Borne Rising

by Matthew Callahan

  “I took the asset to Greygarde. We remained there for some time while the Shadowborne pored over the resources we maintain. Following that, we departed for Undermyre to report.”

  “It would have been preferable had you come here immediately.”

  Cephora cocked her head to the side. “The Seekers do as they will, Crow.”

  The Crow conceded the point and turned his attention to his wine. “And where is the young Davis now?”

  “He is in a location where Valmont will not find him. He should be safe.” Cephora’s hesitation was almost unnoticeable. Almost.

  The Crow snapped his eyes to her, his casual demeanor dropping away as more of his plans fell by the wayside. “He did not accompany you to the Nordoth?”

  “The first contract was to get him to the Shale and, should he survive, to extract him. That having been completed, the secondary, conditional contract calling for travel to the Umbriferum was unfortunately cancelled. You know the clause of which I speak.”

  The Crow did not let the scowl cross his face. He knew the clause. Formal recitation of terms does not excuse your actions, my dear Seeker.

  “My contract having therefore ended, the obligation of Greygarde to the Nordoth had also reached its conclusion.”

  The dark-clothed man leaned back in his seat and steepled his fingers, staring intently at the Seeker. “Contracts, yes. And yet there is more to the young Shadowborne’s absence. Elaborate.”

  Cephora met his eyes and did not flinch. “After our time in Greygarde, we departed for Undermyre. En route, the asset discovered an opportunity for additional training. Or, rather, I should say that the opportunity found him.”

  The Crow frowned.

  “The opportunity was another Borne. She demonstrated her skills in Shadow and, despite my protestations, the asset chose to go with her.”

  Her. The Crow did not blink, did not flinch nor even exhale out of the norm, but as soon as Cephora said that word, his plans came crashing down till only two options remained. “He did not trust you.”

  Cephora’s previously stoic expression cracked, giving the Crow a brief glimpse of her pain. “After the separation from his brother, he grew . . . distant. He did not approve of my decision at the Shale.”

  “This Shadowborne,” the Crow said. “What did you make of her? How old was she? What further information can you provide?”

  Cephora’s armor returned. She met his gaze unwaveringly. “If you’re asking if it was her, then I do not know the answer. She always was excellent with disguises, even before she went into deep hiding. After she destroyed the Order of Umbriferum, well”—Cephora shrugged—“I can hardly believe she’s become anything but a master at masking herself.”

  “Fine. Did she appear of proper age?”

  The Seeker nodded.

  The Crow’s brows narrowed in anger. “You sent that child off with an unknown Shadowborne. A female of the correct age. One whose history you did not know.”

  “I sent no one away.” Cephora leaned back and folded her hands. “The Casc is headstrong and impulsive, yes, but he is strong and capable as well. He chose to go with her.”

  The Crow rose. “She enticed him, you mean to say.” He moved to the decanter and refilled his glass. “You saw her Shade then?”

  “I did.”

  “And?”

  “As I said before, Crow, I do not know if it was her.”

  The glass trembled in the Crow’s hands briefly. He steadied it but knew that Cephora had seen the brief evidence of his frustration. A different tack, then. “She was just as dangerous as her father, Cephora.”

  “Worse. Dorian was at least predictable.”

  “And now he’s back and that boy may have walked right into his trap.”

  “Madigan Davis has chosen his own path. That is his right.”

  Madigan Davis . . . The Crow’s mouth went dry. He drained the glass and moved back to his chair. He did not speak for a moment, only steepled his hands and stared at the measure. So, there had been a flux. Minor adjustments necessary, but this may work out for the better in the long run. Cephora waited. Despite all his efforts, when at last he spoke there was the faintest waver in his voice.

  “What of the other boy? The younger brother.”

  Cephora looked at him intently. “I do not know. As I previously said, when we faced Valmont, he stood alone before him. I could not rescue them both.”

  “Pity.” The Crow swallowed more wine and was thankful to see that the tremor had left his hand. “That boy had potential.”

