the capital. Both your father and Pinter Stuken were slain in the aftermath. I’m sorry.”

  My eyes slid to La Mastik, and I pointed a finger at the bard. “Did he just say my father is dead?”

  “Yes. And Pinter Stuken too. I’d like to know how a bunch of Nentians took down a firelord and a fury.”

  “I would too.”

  “You’re not upset?” the bard asked.

  I couldn’t stop blinking and shaking my head with tiny little movements. “I can’t be. This is not even real to me yet.”

  “Will you be upset when you think it’s real?”

  “I…I guess not. Well, maybe? I’m not sure. I think I’d be relieved, more than anything else. That’s a terrible thing to say, isn’t it?” I knew, intellectually, that it was. I was supposed to be upset. Some sort of sadness and grief would be appropriate now. But all I felt was wonder—and hope—at how such a thing could be possible.

  “It’s understandable, considering what you’ve been through,” La Mastik said. “You’ll hear no judgment from me.”

  “Thank you.” I turned back to the bard. “Will you tell me how they died?”

  “They died from the Sixth Kenning.”

  “The Sixth Kenning,” I repeated, letting the words hang in the air, searching wistfully for some meaning or context.

  It took a moment for them to latch on to something, and then I whirled to look behind me. “You mean that kid with the bloodcat? He did it?”

  “He did. And Abhi hopes you’ll forgive him. It was war. He was trying to save the people of Talala Fouz and beyond, because your father planned on burning everyone in his way to get to you. We heard him say it. The way Abhi saw it, he had no choice.”

  “But I…I don’t get it. Why is he here? Does he want to kill me too?”

  “No, no, no! He wants to join you. Help you, if he can.”

  “Help me?”

  “The Gravewood is a very dangerous place, which is why there are no settlements. But Abhi can make sure you aren’t eaten on the way. He will use the Sixth Kenning to protect your party from predators, which means you’re practically guaranteed to arrive at your destination safely.”

  “Why would he want to do that?”

  “He wants to see the Gravewood. And, honestly, he wants to remove himself from the power of politicians in Ghurana Nent. He’s not particularly fond of people telling him what to do with his kenning.”

  “Huh. Well, I can relate to that.”

  “So would you be ok
ay with him—with us—joining you? No hard feelings?”

  “I, uh, I don’t know. I need to have a smoke and think it over.”

  “Understood. I’ll withdraw some distance over there and wait for you to call me back.”

  “Thanks.”

  When he’d left, I tumbled to the ground and got out my pipe. I shook some leaves into it with trembling fingers. My father was dead. The kid who’d killed him was close enough for me to have my revenge if I wished it. Was that bravery to come to me? Stupidity? An unbelievable arrogance? La Mastik sat beside me and got out her pipe as well; she said nothing about my shaking.

  “Where are my tears, Mirana?” I said in a low voice. “I can’t keep my hands steady, but I can’t cry either. Not even tears of relief. I’m dry as the Glass Desert.”

  “They might come later. You’re shocked, more than anything.”

  “You think? I tell you, Mirana, I didn’t think he could die. I thought he’d just burn forever. Terrorize people. Threaten them, bully them, and send Pinter to incinerate them if that didn’t work. I thought it would never end.”

  “But it has. You have that boy to thank.”

  “He deserves my gratitude, doesn’t he? And my vengeance too.”

  “That’s a problem.”

  “It is. Let’s smoke it out.”

  We sparked up our bowls and inhaled deeply. After we exhaled, tendrils of smoke wafting skyward, La Mastik said, “You could go home now. You could be hearthfire of Narvik or Tharsif or both.”

  I shook my head. “No. I’d have to fight someone eventually for it, maybe even right away. And I don’t want to risk my life for power. I’d risk it for peace, though.”

  “You want to continue with this when you don’t have to? Never return to Hathrir?”

  “That’s right. I want to be free of it. And now I guess I am. No one else will come looking for me.” Mother had died when I was ten. There were no invisible strings tying me to Hathrir anymore. Laughter bubbled up from my throat, and tears, absent until now and still unexpected, sprang to the corners of my eyes. They were happy ones.

  “Here on the banks of the Gravewater, surrounded by riches, I lay my burden down.”

  “So is that your answer? Let the kid who killed your father join us?”

  I puffed on the pipe for a while before answering, and La Mastik joined me, content to wait. We had much to think about, and the ritual of smoking helped. The smoke became a metaphor for whatever problem we faced: The problem is first acknowledged and internalized by breathing in the smoke, then externalized and solved with its exhalation. Or it isn’t solved at all and you need to smoke some more.

  “I suppose I don’t think of it that way, Mirana,” I said. “He didn’t kill my father so much as save my life—and many other lives besides. I have no doubt that my father was the aggressor, and as the bard said, he would have burned anything to get to me.”

  “No doubt.”

  “And so he was justly killed. But you know what that means?”

  “What?”

  “Our letter to the viceroy of Ghuli Rakhan is from a king who’s now dead. Will he still honor it?”

  La Mastik shrugged. “I don’t know. We should hurry in case he won’t.”

  “I think you’re right. We need to get there before word reaches them.” I clambered to my feet and opened my mouth to summon the bard, but then I sat back down again. La Mastik looked at me, exasperated.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Not ready yet. Nope. Need another smoke.”

  “You just said we should get going.”

