“One hand down,” said Brenn. “Now let's see the other.” He repeated the process, and after he cleared Nasira's left hand, had her sit down on the stone hearth and extend her feet.
The silence stretched, deepened, and became unbearable.
“Well?” she said.
The Nalavacian smiled. “You like to live dangerously, love, but your running days aren't over just yet.”
“Oh, gods!” She sprang up and threw her arms around him, disappearing into his massive chest. When she pulled herself away she flexed her toes like she was using them for the first time. Wincing, she eased them onto the cabin floor.
“They'll be cold and tingly for a while,” said Brenn. “Rest more by the fire.” He turned to his old mercenary brothers. “If I knew you were coming to Nalavac I'd at least have told you how to make some halfway decent snowshoes.”
Siggi grinned. “Wouldn't want to ruin the surprise, old friend.”
“We could use some of those for tonight,” Argus said. “I don't know what will happen when your kinfolk come back, but I imagine there will be a lot of running and blood.”
Brenn's smile disappeared into his beard. “Bugger that. Let's eat before we cross that bridge.” He went back to his stirring, pausing every once in a while to sprinkle on ground herbs. The others drifted closer to the fire as if their feet had minds of their own.
“It isn't much,” said the Nalavacian. “But I went out before daybreak and found a few hares in my traps.”
If Brenn was apologetic about hare stew, Argus wondered what kind of delicacies usually graced his friend's table. The hunks of meat melted in his mouth, warming it, leaving a delicious aftertaste of garlic and green onions. Greasy broth coated his throat. His belly stopped rumbling. For the first time in forever he finally felt warm.
They ate until Brenn's pot was empty, moaning and sighing by the fire. Brenn got up, leaned forward to not scrape the ceiling of his humble cabin, and found a whetstone for his ax.
“Now that you've eaten and rested, it's time to tell me why you're really here. I might be a charming bastard, but only a fool would believe you came all the way to Nalavac just for a social visit.”
Siggi told him about his quest to find out as much as he could about the gods of Eld. How the scholars at the Atheneum of Azmar singled out the Nalavacian sap readers as the most authentic practitioners of the old rituals.
“Ah,” said Brenn. “That's Rosheen you'll want to talk to, then. She reads tree sap and sees the future. She sets our broken bones and heals our ill. Some say the cold has no effect on her.”
“It would be helpful if you were living with her,” said the Rivannan, “but it looks like your banishment has put my mission on hold.”
Argus smiled. “It's not over yet, friend. Just imagine how much you'll learn about Nalavacian rituals once we're living among them as slaves.”
“Your sarcasm is about as comforting as a soggy blanket.” He frowned. “Or an empty keg of ale.”
“Bugger that,” said Brenn. “You're not going back there.” His eyes narrowed on Argus. “You haven't said why you're here. I thought you were starting a new life back on Davos.”
“The old one caught up with me.” Argus told Brenn everything that had happened in Azmar, including what he'd discovered about his nephew.
“So what's your plan? Sail over to Leith and put the insolent whelp back in his place?”
“It isn't quite that simple, but you're on the mark.”
Then it was Nasira's turn to share what had happened with the election on the Comet Tail Isles, and how she was driven to the Cradle.
“And now you're roaming around with these upstanding gentlemen because you have nowhere else to go.”
She smiled. “It's good to see you, Brenndall. Even if your family reunion didn't turn out how you hoped—”
“They don't understand me, is all. We don't see eye to eye. Don't think we ever will.”
Nasira laid a hand on his shoulder. “Thank you for saving my fingers and toes.”
“Aye. It's good you're a strong swimmer. Otherwise you'd be an ice block.”
Siggi asked Brenn why he wasn't down south in Calladon, helping shape the outcome of the civil war with a mercenary company. He muttered something about maybe getting down there soon. The Wanderwood was vast, but he was restless. The others chatted a while longer.
Argus hardly heard them. His mind was elsewhere. Something Brenn said. We don't see eye to eye… He shot off the floor, igniting pain in every joint. “I think I have it.”
