by Brandon Mull
For a moment the brusque action startled and bewildered him. Then arrows began thunking against the ship, a few at a time. A drinling plummeted at least thirty feet from the rigging, an arrow in his ribs. Jason grimaced as the body struck the deck with finality. Bearing shields, Thag and Zoo stood over Jason and Drake. As several drinling archers launched arrows of their own, Drake dragged Jason to a hatch and clambered down with him.
“I shouldn’t have left you exposed like that,” Drake apologized. “Very sloppy.”
“I’m all right,” he panted.
Drake shook his head. “We were target practice. They had a deadly angle on us. I was too fixated on making it out of the harbor. I should have taken us belowdecks from the start.”
“Think any of the drinlings from the wall will make it?” Jason asked.
“Depends how far back the skiff is trailing. If it was me, I would have jumped earlier. Soon as the front of the ship reached the harbor mouth, we were free.”
“They might have been stuck fighting,” Jason said.
“They did us a brave service,” Drake replied. “Without them I doubt we would have gotten away.”
“All clear,” Zoo called down from outside the hatch.
Jason and Drake returned to the deck and looked back at the sea wall of Durna. The bells rang more quietly. The winches still burned beside the watch fires. In the background, flames raged along the dock.
“Anybody make it to the skiff from the wall?” Drake asked.
Thag held up three fingers.
Drake nodded and led Jason to the front of the ship, where Nia stood with a shuttered lantern. The blackness of the Inland Sea stretched out before them, with only the stars to show where the water ended and the sky began. Jason felt unsteady, drained after the stress and excitement of their narrow escape. It had all been so frantic. People on both sides had lost their lives. He hardly knew how to handle the sudden, dark calm. He felt bad for the drinlings who had fallen, but thrilled that the daring hijacking had succeeded.
Nia opened the shutter twice for a few seconds each time, then twice quickly. A moment later four quick flashes answered from farther out to sea, just right of their current heading.
“See that?” Nia called.
“I saw!” Aram answered. He shouted steering instructions.
“Corinne and Farfalee?” Jason asked.
“Together with Bat and Ux,” Nia replied. “Four flashes means they’re all there.” She grinned at Drake. “We pulled it off.”
“Your people were spectacular,” Drake said.
“We lost some on the wall, and Gaw was killed on our way through the harbor mouth. Any lost life is tragic, but our losses could have been worse. Should have been worse.”
“They were as surprised as we had hoped,” Drake said. “Several ships will be totally lost. It will take months to repair the piers. News of this hijacking will shake up more than this region. An interceptor is a serious prize, and we torched their waterfront as well. Many across Lyrian will hear the tale. Word of this victory should help Galloran as he recruits for his revolt. Tonight the empire looks vulnerable.”
Jason hadn’t stopped to consider how the hijacking might bring hope to Maldor’s enemies. Drake was right. Any bully looks less tough after somebody stands up to them. Jason tried not to dwell on the drinling who had fallen to the deck or the warriors who had died on the wall. Tonight was a big victory, a major step toward fulfilling the prophecy. Maybe they could actually pull it off!
“Maldor will demand vengeance,” Nia said. “He’ll want to make an example of us.”
“We’ll have his full attention going forward,” Drake agreed. “It was the price we paid for transportation to the island. With imperial troops behind us, and the Maumet before us, I have a hard time imagining how the oracle saw any of us surviving to seek out Darian the Seer.”
“Don’t write us off yet,” Jason said, feeling emboldened by their success. “We have a fast ship and lots of good fighters. We’ll find a way to finish the mission.”
“Such reckless optimism,” Drake said dryly.
Jasher came up behind them. “We have another advantage. The emperor can’t be certain where we’re going. Even if he confirmed our identities, our destination would be difficult to guess. The Inland Sea is large. We will not be easy quarry.”
“The oracle saw a way for us to survive,” Jason added. “We just have to find it.”
