“How is she?” Rhia asked Dravek in a hushed voice as she set down two packs at the bottom of the stairs.
“Same as before. Malia’s healthy as ever, though, so Sura’s memory isn’t keeping her from being a good mother.”
“She has a lot of help from you.”
Dravek wasn’t sure how to take the comment. While Jula remained ignorant, perhaps willfully so, of his feelings for Sura, the signs had not escaped Rhia’s notice—nor her judgment.
“Jula helps even more.” He pointed to the array of notes on the wall.
“Thank the Spirits Sura knows how to read.” Rhia wrung out her sleeves and wiped the wet hair out of her face. “At least the Descendants have given us one useful tool.”
“But if not for them, Sura wouldn’t have been pressured to have a baby in the first place, and she wouldn’t need to read all the things she forgets.” Dravek heard his voice curdle with hatred.
“The Ilions aren’t hopeless,” Rhia said. “They have Guardian Spirits, they’re just not connected to them.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve spoken with the dead,” she told him, “those who linger in the Gray Valley out of bitterness. Many of them hold a piece of another person’s soul. It looks like an animal.” Rhia grabbed a mug and the pitcher of water. “I once saw a man I knew who’d been slaughtered by a Descendant soldier. The dead man tormented a snake, twisting it, dangling it by the tail, stepping on its head. The soldier who murdered him must have been a Snake.”
Dravek turned away, troubled at her confession and at the fact that she used a Snake as an example of a Descendant Spirit.
She cleared her throat. “There’s a meeting in an hour at Galen’s. Marek’s joining me there. You should come.”
He knew that the source of her invitation wasn’t only generosity, but also the desire to keep him away from Sura. He looked at the bedroom door just as it opened.
Sura stopped short when she saw Rhia. “Hello.”
Dravek’s heart sank at the sight of her surprise. “It’s your aunt Rhia.”
Sura blinked hard, then scanned the room. When her gaze rested on the travel packs next to the stairs, she said, “Did you just arrive?”
“Yes.” Rhia set down her mug. “Dravek and I are going out for a few hours, but we’ll leave you instructions. I saw your cousin Jula just down the street—she’ll be home soon if you need anything.”
Sura’s eyes grew distant and thoughtful. Dravek remained silent, aware she was reviewing what she knew about her cousin and aunt from long ago. She saw the notes pinned around the door and went to read them. He stepped aside, but she reached out and touched his arm, as if to steady herself.
Dravek knew he should pull away, but he was the only thing in the room she recognized. After a few moments, he slid his hand over hers, then gently removed it from his arm.
She stared up at him. “Your hair’s long.”
“Do you like it?”
She shrugged. “It looked better short.”
“Then I’ll cut it.”
“No. It reminds me it’s not now anymore. Or rather, it’s not the same ‘now’ my mind lives inside.”
From the corner of his eye, Dravek saw Rhia watching them, with the same disapproval the rest of the world would lay upon them. He dared to hope that somehow, someday, he and Sura could be together.
Without that hope, he’d have one fewer reason to live.
Sura sang Malia to sleep, reciting a song from her childhood as she circled the kitchen table. She thought it funny that she knew all six verses from fifteen years ago, but apparently couldn’t remember her daughter’s name from day to day.
A knock sounded at the door. Malia cried, lurching back from the precipice of sleep. Sura wanted to echo her wails. If she didn’t rest soon herself, her face would become well acquainted with the floorboards.
She shuffled to the door. Tacked to it was a large sign bearing what seemed to be a password.
“Sparrow!”
The deep male voice made her jump.
Sura tucked Malia into the crook of her left arm, quickly undid the two locks, then cracked open the door.
She looked up, up into the shrouded face of an enormous man. Rain dripped in rivers off his hood, creating a glistening waterfall over his eyes, which were nearly invisible.
“Let me in,” he said.
“Do I know you?”
“I know the password.” He pressed his palm against the door. “You have to let me in.”
He brushed past her, slammed the door behind him, then hurried to lock it. He took a quick look into the bedroom, then paused to listen at the bottom of the stairs. Satisfied, he nodded and headed for the bread basket on the table.
Malia quieted in her arms, as if sharing Sura’s speechless surprise.
“Where’s Rhia and Marek?” he asked her.
“They’re not here.”
“Jula?”
“Not here.”
He stuffed a huge piece of loaf into his mouth, then glanced around the kitchen. “Ale?”
She pointed to one of the cabinets. He withdrew the large tankard and started to lift it to his lips.
“Mugs are on the counter.”
He lowered the tankard. “Forgot my manners.” He poured himself a mug. “So where is she?”
“Rhia or Jula?”
“Either. Both.”
She checked the notes on the table while he downed the entire mug in one long swallow. “Rhia and Marek are at Galen’s.” Galen—another name she recognized from her childhood.