“Have what?” said Nasira, her eyes wide.
“A way to deal with Brenn's kin.”
“I've been up all night thinking about it,” Brenn said. “There can't be any more bloodshed. Gods know I have too much of it on my hands already.”
Argus waved him off. “You said things would be better if you saw eye to eye. What if I can show them what you've been through? Who you really are. With the Five Branches.”
Brenn folded his arms in front of his chest. “I don't know.”
“He's been studying for months,” Siggi said. “I hate what it's doing to him—”
“As do I,” said Nasira.
“—but if those musty books can get us out of this quandary…”
Argus laid his hands on the Rivannan's shoulders. “They can. You can't deny their power. Power passed down by the very gods you worship.”
“I know, yet the more I learn the warier I become. Do you need a reminder of what Eamon did to Willow? Or what he did to himself after all those years hidden away with his books?”
Argus shook his head, glaring. “Let me worry about that later. For now I'm surviving. Doing what it takes to get us out of here and help my friend.”
Save for the crackle of the fire, Brenn's cabin fell silent. Finally the Nalavacian stepped forward and asked Argus what he needed.
“Just your forehead.”
* * *
It will work, Argus thought. It has too.
Memories kept bubbling to the surface. Failures. So many excruciating hours on Davos spent twisting his mind over every passage, twisting and twisting some more until he was sure it was broken, until the next day came and it was time to reassemble the pieces.
He followed the others around the cabin, no longer able to look at Brenn. His eyes remained red and watery because, for those moments when his fingers had been pressed against the Nalavacian's forehead—moments that stretched into lifetimes—his eyes had been Brenn's eyes. Their thoughts and memories were one.
He'd started with Brenn's earliest memories, then moved on to those of his mother and father and their parents beyond them. Argus kept tracking back until he saw the god Setep himself, and his offspring with one of the first human women.
Remember them. Remember the line all the way through. While they walked through the clearing in the snowshoes Brenn had made them, Argus didn't think remembering would be an issue. If anything he'd have to forget if he ever wanted to sleep well again.
I was there. I saw what he saw, felt what he felt, and lived his life. For the briefest of moments, his eyes had belonged to a demigod.
They spent the afternoon roaming the outskirts of Brenn's homestead. The sun shone, ravens cawed, and the Wanderwood became almost beautiful. He pointed out his favorite stream and an assortment of traps, including a massive metal thing meant for bears, still set. But he gave the tour without his usual intensity. He and Argus drifted, there but not there, still absorbed in their experiences.
I know him better than I know anyone now, he realized. Better than I know myself.
Many nights he'd felt the temptation to look into himself, to peel back the layers like he did to Brenn. But he hadn't been able to work up the courage. His father was still alive. That was one thing. Who knew what other shadows lurked just a few generations removed?
At last they doubled back for the cabin. The sunlight waned, and the air grew cold. They walked slower now, whipping their heads around a
t every little rustle.
“Where are they?” Nasira said, hugging her arms. “I can't bear this waiting any longer.”
Brenn pointed ahead, past the cabin and into the trees that separated his clearing from the one with all the skulls. “They're already here.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Argus's heart galloped and threatened to burst from his chest.
Nalavacian eyes settled on them. One pair after another crawled through the trees and joined the row already in the clearing. They looked just as formidable as the night before with all their swords and spears and axes.
“Ready?” said Brenn.
The Legion of the Wind didn't reply. They may as well have been naked out there, frozen in the middle of the clearing without a dagger between them.
“No running now,” he said, and turned to Argus. “Think you can pull it off?”
Argus forced himself to smile. “Only one way to find out. After you.” Brenn trampled toward his estranged tribe, and the others followed. The intruders crowded together, eyes widening, fidgeting as Brenn came closer.
They're terrified, Argus thought.
That explained why they'd brought at least two dozen this time, the strongest and most ruthless they had by the looks of them. He spotted Cian and Fiona among them, faces stoic, motionless. Behind them stood a pale man naked from the waist up. He had three iron shackles draped over his shoulders.
