The Black Star (Book 3)

by Edward W. Robertson

  Edward W. Robertson

  © 2014

  BOOKS IN THE CYCLE OF ARAWN

  The White Tree

  The Great Rift

  The Black Star

  To everyone who's stuck with me through The White Tree and The Great Rift. Hope you like the end of the journey.

  GASK, MALLON, & SURROUNDING TERRITORIES

  A larger version of this map may be found at http://www.edwardwrobertson.com/p/map.html

  1

  Blays took a final look at the field, memorizing what he was about to lose, and disappeared beneath the roaring tsunami of rock. Dust rushed past the avalanche in a choking cloud, sweeping away the sunlight. The earth shook and groaned as if the tide of stones would never end. At last it did, and the dust settled, and Blays was gone.

  The dream was always the same, but that didn't mean Dante was used to it. He woke with a gasp. The mountain air was cold but his chest was slick with sweat. The smell of pines sat on the damp air. Lew, the young monk Olivander had insisted Dante bring with him, slept on, tangled in his blankets.

  Dante got up for a walk. Dawn was an hour away, but he knew he wouldn't be able to get back to sleep. He was so sick of the guilt. During daylight hours, it was easy enough to ignore it, to pretend it wasn't there. But when he slept—when his mind set down its shield and doused the fire of consciousness—the dreams crawled in.

  Something rustled in the fallen leaves. Dante went still. The noise was soft, deliberate. The whisper of a predator watching from the brush. Small, though. Perhaps a lynx. Dante considered illuminating it with the nether, then walked on. The woods smelled of sap and cold dew on lichen. He pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders.

  Though the Wodun Mountains began hardly a hundred miles east of Narashtovik, he'd never been so deep within them, and he spent what was left of the night wandering in a wide circle around the camp. Getting a feel for the steepness of the slopes. The firmness of the ground, which he touched not only with his feet, but with the nether, exploring the shadowy net dispersed in the old death lurking in the soil. Once, he crouched and touched the chilly ground. The nether rose in a black puddle that absorbed the silver of the moon. It looked the same as it did anywhere else.

  First light touched the woods, gray-blue and eerie. He returned to camp. Dawn was as slow to struggle past the eastern peaks as Lew was to fight his way from his bedroll. The monk was barely of man's age, and though he was talented with the nether, his superiors believed he lacked ambition. That was why he in particular had been assigned to attend Dante. The trip was nothing much, a visit to a quiet backwater that probably wouldn't have noticed if Narashtovik had annexed it, but the location was a touch exotic and the travel had its arduous moments. With luck, it would stir Lew's imagination, show him the opportunities available to those who worked hard and focused on making the most of themselves.

  Or so his minders believed. Dante nudged his sleeping carcass with a damp toe. Lew started, thrashing about in his blankets. His eyes were round and wide in the dawn. Seeing Dante, he donned the vaguely intoxicated smile of someone attempting to mask their confusion with agreeability.

  "You were out?" he said.

  "We're in the middle of nowhere," Dante said. "That makes everywhere 'out.'"

  "But what about the kappers?"

  "Terrifying to imagine, I'm sure. Have you ever seen a kapper?"

  "No," Lew said slowly, "but I never saw you until I did, either."

  Dante rolled his eyes. "Unlike kappers, I wasn't hunted to extinction five hundred years ago. Get moving. Long hike ahead of us."

  Lew emerged from his bedding and dressed. While he prepared for the day, Dante boiled black tea, which they drank with a breakfast of cold meat pies. After cleaning up camp (they wouldn't garner any goodwill with the locals by leaving the Woduns full of refuse and fires), they made their way back to the alleged "road," a dirt trail interrupted by rubbly patches where floods and mudslides had erased or buried the path ahead. It was slow going. On the steeper inclines, Dante found himself short of breath. He'd been spending too many days cooped inside the Citadel under Olivander's tutelage. Tending to the administration of a newly independent Narashtovik was an important task, surely, but it had left him poorly equipped to deal with tasking climbs into mountainous hinterlands.