  “It is possible that Jero din’Dael got him out.”

  The Crow laughed humorlessly. He turned his dark eyes upon the Seeker. “And why would din’Dael have done anything of the sort?”

  Cephora cocked her head and stared at the Crow. Her mouth turned up in the hint of a smile. “You did not know? Truly?”

  Suddenly interested, the Crow raised his bushy eyebrows and leaned back. “Know what, Cephora?”

  “The boy is Lightborne.”

  The Crow stared at her wordlessly as his final two plans became ash. “Is he, now?”

  Cephora nodded, smiling fully. “He and his brother stood before Valmont together, Shadowborne and Lightborne. I witnessed it with my own eyes.”

  “I believe you.” The bonds of brotherhood . . . interesting. “Perhaps din’Dael did save him then.” There was a brief silence while the Crow considered what she had told him and Cephora’s own place within the story. He returned her smile, allowing it to stretch wolfishly across his face. He could not help but enjoy how the act unnerved her. “That is all, Cephora.”

  Cephora did not move.

  “Was there something else?” He raised an eyebrow and did not allow his smile to falter.

  “You claimed that the boy had potential,” she said cautiously. “Yet you did not know that he was Lightborne.”

  The Crow did not respond immediately. From the look on the Seeker’s face, he had obviously given her something. Involuntary dilation of the pupils, most likely. I shall have to amend that.

  Cephora waited. Her face resumed its casual, presumptuous air. “What is it that you do know?”

  The Crow leaned forward, the unnerving smile plastered upon his face. And now I’ve got you. “I know that Madigan Davis is Shadowborne. I know that he was left as your charge. I know that he is now in an unknown location with an unknown woman with unknown motives. And I know that there was one surviving Shadowborne unaccounted for, a woman, in fact. And I know that if that woman has Madigan Davis, Undermyre will fall.”

  He saw the gravity of the words wash over her.

  “It may not have been her,” Cephora said quickly.

  “No, it may not have been,” the Crow agreed. “But you asked for what I know.” He watched while she wrestled with her desire to press him further, to obtain more information for her organization.

  The two faced each other that way for a time, neither speaking. Finally, Cephora drained the last of her wine and stood. She gave him a perfunctory nod and made for the door. Before it closed completely behind her, the Crow called out.

  “And you shall be awaiting orders from me where, then?”

  He heard the sharp intake of breath that cut off the nearly silent curse flowing from her lips. She cracked the door just enough that he could see the cowed look on her face. Good.

  “Use the Street of Ash,” she said finally. “Clarice will know how to find me.”

  She closed the door, no doubt preparing to leave the Nordoth and touch base with her contacts in Greygarde. The world of the Seekers had just grown far more complicated than it had been in years, and the Crow knew she must itch to make a full report. The organization were notoriously hard to control, but Cephora had left herself wide open and the Crow had seized the advantage. That was as it should be.

  He sipped the last of his wine and turned to the measure once more. The swirling vapors twisted in their typical hypnotic fashion, but he did not allow himself to
become distracted; the Davis brothers had suddenly returned to the forefront of his mind.

  The elder had manifested as Shadowborne, that was good. But the younger boy . . . that was problematic. The Crow had seen many things in his long years, had heard many rumors, but for any Borne—particularly one of such strength—to reverse alignments was unprecedented. It simply did not happen.

  That meant the careful guidance of his maturation was of utmost importance. More important than Valmont’s undertaking. More dire than the potential return of the madman. The younger Davis was paramount, an anomaly in the game.

  He stepped closer to the measure, leaning toward the intricate face.

  Yes, he mused. Change is most certainly coming.

  1

  Destiny Calls

  Will spat another mouthful of blood and coughed. One of his molars was loose and his constantly probing tongue didn’t help. Focus. His spinning head drooped. His split lips burned. Another wave of nausea surged through his stomach and he felt the bile rising. Dammit, Will, keep your head. Don’t lose focus. Just hold on.