  My fingers were shaking again as I refilled the bowl of my pipe. “It’s hitting me now. I’m angry now.”

  Mirana got out her tobacco for a refill. “That’s okay, Olet. It’s natural to feel that way. What are you angry about? It’s probably more than one thing.”

  “It is.” I sparked up my bowl and inhaled. Mirana did the same. We exhaled in tandem.

  “Anger is a fire and you are a firelord,” she said. “Name your anger and then you can control it.”

  “I’m angry at my father for being such a terrible person that his only daughter feels relief at his death. I’m angry at myself for not having the courage or the strength to tell him no or to face him in any meaningful way. And I’m angry at that kid for doing what I should have done. Angry that he thinks he can admit to me he did it and I’ll be fine with it because my father really was that terrible. Objectively terrible. I mean, he could have left out that part.”

  “Which part? Sorry.”

  “The part where he’s the one who killed him. The bard could have just said, ‘Hey, your father’s dead. Somebody finally got him.’ And I wouldn’t have known any better.”

  “But then you might feel compelled to find out who did it. You’d wonder.”

  “True.”

  “And this kid might want to be honest with you. His confession can’t be anything but contrition. If you want to punish him, he’s probably ready for it.”

  I waggled my pipe stem at her. “And that makes me angry too. Because if I do punish him, then I’d be just like my father. Everyone knows I’m his daughter. I’m angry that I’ll always be his daughter. I can’t burn anything down, even if it deserves to be burnt down, or I’ll be just another tyrannical Kanek.”

  “Some people wouldn’t mind that.”

  “I know. But I would mind it very much. Father surrounded me with stones, like some hearth, and now I can only burn in a prescribed space. It’s infuriating.”

  “I can only imagine.”

  “Not that the kid deserves to burn. He probably deserves a medal.”

  “Or at least a slice of cake.”

  “Ha ha ha! Cake. ‘Hey, kid, thanks for killing my dad. Here’s some baked goods.’ Sure.” I grinned at her for another second and then my face fell. “Scorch it, Mirana, why’d you have to say that? Now I want cake.”

  She laughed, but I really did want cake to celebrate. And knowing that filled me with guilt and shame, and because of that the anger came back too, so much worse than before. I dropped my pipe, stood, and thrust my hands toward the tiny fire we’d built. I poured my rage into it and it burned hotter and hotter, consuming the logs quickly, the flames building and climbing according to my will, a pillar of flame rising to the sky so everyone for miles around could see just how angry I was. The Hathrim traveling with me would see it and understand that something had made me very upset. It was proper for me to do this—if I didn’t, then they would question my heart, my devotion to family. That thought made me rage all the more, and the flames grew higher and higher, and when the fuel was nothing but ash, I sent the fire up until it dissipated for lack of oxygen and the pillar winked out of existence.

  “Nuhh,” I groaned, weariness washing over me as I squatted, suddenly dizzy from the effort.

  “Feel better?”

  “Sort of. I guess?”

  La Mastik picked up my pipe and held it out in front of me. “We should go.”

  “You’re right.” I rose and hollered at the bard. While we waited for him to return, I used the time to stow my pipe and compose myself.

  “Is it safe?” he asked.

  “Perfectly.”

  I made a point of inviting the bard and the plaguebringer onto my boat. The Nentian boy thanked me and was quick to apologize once he boarded.

  “It is I who should be thanking you,” I told him. “You’ve given me my freedom, and I bear you no ill will. Well…not enough to do anything. Emotions are messy.”

  “I understand,” he said, and his look of chagrin and empathy was touching. I liked him and wanted to destroy him at the same time. Which only proved my point about emotions.

  “Look, kid: I don’t want to know how you did
it. But I do want to know why you want to join us.”

  “I have a heart to see new creatures and make new friends in a new place.”

  “That’s all?”

  “No,” he admitted. “Two viceroys want me dead. And I have no idea how the new king, whenever we have one, will feel about the Sixth Kenning. I don’t want to be within their reach.”

  That was frank enough. His interests were aligned with mine, and his kenning would be invaluable, no doubt.

  “We’re going to need to do a funeral smoke for my father and Pinter Stuken. These people all knew of them by reputation, but they’re Gorin Mogen’s people. Still, I’ll leave you out of it, and you don’t have to admit to it if asked. As far as I’m concerned, they don’t need to know.”

  He thanked me for being so gracious, and we held the smoke that night. And as I’d done before, I gave everyone the opportunity to leave. The bard was kind enough to lend his kenning to my speech so I could be sure that everyone heard me.

  “Winthir Kanek and Pinter Stuken are gone. That means there will be new hearthfires in Narvik and Tharsif. You may wish to return and live under a new hearthfire, and I invite you to do so if that desire burns in your heart. Your lives might be better there. They might be worse. There is no way to know, and we must each forge our own future. You may also stay in any Nentian city you wish or move on to Rael or beyond. But if you continue on with me to build a new city, know this: I am not your hearthfire. That position will not exist. I will not fight for it, but I will fight to make sure we are never dominated by such a person. Our leaders will be elected on the strength of their ideas, not on the strength of their sword arm or their kenning. If you have ideas you wish to share with the group or wish to put yourself forward as a candidate for leadership, the Raelech bard will accommodate you. We welcome him and the young Nentian man of the Sixth Kenning, who has joined us. All kennings, all people, are welcome among us.”