CHAPTER 9
A PROPOSAL
On a gray afternoon, Rachel roamed the woods, unsettled because everything felt much too familiar. The moss on the towering trees looked dark beneath the overcast sky. Rain drizzled down, just enough to dampen her. Up ahead a small decorative bridge spanned a little stream. She knew that on the far side her name was carved on a beige post, inside a heart.
Rachel approached the little bridge in bewilderment and traced her fingers over the engraved letters: R-A-C-H-E-L. This bridge was on the property her family owned. This forest was part of her backyard.
Glancing behind, Rachel observed ranks of thriving trees. What had she expected to see? She scowled pensively. Should she be here? How had she gotten here? Had she set out from her house to wander the woods and think? That felt wrong. But where else could she have come from? The memory almost came into focus, then dissipated.
She could not see her house up ahead, but Rachel knew it stood just beyond the top of the rise through the trees, along with three additional buildings that her parents frequently loaned to artists. At first they had made the spaces available to select friends. Then friends of friends. Eventually they had needed to make a reservation list. Painters, writers, sculptors. Occasionally musicians.
Why did the thought of home spark an urgent longing? Rachel wanted to run. Ignoring the silly impulse, she strolled up the hill, basking in the familiar sights and smells. She felt lucky to live in such a beautiful place.
The house had lights on in defiance of the gray day. Was it getting darker? Rain still sprinkled down. Rachel climbed the steps to the wide, rustic deck. She found the rear sliding door locked. She went around to the front door and found it locked as well. Shouldn’t she have a key? She checked her pockets. Nope.
Walking away from the door, Rachel peered through a living room window. There were her parents, comfy in their favorite chairs, each with a book, steaming mugs nearby. The sight of them made her heart swell with relief and joy.
Rachel rapped on the window, but it made hardly any sound. She knocked harder, but it was like banging on a huge slab of stone rather than a fragile windowpane. “Dad!” she shouted. “Mom! I can’t get in!” All they had to do was look up and see her at the window. They didn’t.
Frustrated, Rachel hurried to the front door and knocked heavily. Again there was no sound. She tried the doorbell. Normally, she should have heard it chime even from outside. She heard nothing. What was going on?
She looked down at the fancy welcome mat, a gift from a visiting artist. THE WOODRUFFS, it read in flowery script. Clusters of costume jewels added sparkle in two corners. The artist had insisted that they actually use the mat. Rachel frowned. The mat seemed to taunt her by proclaiming that this was her home. If that was true, why couldn’t she get in?
Rachel circled the house. She slapped random windows after checking to see if they were unlocked. None were. No matter how hard she pummeled the glass, she could produce no noise. She looped back to the window where she could see her parents calmly reading. Dad was sipping from his mug. Mom turned a page.
Rachel pounded the glass with both fists, to no avail. She waved her arms and shouted. She backed up, picked up a stone the size of her fist, and hurled it at the window. The stone bounced off, making no noise until it struck the ground. What had her parents done to the house? Made it soundproof and bulletproof?
Desperate, Rachel picked up another rock.
“Can I help you?” asked a female voice from behind.
Rachel whirled and saw Sharmaine, her favorite artist who
had ever resided with them. When had she come back? Sharmaine had short pink hair and dark eyeliner. She wore a denim jacket covered with pins, beads, and ink doodles.
Sharmaine had grown up in Michigan. She painted pieces of wood and then wrote original haikus on them in fancy calligraphy. She had given Rachel a painted wooden segment that read:
When Rachel pole vaults
She soars like a swift pirate
With a huge peg leg
The plank had a doodle of a pirate beside the haiku. It was one of Rachel’s favorite treasures.
“Hi, Sharmaine,” Rachel said. “I was trying to get their attention.”
“Rock through the window would do it,” Sharmaine replied curtly. She wasn’t showing any recognition. If anything, she seemed wary.
Rachel glanced at the rock in her hand. “They couldn’t hear me.”
Sharmaine gave a cautious nod. “Let’s try the front door.”
Rachel almost protested, but decided against it. She followed Sharmaine to the front door. “You remember me, right?” Rachel checked.