“Good. I was on my way there, anyway.”
Sura found another scrap of paper. “And Jula’s delivering the news.” Shoulders aching, she adjusted her grip on Malia. “Who are you?”
He set down the mug and pulled back his hood. “I’m Lycas.”
Sura’s jaw dropped. She was face-to-face with her father for the first time in nineteen years. Nothing about him was familiar—not the piercing black eyes or the thick black hair that curved around his neck in a long ponytail. Certainly not the scruffy beard, which held several visible strands of gray.
A crooked smile scrawled across his face. “See, I’m just a human after all, despite what the Descendants say.” He poured another mug of ale. “So what’s your name?”
She couldn’t speak, couldn’t even remember where her tongue was.
“On second thought,” he said, “don’t tell me. If I’m ever captured alive, they’ll want to know who helped me in Tiros. I can’t give them your name if I don’t know it.” He downed the ale, then slammed the mug on the counter and let out a loud belch. “Pardon me.” He wiped his mouth with a filthy sleeve. “I’ll go find Rhia now.”
He flipped up his hood, pocketed another piece of bread, and tramped toward the door. When his hand touched the knob, he stopped. She struggled to find her voice, to speak the name she’d never called anyone.
Lycas examined her face, then lowered his dark gaze to Malia, who had finally fallen asleep.
“Cute baby,” he said. “A lot quieter than mine was at that age.”
He swung open the door and disappeared into the rain.
“Wait,” she whispered, but he had already slipped into the darkness. “Father…”
Sura walked into the bedroom as smoothly as her aching feet and swimming head would allow. She placed Malia in her crib. The child stretched, but continued to sleep.
Sura stared at her daughter, already wondering if it had really happened. All her life she’d wished Lycas would walk through the door. Now that he had, he didn’t know her. Why should he? He’d spent his life doing more important things than learning the contours of her face.
She touched it now, cupping her palm around her jaw, wondering if it were as strong as her father’s. Everyone used to say her cheekbones were her mother’s, but what about her nose? She ran her finger over the bridge as she made her way back to the kitchen. No, it curved up instead of down.
As s
he was crossing her eyes to study it, she noticed that his boots had left muddy prints all over the floor. She retrieved the broom from the corner and started to sweep. The boards were damp from the rain, and her efforts only smeared the dirt. Still she swept, turning the images into ragged lines.
Sura left one print intact, a left foot, the one next to the stove, where he had drunk the ale. She stood toe-to-toe with the print, her own right foot dwarfed by the huge outline.
She put the broom away. If she forgot this incident later, the footprint would remind her. Just in case, she hurried back to the bedroom and scribbled a note on Lycas’s page.
He’s here.
04
Tiros
“The Spirits are weakening,” Rhia told the small group assembled around Galen’s table, “at least according to my contacts. The Asermons are struggling to reach Them, especially the wilder Spirits. It’s exactly as Wolverine told Lycas when he progressed to the third phase.” She kept her voice steadier than she felt inside. “If we don’t liberate these lands soon, we’ll lose our one advantage—our magic.”
“And then what?” Dravek looked at Rhia, then at Vara sitting next to him. “We won’t surrender, will we?”
Marek scoffed. “Never. As long as we breathe, we fight.”
“Exactly.” Krios the Bear raised his mug to Marek, then looked at Rhia. “Your brother would say the same. Even without magic, we’d still push them out. Ilions can’t win our kind of war, and we won’t fight their kind of war.”
“As long as we have the support of the people,” Marek said, “it’s just a matter of time.”
Galen sighed. “But without magic, without the Spirits, why would the people support a revolution? There’s been no peace in Asermos for eleven years. They’re weary of war.”
“All the more reason we need to end it.” Rhia pushed her chair back, then stood and paced in Galen’s kitchen. “I think we’re getting close. With Lycas and Feras controlling most of the territory outside the two occupied villages, they’re almost ready to move into the final phase.” She swallowed her ever-present dread. “But these last two months, I can’t even confirm Lycas is alive.”
“He must be,” Vara said. “If he’d been captured or killed, the Ilions would have told the world.”
“They didn’t tell anyone when they captured Sirin,” Rhia pointed out. “If they want to avoid making a martyr out of Lycas, they’d put him in a cell and let him die of thirst. Or poison him or—” She stopped and rubbed her temples. No sense darkening the conversation further.
“Wait a moment.” Galen lifted his hand.
Rhia held her breath at the sight of his faraway look. He was no doubt receiving a message from Thera, the third-phase Kalindon Hawk whose powers fluctuated nearly as much as her son Etarek’s. Sometimes her communications were clear, but usually Galen deciphered her meaning from disjointed words and feelings.