Shackles meant for the outsiders.
Argus shuffled ahead to keep up with the rest of the Legion, trying to clear his mind. When Brenn passed the cabin he stopped just beyond the front door and waited.
“We don't want any trouble with you, Brenndall,” Cian said. He spoke in a loud voice with his chest puffed out, but there wasn't any real conviction in it. Argus wondered if he'd already soiled his trousers.
“Those outsiders belong to us,” Fiona said, and pointed at Nasira. “That one ruined Moira's Ladhar. We know they're friends to you, so we won't kill them. They'll live the rest of their lives as slaves.”
Brenn shrugged. “A just punishment. Who am I to question the tribe's judgment?”
Some of the tension in Cian's shoulders slackened. “So you won't fight this, then?”
“Sacred things like the Ladhar shouldn't be bothered with. They are my friends, but they're outsiders. Our way of living will always be a mystery to them.”
Fiona nodded. “Very well. Say your goodbyes. It's nightfall soon, and we must be going.”
Brenn pulled them close and whispered, “Whatever you do, don't let go, you bastard.”
“Aye,” Argus said. “I won't.” He looked at the Nalavacian, at his estranged kin, and saw right through them. In his mind hundreds of births, deaths, and struggles were looping. He lived those lives again—and kept living them even after the shouting started.
“Now!” The voice exploded nearby, but it took him a moment to realize it belonged to Siggi. Argus's eyes opened and fluttered as if for the first time, and the Rivannan shoved him into a snowy landscape that was only vaguely familiar.
He landed on top of a Nalavacian woman. He couldn't remember her name but he knew her face, knew she spoke the common tongue. She thrashed against Siggi and Nasira, who did their best to keep her pinned.
“Back! Stay back!” yelled Brenn. He stood between them and the rest of his kin, who glanced at one another for some clue what to do next. “We won't harm her.”
Argus pressed a thumb into the middle of the woman's forehead. She squirmed and swore and gnashed her teeth. Clearing his mind, he tried to ignore her. He chanted the words to project the memories pooled in Brenn's blood.
She thrashed so violently she threw Siggi off and nearly headbutted him. Argus kept his thumb burrowing. More screams. Then tears. Sometimes laughter. No longer resisting, she lay on the snow and let those memories consume her.
“They kill her!” one man shouted.
Nalavacian voices came and went until the woman had seen it all. The memories left her a sobbing wreck, snow-covered and speechless. Fiona. Argus remembered her name at last.
He checked the rest of the Nalavacians, who had edged closer with their weapons. Brenn blocked the way. He was trembling. He kept yelling for them to back away. They looked at him like that was exactly what they wanted, but he'd given them no choice but to press forward.
He looked back.
“Does she see? Does she see who I really am?”
Their eyes met. Fiona lunged forward and wrapped her hands around one of his legs. She kept her head down and kissed the snow, reverent.
“By the gods,” she said between convulsions. “A son of Setep himself.”
Her kinfolk froze in their tracks.
“It's true,” Argus said. “Brenndall is a descendant of the war god. Take us if you will. But before we go, you must understand his true nature.”
“Who's next?” said the hulking Nalavacian. “Step forward, if you have the courage. Close your eyes and see what I've seen. Live the lives of my ancestors.”
Cian scowled, lowered his sword, and handed it to a young woman beside him. “What did you do to her, sorcerer? Or are you the spirit of someone lost long ago, who found a home in the Wanderwood?”
Argus shrugged. “I'm nothing more than an outlaw and an exile, a sword for hire. But my identity matters little. Your kinsman never meant your tribe any harm. Come see for yourself.”
Cian hesitated, then finally stepped forward. He remained standing while Argus started chanting but collapsed a few seconds later, writhing and crying and laughing in the snow. When it was finished he crawled to his knees and said, “Brenndall, please forgive me.”
Brenn pulled the man to his feet. “That isn't necessary. It's in the past now. It's time for our people to unite, and start anew.”