“Sure,” Sharmaine said vaguely. She knocked on the door. It made a sound! A normal knocking sound, just how it should.
A moment later her dad answered. “Hi, Sharmaine. Who’s your friend?” He was looking at Rachel with blank courtesy.
She had seen her father show that expression to other people. But never her. He knew her. He loved her.
“It’s me,” Rachel said meekly.
“Have we met?” he asked, still with the neutral politeness appropriate for a new acquaintance.
“I’m your daughter,” Rachel said, insulted that she had to spell it out.
Her dad looked to Sharmaine, who shrugged. “I found her outside your window holding a rock.”
Dad returned his gaze patiently to Rachel. “Our only daughter died years ago,” he explained. “Did you know her?”
Rachel suddenly realized that she had been away in Lyrian for a long time. It all came rushing back. She must look older or different. “It’s me, Dad. I’m just older. I’m back.” Tears welled in her eyes.
Her dad glanced at Sharmaine. The glance communicated that they clearly had a situation on their hands.
“I’m not crazy,” Rachel blurted, wiping at her eyes. “Ask me anything; I can prove it.”
“Where do you live?” he asked gently.
“Here,” Rachel answered in a small voice. “I live here.”
“Why don’t you come inside and sit down?” her dad offered, as he would to a needy stranger.
Rachel turned to Sharmaine. “You remember me, right? You gave me the haiku? About the pole vaulting?”
Sharmaine held out a painted plank. “If you want a haiku, I can spare this one.” Rachel accepted the wooden rectangle. Sharmaine looked at Rachel’s dad. “You okay?”
“I’ve got this,” he replied. “Thanks, Sharmaine.”
Sharmaine turned away, and Rachel followed her dad inside. He escorted Rachel to the living room and offered her a seat on the sofa. Her mom was no longer present.
“Make yourself comfortable,” her dad said. “I’ll be back in a second.”
Rachel took a seat, the painted plank in her hands. Turning it over, she saw little gravestones doodled at either side of a haiku.
Most loving parents
Try to dodge conversations
With their dead children
The words struck Rachel like a physical blow. Fearful chills made her skin prickle. What was going on?
She stood up, surveying the familiar room. The correct pictures hung on the walls. The correct knickknacks rested on the mantel. The scent of herbal tea wafted up from half-empty mugs.
“Rachel?”
Startled, Rachel spun to face her mother, who had just entered the room. “Mom?”
Her mom cocked her head sympathetically. “No, dear, I’m not your mother.”
Exasperated, Rachel pointed to a nearby picture of the three of them. “Look at the picture, Mom. Does the girl in it look familiar?”
“She was our daughter,” her mom sighed serenely. “You’re not her, dear.”
“I am her, Mom. What’s the problem? Do I look that different? Ask me anything.”
Rachel’s mom looked her straight in the eye, her expression becoming stern. “You are not our daughter. Our little girl has vanished forever. It’s time you confront the truth. Merrill and I have moved on. You should as well.”
Rachel suddenly recognized that her mom’s eyes were completely black. Thinking back, she seemed to recall that her dad’s were black too, and Sharmaine’s as well, although she had failed to notice at the time.
“You’re not my mom,” Rachel whispered.
The woman smiled. “That’s right. Now you’re getting it. Somebody here has been looking for you.”
Maldor stepped around the corner into the living room. Rachel had never seen him, but she knew his identity as surely as she knew that she must be dreaming.
“I’ll leave you two to talk things over,” her dream mom said, stepping out of the room.
Rachel faced Maldor, glaring into his black eyes. “This is a dream.”
“We need to talk.”
Rachel stared at him. “It feels real. I feel awake. Is that really you?”
“As close as we can manage at present. Have a seat.”
“I’ll stay standing.”
“No need for hostility. I’m here as a courtesy.”
The statement made Rachel furious. “Get out of my house! Get out of my mind! You weren’t invited! You don’t belong here!”