  The ridges were jagged basalt that looked as if they'd been sheared off within the last year. Which they probably had. The snows in the Woduns were notoriously fierce. One of many reasons so few people lived here. Even the norren forswore them in favor of the southern hills and the less treacherous heights of the Dundens.

  He and Lew stopped sometime before noon to rest their feet and eat more pies. Ever since entering the hills, Dante had tasked Lew with soothing the cuts, scrapes, and blisters they accrued while traveling. They shucked their shoes and Lew frowned, holding his hands out before him as if warming them next to a fire. After a too-long moment, shadows drifted to his hands, drawn from under stones and leaves, as sluggish as a stream in the plains. Lew frowned harder and ushered the nether to their feet. Dante's soles tickled. His blisters vanished.

  He wiggled his toes. "Nice work."

  "Thanks," Lew muttered. "How much further to Soll, you think?"

  "Couldn't say."

  "Have you seen any sign of it? The lights?"

  "No," Dante said. "Do you think we should turn back?"

  "Of course not." Lew stiffened, face spreading with alarm. "Unless you do. Then who would I be to insist we press on?"

  "A person whose opinion might be worth listening to." He reached for his boots. "We'll go on. It isn't just lights. There were reports of sheep going missing."

  "Missing sheep," Lew said. "And for that, the Council dispatches its highest priest?"

  "Technically, that's still Olivander. Anyway, we're here to do more than investigate. We owe the easterners for their support during the war. This visit is part of our repayment."

  "Ah. Politics."

  "Indeed." Dante stood and settled his pack on his shoulders. "Politics."

  He climbed through switchbacks that overlooked sheer black cliffs. Pines clung tight to the pitched soil. It was early fall, but streamers of frigid mist wound through the trees, shredded by the rich green needles. At times the path plunged into stark valleys, desolate places that only saw daylight when the sun hung straight overhead. Dante saw no farms, no livestock, not even any trash. No evidence of human habitation besides the road itself.

  The sun tilted to the west. Dante descended into another valley. When they hiked up the far side, the sky grew no lighter. He made a face. It would be twilight soon. Still no sign of the village of Soll. He sighed, resolving to cross one more hill and call it a day.

  They ambled down a slope and up the other side. At the crest, Dante stopped and peered into the dimming light.

  "Well," Lew said. "It's getting dark."

  "I see that." Dante pointed across the shallow valley. Past it, the land shot up in a swift cliff of black rock. "See that?"

  "The huge wall of impassible stone?"

  "Wrong. The huge wall of stone that would be impassible if not for the staircase in it."

  Lew cocked his head. Dante strode forward before the young monk could object. As they grew close, Dante saw he'd been wrong about one thing: the cliffs weren't as steep as they appeared. Perhaps forty-five degrees, and ascending beyond sight. The staircase was carved into its surface, tall steps that hardly had space for Dante's boots. The treads of the stairs were rounded and glossy in the middle, worn by centuries of footsteps.

  Lew looked even paler than normal. "You're thinking we should climb that?"

  "Unless you're an especially talented jumper." Dante swayed up the st
eps. "Soll should be right on the other side."

  He began a steady upward pace. Between the angle and the coming night, it was hard to tell how high the staircase rose. He could see nothing beyond its far end. It seemed to stop in mid-air, as if the steps were a bridge to the stars that were beginning to peek from the deep blue skies.

  By unspoken mutual agreement, they halted halfway up to catch their breath. Dante looked back for the first time, which turned out to be an incredibly poor decision. Three hundred feet above the dark valley floor, it felt as if he were about to fall straight to his doom. He had to sit down and cling to the steps before they could attempt to shake him off.

  Lew looked away without a word. Dante felt strangely disappointed. He didn't pin down the emotion's source until he'd resumed climbing: a part of him had been wanting the kid to scoff at him. To joke that Dante had been bested by a set of steps. Instead, they climbed in stodgy silence. The only sound was the rush of their breath and the hiss of the wind in the pines to their sides.

  At last they neared the point where the steps conceded to the sky; Dante prayed it was the top and that there wasn't another staircase beyond. Lew slowed, as if he were afraid the endless staircase might dump them into an equally bottomless ravine.