  Mad’s voice. Or, at least, the fading ghost of its memory.

  Wish I could, buddy. Will forced the bile down and immediately broke out in a clammy sweat. The air surrounding him—a dry and scorching, nearly physical thing—burned his lungs when he drew in fresh air. It was sour, but he had grown used to it. It complemented the lingering acrid taste of vomit and blood. Don’t lose focus. You can do this.

  He could bear the pain, stomach the foul air, but it was the electricity that called to him most. There was a near-humming static upon the air. He yearned for it, that promise of power, but knew that he must not reach for it.

  His wrists were bound tight, the rough ropes biting into his skin significantly less painful than they once had been. For that, he was grateful for the buildup of scar tissue. Still, it was far from comfortable, even with the thick skin to help him ignore the chafing. Not important, Mad would say. Focus.

  Will pushed the discomfort from his mind and tried to do just that. My surroundings, right. Focus on those. What am I working with? The chair he was bound to was solid, not something he could easily break. His arms and torso were bound tight, but his legs were not secured to the chair’s frame in any way. He groaned inwardly—it wasn’t an oversight. They had plans for his legs today. They needed them flexible and mobile. The last time they’d focused on his legs, he hadn’t been able to walk for weeks.

  Along with his arms, they had taken his eyes. His world was darkness, but it held none of the comfort it once had. Those days are long behind me. At least their attempts at taking his hearing had failed, despite their best efforts. The blows still rang, but short of puncturing his eardrums they couldn’t dull it entirely. They wouldn’t go that far; he knew that much.

  The thick blindfold covering his eyes passed over his ears, muffling sound but not so well that he couldn’t make out at least something of his surroundings. He could feel the presence of other bodies in the room, three of them this time. He could sense their eyes upon him, could hear the shifting sand on the stone floor when they moved restlessly.

  That’s a lie. Not his brother, Jero din’Dael this time. This world is filled with lies. See them for what they are and be free of them. Elevate yourself.

  Right, a lie. These individuals were far from restless, Will knew that. So why hadn’t they started on him yet? He tongued at the loose tooth. Psychological. The threat of pain can be more terrifying than the pain itself. Whoever they were, they were patient and would wait as long as they had to. They would wait until he broke. Until he gave up.

  They were going to be sorely disappointed.

  Will quickly worked through the various possible outcomes of the situation before he found one to his liking. He focused on it and suppressed all others; they no longer mattered. He had committed to one course of action and would see it through.

  Decide, din’Dael’s voice echoed in his mind. Decide and push all other potentialities from your mind. Do not dwell on them once you have moved past them. They are only a distraction and will lead you to second-guess yourself. Decide and then act.

  Will did as his mentor instructed.

  Time passed, an hour perhaps, Will had no way of knowing. Not that it matters. Will sat and waited. He kept his breathing smooth and controlled. He did not fidget. He did not twist and worry at the ropes binding his wrists. The trickle of time grated on him, but nevertheless he forced himself to focus. The moment was coming soon.

  “You’re quite the quiet one, when you want to be.”

  Nearly there. Will held back a smirk. Show them nothing.

  “He is awake still, isn’t he?” said another voice.

  “Of course he is. Look at him, he’s listening to everything we say,” came the first voice once more.

  Dammit, they know. Will forced himself not to hold his breath. Dammit.

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Damn me to Theros if I’m wrong.”

  “He’s Casc, who knows what they’re like?”

  Will’s shoulders relaxed and he chastised himself for the slip. They didn’t notice. That, coupled with the brief turn of his jailers’ conversation, meant that the tables had turned. He would be free soon. There was only one unknown to overcome. The third person had neither spoken nor moved; he could not place them. It was infuriating. Know your opponents and act on their weaknesses. This one had given Will nothing to go on.

  “He’s got to be asleep. I’m checking.”