The rest of the Nalavacians lowered their weapons. The young woman who was holding Cian's sword came forward, and an elderly man followed. One by one they waited their turn to see the memories lurking in Brenn's blood.
One by one they gathered around their new leader.
The more Argus projected the memories the sharper they became. He kept his eyes closed, his thumb outstretched until none were left. Then his legs fell out from under him and he joined the tribesmen gathered at Brenndall's feet.
“Will you lead us?” said Fiona.
Brenn smiled. “All I've ever wanted was a place in the tribe. Being chieftain is more than I could ever ask for.”
“But it is your destiny,” Cian said. “Brenndall, son of Setep.”
Tears streamed down Brenn's face and disappeared in his beard. He didn't try to hide them. He told the others to stand and after they swore oaths of loyalty he embraced them. “My life for thine,” they said, according to Nasira's translation. His reply was unwavering: “Our lives for the tribe.”
The last one swore her loyalty, and the Nalavacians burst into song.
Argus felt himself being lifted up. He glanced to the side and found Siggi and Nasira supporting him. They followed the procession out of Brenn's clearing and into the ring of skulls.
I did it, he thought, letting his eyelids close. Seeing Brenn reunite with his tribe had been Willow's promise. But now she's dead. And fate is stuck with me as her instrument…
A weariness sank into him. Something Argus hadn't felt for a long time. The kind of exhaustion that would require a week of sleep just to take off the edge.
No time to rest, though.
Argus opened his eyes, listening to the singing voices. Up ahead, bonfires burned.
* * *
The singing stopped, and suspicious eyes surrounded them.
Argus prayed he wouldn't have to use his touch magic again. It would take days to get through the rest of Brenn's tribe. Besides, some of the memories had started to blur; their trek back to camp dislodged them like coins falling from a pocket turned inside out.
But the gods were good. Word of Brenn's lineage spread within seconds. Skeptical looks disappeared under the we
ight of all those who'd witnessed it. They'd sent their strongest and most influential to retrieve the outsiders. The rest of the tribe fell in line quickly.
“So it is decided,” Cian said. “Brenndall will be our new chieftain.”
Then came more singing and cheers. Old women beamed, and children ran circles around their new leader, laughing. Brenn took it all in. He looked from one smiling face to another; he blinked rapidly, like he couldn't believe what was unfolding, or if he moved too quickly he'd wake up and the pleasant dream would end.
Fiona asked him what to do with the outsiders.
That snapped Brenn out of his trance. “They aren't outsiders,” he told them. “Although they were born on different soil, they're as close to me as you are. Treat them like you'd treat our own. See that they're warm and well fed.”
An elderly woman with wispy white hair clapped her hands and some of the Nalavacians scurried into motion. They ran through the camp, and returned with mulled wine and coats of fox fur and piping hot broth made from the bones of yesterday's hunt.
The elderly woman grabbed Argus by the elbow and pulled him near one of the bonfires. She smiled when he sat down on a tree stump. Her mouth was nearly empty—just a few teeth hanging on. Even with the language and cultural differences, that smile warmed him more than the wine and broth combined.
From slaves to honored guests. Gods, how the winds of fate swirl.
The Legion of the Wind rested by the fire, devouring their meals and poking fingers out of their new coats to lift their wine glasses high.
“You did it, friend,” said Siggi. “You fulfilled Willow's promise.”
“I just did what I had to do.”
Nasira smiled. “To Argus of Leith.”
He extended his glass. “To the Legion. To living—and fighting—another day.”
They clinked their glasses and Siggi said, “Aye, my friend. I'll drink to that!”
Nalavacians scrambled to refill their empty bowls and glasses. It only took one glass of wine for Argus to feel drunk. He watched Brenn through a haze of smoke and exhaustion. He stood in front of the largest fire, sweating now, with his chest bare and his beard oiled and braided. A line of tribesmen snaked around the flames.
Fortune's Toll (The Legion of the Wind, Book Two) Page 17