  The top landed them at the edge of a sprawling meadow. Grass rustled in the twilight, bordered by trees on all sides. Three hundred yards ahead, a village rested in the dregs of the day. Small, flickering lights pricked the face of the cliffs overlooking it.

  Dante trudged along the dirt path set in the knee-high grass. Despite the fires in the cliff and the village below it, he heard nothing besides the wind and a solitary pheasant clucking from the pines. He drew the nether close.

  In the village, a few dozen structures stood around a flagstone plaza. The buildings were hewn of mortared basalt. Built to last. Each one was shuttered, vacant. A stone-lined stream trickled through the plaza's center, bridged at three places by arches built in the same fashion as the village. Dante turned in a circle, confirming Soll was empty, then tipped back his head at the cliffs. Candlelight flickered from a score of points in its face.

  He cupped his hands to his mouth. "Hello?"

  "Is this how it's supposed to look?" Lew whispered.

  "Perhaps they're afraid of the dark."

  "All of them?"

  "Maybe they heard you were coming and fled to high ground to escape your complaints." Dante cleared his throat. "Hello?!"

  His call echoed off the rocks. Thirty feet up, a shutter creaked open, spilling light into the darkness.

  "What are you doing?" a man cried.

  "Trying to deduce why your village is vertical," Dante said.

  "Get out of here!"

  "We've done nothing wrong. We're here on a mission of peace."

  The man leaned far enough from his window to make out his silhouette. "Then get out of this place while you still can!"

  Lew tugged Dante's cloak, gazing into the forest. "There's something out there."

  "That's just the wind." Dante turned back to the man in the high window. "We've traveled all the way from Narashtovik. On foot, no less, because you've chosen to make your home in a place where horses are too smart to travel."

  The man hesitated. "Narashtovik?"

  "I am a member of its highest Council," Dante said. Something rustled behind him. He blinked into the darkness. "We're here to learn more about the lights. The death of your livestock."

  "Look!" Lew hissed, pointing.

  Dante followed his finger. Where the stream entered the plaza, a creature ruffled the grass. Dante's heart leapt. "What the hell is that?"

  Lew moaned. "It's a kapper."

  Dante strained his eyes. In the dark grass, a silhouette slunk forward. Man-sized at least, hunched over. Four-legged. Primal alarm surged in Dante's chest. He whipped his head to face the cliffs and something snapped at his nose. He shrieked—a small one, but undeniably a shriek—and batted at the object, which proved to be a knot-studded rope. It whapped against the cliff wall and swung back and forth.

  "Hurry!" the man called in a hoarse whisper.

  Lew gave Dante one look, then scrabbled up the rope. Across the plaza, the beast snorted. The rope jerked as Lew hauled himself up to the high window with surprising alacrity. A bass growl drifted from the stream. Dante jumped on the swaying rope and hauled himself up hand over hand, knees and elbows banging the cliff. He glanced toward the stream, but between the gloom and the twisting of the rope, he couldn't make out more than a shape lumbering into the square.

  Above, Lew's legs kicked and disappeared into the cliff. Dante reached the window, a stone ledge that opened into a warm room lit by a handful of tallow candles. Hands grabbed his wrists and hauled him inside. Lew's eyes were enormous. The man who'd thrown down the rope grabbed Dante's shoulders and looked him up and down. The man was late middle-aged, hands scabbed from hard work. His blunt, round nose resembled some of the smaller boulders they'd seen on their trek into the mountains.

  "Are you all right?" he said.

  "A little bruised from sprinting up a thirty-foot wall," Dante said. "Why the hell do you live in a cliff?"

  The man tilted his head quizzically. "Because of the kappers."

  Lew leaned over the stone sill. "Look!"

  In the starlit plaza, a silhouetted beast lumbered across the grounds, pawing at stones. Dante frowned and focused the nether, shaping it into a simple point of white light. The man gasped and fell back a step, shoes scraping the stone floor.