  Footsteps approached. Will kept his head down and waited, bracing himself. He’d planned to have all the information by this point, but that silent third was an outlier. Din’Dael’s words came to him once more. Plans will only get you so far. In the end, action and reaction are all that are required. He’d just have to take his chances with the unknown variable.

  One of the unseen individuals approached, their feet nearly brushing against Will’s own. Will kept his body loose and fought the urge to act. Not yet.

  A large hand slapped his face. It stung, but the thick blindfold absorbed much of the blow. Will felt the loose tooth rattle but did not allow himself to react to the strike. Hard fingers dug into his jaw while the person’s other hand gripped the back of his skull. Will was momentarily appreciative of his roughly shorn hair, taken down nearly to the scalp early on in this endeavor. One less handhold for them. His head was forced upward.

  “He’s barely breathing. What the hell did they do to him this morning?” The voice’s cadence had changed, signaling that the source had turned back to his companions.

  Will struck.

  He drove his feet into the ground and thrust upward. Tightening his neck, he slammed his skull into his captor’s head when the man turned back. He heard the crunch of bone and stumbling steps as the figure fell. Will pushed backward, turning his back to his captors. Right on cue, the air split as the chair was shattered by a surge of lightning.

  Will grunted, thrown forward by the force of the blast. The splintered shards of the chair ripped through his shirt and buried themselves in his skin. He grimaced. Don’t get distracted. His arms were still bound and the blindfold was still securely attached, but he could stand and move freely. Focus. He did not hesitate.

  He darted back the direction he had come, instinctively dodging another crack of white fire that shot toward him. Will stepped expertly, avoiding the writhing figure on the ground. He lunged at the source of the blasts, leaping forward and crashing into the Lightborne. At the same instant, he drove his knees into their abdomen. A sharp, choking gurgle came when breath unexpectedly vacated their body. Will forced them to the ground. Another sharp strike from his knee and the figure was still.

  The third individual had neither moved nor stirred. Will tried to shake the blindfold off, to no avail. He took a wide stance and crouched slightly, cocking his head to the side and listening for any change in the room. Just like Mad used to with my Shade. He pushed the thought from his mind.r />
  He grunted. Something biting drove into his stomach. A split-second later Will’s nerves fired. Burning pain. He screamed at the blade in his gut. He dropped to a knee, feeling hot blood flowing from the wound. His body cried at the intrusion, railed against it. He curled over but somehow managed to keep from collapsing to the ground.

  Stomach wound. Lower right quadrant. Not near the liver, just guts. His mind raced. That’s right, isn’t it? He fought to suppress the thought of complications from bowel lacerations. Keep your head, Will, don’t pass out. It hurts, but you can handle it. His breath came in short bursts. The knife is still in, it’s slowing the blood flow. You’ve got time.

  Quiet, light footsteps approached. The other two were still down, so it could only be the third. They knelt directly across from Will and placed a hand on his shoulder. The other hand gripped the knife in his body and even the brief contact sent him screaming—Jesus, Mom—before the blade was pulled free.

  Will wanted to vomit. Blood flowed onto his lap. He felt whoever was holding him tense and knew that a second strike was coming. It didn’t matter; without medical attention he was dead already.

  He drove forward and threw his body into the blade. Pain seared across his chest as the knife collided with one of his ribs and skidded off the bone—they had missed. Collapsing onto the assailant, Will struck with the only weapon available to him. His teeth bit into the soft flesh of his captor’s neck and held fast. Will clenched his jaw and jerked his face away. Flesh and blood followed him.

  He was forgotten. The figure pushed away, screaming. Will felt blood hitting him in gushing spurts. Realization dawned. I must have hit the carotid artery. Shit.

  Forcing his own pain aside, he rolled off the writhing figure. Scrambling with bound hands, he searched for the fallen blade. He found it, slicing his fingers when he turned the blade over. Still, he managed to cut into the cords that bound him. His head was spinning—no time for that—and he slashed furiously at the rope. Freeing himself, he ripped the blindfold off before doubling over and vomiting from the pain.