Maldor held up his hands soothingly. “Don’t lose your temper. I’ll leave soon. First, we must talk. Your friends are going to die, Rachel. All of them. Soon. Unless you save them. I just wanted to give you that chance.”
Concern for her friends warred against her rage at the mental intrusion. After a moment, Rachel bridled her anger enough to respond rationally. “You’re not here to help them. Or me. You’re here to mess with my mind. How do I get rid of you?”
“Don’t be so hasty,” Maldor warned. “This illusion took considerable time and effort to establish. You should hear my proposal.”
Rachel took a deep breath. What if she attacked him? What if she used Edomic to set the sofa on fire and hurl it at him?
“You can’t hurt me here,” Maldor said. “I can make this much less pleasant, if you wish.”
“Don’t read my thoughts,” Rachel snapped.
“They’re hard to miss,” Maldor apologized. “After all, this is your mind.”
“Doesn’t feel like it.”
“I imagine not. You have so little control. I could teach you to lock out incursions such as this.”
Rachel frowned. “That’s a class I might sign up for.”
“Shall we talk?” Maldor said, sitting down. “Tark or Io could get badly hurt if this takes too long. The more quickly we converse, the safer they’ll be.”
“Fine. All right.” Rachel sat down on the sofa. She had never felt so conscious in a dream before. So alert and lucid. It seemed no different from full consciousness.
“Where did Jason go?” Maldor inquired.
Rachel felt panic. She tried not to think about him.
“Windbreak Island? Interesting. That explains much. I don’t see how he’ll survive. What guidance did you receive at Mianamon?”
“Get out of here!” Rachel yelled.
Maldor snapped his fingers. The sofa folded up around her, trapping her in a cushioned embrace. She remained in a seated position, cocooned from her ankles to her mouth. She could only manage muffled protests. She tried to will the sofa to release her, but it refused to budge.
“Hmmm,” Maldor mused. “Fascinating prophecy. I suppose there must be some minuscule chance for his survival. This is very useful information, by the way. Do you think your quests could possibly work? An attack on Felrook would be suicide for all involved. If I permit you to speak, will you be civil? Blink once for
yes, twice for no.”
Angry and frustrated, Rachel blinked once.
The cushions unfolded from her mouth. “We’ll beat you.”
Maldor laughed. “She glimpsed one way, Rachel. The oracle glimpsed a single unlikely chain of coincidences that could stop me amid countless ways to fail. She neglected to offer many specifics. Now that I know what you are trying to do, it will be that much easier to stop you. Thank you, Rachel, for this priceless intelligence.”
Rachel squirmed. The sofa held her fast. She wanted to shout with frustration. Hot tears threatened.
“Don’t blame yourself,” Maldor urged. “I could have acquired this knowledge by a hundred different methods. Not that it matters. The oracle set you on a path that will require more than a miracle. It will require a prolonged series of miracles. Darian the Pyromancer is dead, Rachel. He has been dead for eons. Which Jason and his comrades will never learn, because they will perish at Windbreak Island. I won’t need to twitch a finger. The Maumet will see to their fate. And Galloran will undoubtedly die leading his foolhardy siege. There is no question.”
Maldor leaned forward. He spoke softly. “That prophecy is one of the nicest gifts anyone has ever given me. It brings me considerable peace of mind. I had worried that it might be dangerous. According to the oracle, somewhere in the future awaits some remote possibility of me coming to harm. I’ll be sure to defend against that implausible eventuality. Thanks to the prophetess, I now know where to focus my efforts.”
Maldor snapped his fingers, as if concerned Rachel’s attention might be straying. “Look at the situation with a practical eye. The prophecy will put all of my most capable enemies into extremely vulnerable positions years before I could have managed it on my own. I will win my war twenty years earlier than expected, all thanks to the dying words of a withered schemer.”
Rachel had no response. She wanted to weep. She wanted to scream.
“You’re concerned about your friends,” Maldor said tenderly. “I’m here to make an offer. I’ve thought about you in the months since you escaped my servants at the Last Inn. With the passage of time, I’ve grown increasingly certain that I wish to train you.”