  Dante winged the light down to the plaza, hovering it ten feet above the ground, fairy-like. The beast swung its head toward the source of light and stood up on its hind paws to sniff the air.

  "Would that be a black-furred kapper?" Dante said. "Or the more common brown-haired variety?"

  The bear—which was clearly a juvenile—snuffed loudly and dropped back to a four-footed posture. It pawed at a bit of trash wedged against one of the stone buildings.

  Dante raised his eyebrows at the middle-aged man. "That's why you live in the cliffs like a flock of pigeons?"

  "That is obviously a harmless bear," the man sputtered. He moved to close the shutters. "Kappers are another matter entirely. The size of a bear, but armored. Teeth like a shark. Spiral horns like a unicorn. And harder to kill than a tick."

  "You've seen one?"

  "Do you really think we'd sleep fifty feet off the ground because of a superstition?"

  "So you've structured your entire lives around them?" Dante gestured at the cave walls. "By day, you go on about your business on the ground, but as soon as night falls, it's up to the sky-caverns?"

  "They hunt by night." The man glanced about the room, as if just now realizing he'd hauled two strangers into his home and it would be quite awkward to evict them after explaining why his entire village refused to set foot outside after dark. "Can climb trees, too. How could you have been sent here without being told about the kappers?"

  "We were told about them," Lew said.

  The man raised his graying brows at Dante. "But you didn't believe."

  "After that convincing display, you can be sure I do now." Dante stepped away from the shuttered window. "We're here to see a man named Ast Modell. Does he live here?"

  "Sure does."

  "Can you show me to him?"

  "Gods, no!" the man said. "What kind of idiot climbs around on a cliff face in the middle of the night?"

  Dante gathered himself to argue, then realized he was exhausted. The man's name was Vinsin and he offered to put Dante and Lew up in the smaller of his two rooms. Perhaps it was because of the complete darkness, or maybe just because they'd been hiking through the mountains for days on end, but Dante slept until Vinsin flung open the shutters with a creak and a clap, exposing them to the morning. Attempting to be a good guest, Dante moved to the window to empty the chamber pot.

  Vinsin grabbed his wrist, gaping in horror. "What do you think you're doing?"

  "Removing the piss fr
om your house," Dante said. "Or were you saving it?"

  "Not out the window you're not! What if everyone did that? Think of the stink!" He shook his head, tied a thin rope around the pot's handle, and gingerly lowered it foot by foot to the ground. Once it rested safely at the base of the cliffs, he pointed to a gap in the trees west of town. "There's a rather large hole over yonder. I hope you can figure out how to use it."

  Dante still hadn't had a sip of tea, but the climb down the knotted rope got his heart pumping fast enough to clear his head. He strolled across the plaza, holding the pot away from himself to avoid splashing. A couple dozen ropes dangled down the cliff like the world's biggest loom. People came and went from the stone buildings. Smoke rose from chimneys. The smell of baking bread, roast mutton, and fried greens filled the square.

  The odor above the yawning latrine was less wonderful. Dante emptied the pot, careful not to pitch himself into the pit along with it, walked to the stream to wash his hands, then returned to the plaza.

  There, Lew stood on tiptoes. He spotted Dante and his eyes lit up. "Breakfast this way!"

  He led the way to one of the structures. Inside, a score of people poked at stovetop pans. Steam rose from the cooking. Vinsin waved, grabbed a kettle, and brought them hot mugs of minty tea. It took Dante a minute to understand what he was seeing: the kitchens and indeed much of the village was communal; privacy (and most private property) was reserved for the cliffside homes. Vinsin finished at his station and brought them plates of bread, grits, fried mushrooms, wilted greens, and a few shreds of chicken. They ate outside. Though Dante didn't know what Ast Modell looked like, he couldn't stop himself from glancing around the square.

  "Ah," Vinsin said as they were busy scraping up the last of the grits with heels of bread. "There's your man."

  Ast Modell stood out from the others like an albino. Or, in his case, the opposite: while Gaskans were notoriously pale, Ast had a brush of color to his skin. Could easily pass for a citizen of far southern Bressel, yet there was something else foreign to his features which Dante couldn't place.