Several seconds went by, then a faint smile curved the deep lines of Galen’s face. “It’s Berilla,” he whispered. “My old apprentice in Asermos. She must have entered the third phase.” He covered his ears and stared at the intricate pattern on the woven cloth at the table’s center, the one he used to clear and focus his mind.
Galen’s eyes popped wide. He moved his lips, but no sound came out, as he spoke to Berilla over many miles. Breath quickening, he listened intently, gray-streaked brows pinching together.
Rhia’s own face hurt from clenching its muscles. She sat next to Marek and massaged her forehead to ease the tension. Staring at Galen wouldn’t make the message come through any faster.
“No!”
Rhia jumped at the sound of Galen’s voice. His eyes were squeezed shut, and his hands clutched the edge of the table.
“Wait—Berilla!” He drew in a deep, sharp breath. His eyes opened slowly.
“What happened?” Rhia whispered.
Galen drew his hands down over his paling face. “Orders came from Ilios today. The Descendants plan a full-scale invasion of Tiros and Kalindos.”
Dravek sprang to his feet. “What?”
“Why?” Krios said. “We have nothing they want.”
“We’re aiding the guerrillas and the resistance in Asermos and Velekos.” Galen’s hands shook as they filled his cup with water. “And the Ilions are tired of fighting battles they can’t win. They think they can win here.”
“Of course they can,” Krios said, “if they bring a whole battalion. Invading a village with a population that can’t run away—that’s their kind of war.”
“When will this happen?” Rhia asked.
“I don’t know,” Galen whispered.
“Can you ask Berilla?”
“No.” His hands sank to the table, rattling the cup. “We were cut off. She may be unconscious.” He closed his eyes. “I fear she’s dead.”
Lycas caught up with Corek at the Tiron stable, where he was still haggling a boarding price with the stablemaster. Together they hurried through the driving rain to the home of Galen the Hawk.
Lycas rapped three times on the door and shouted, “Sparrow!”
Excited voices rose inside. The door opened, and Rhia dragged him across the threshold.
“You’re alive!”
He eased out of her embrace. “I wish you wouldn’t sound so surprised.”
“And Corek!” Rhia hugged the soaking young man hard enough to wring a puddle of water out of his cloak. “What are you doing here?”
“Lycas said I should see Galen.” Corek pulled back his hood. “For help with my Bestowing.”
A gasp filled the room, as Lycas had predicted. Corek was the last remaining Crow progeny without a Spirit, his generation’s last chance to fulfill the twenty-year-old Raven prophecy.
“We’re pleased to hear that,” Galen said finally. The old Hawk got up from his chair, his posture more hunched and rigid than Lycas remembered. They bowed to each other, then Lycas greeted Krios the Bear and Vara the Snake.
A young man sitting next to Vara stared at him with unabashed awe, then came forward, tripping on the table leg in his haste.
“You saved my life,” he said to Lycas.
“This is Dravek,” Rhia said. “He was one of the infants in the convoy we rescued all those years ago in Ilios.”
“Ah, yes. You’ve changed a bit since then.” He turned to Vara. “Just the woman I wanted to see.”
Rhia pulled out two chairs. “Lycas, we have news. The Ilions are launching a full-scale invasion of Tiros and Kalindos.”
He stared at his sister, who had just uttered his worst fear. “That’s impossible. How do you know?”
“Berilla, Galen’s old apprentice, just became third phase.”
“When will they strike?”
“We don’t know,” Galen said. “Berilla was cut off. She may even be dead.”
Lycas’s fingers curled into fists. “They’re killing third-phase people now?”
“Possibly.” Galen sighed. “Neither village can hold off a regiment or even a battalion. What are we going to do?”
“We can’t defend both villages. Send a message to Thera. Tell her to evacuate Kalindos, have them come here.” Lycas took off his wet coat and tossed it over the back of a chair. “As for Tiros, I need a map.” He slapped the table as he sat. “And some ale.”
Both were placed in front of him. Dravek leaned over his shoulder to study the map. Lycas gave him a dark look, and he backed off.
“Asermos is a three-day march from here,” Lycas murmured, “but we’d know if troops were being mobilized.” Ilions had no flair for skulking. “It’ll be at least a week before they move out.”
“What are they waiting for?” Marek asked.
“Reinforcements from Ilios, or redeployed soldiers from Velekos.” He looked at his brother-in-law. “A big army is a slow army. Why do you think I keep my troops split into small units?”
Rhia leaned on the table across from him, studying the map upside down. “If we can’t defend Tiros from
that many soldiers, can we keep them from getting here in the first place?”
“I like the way you think, little sister.” He pointed on the map to the bridge over the Tiron River. “This is the only passage for a hundred miles in either direction. The banks of that gorge are too steep for horses to cross.”
“So we take out the bridge?” Krios said.
Lycas nodded. “I’ve been considering it for a while, as a last resort. It not only keeps more troops from moving in, it cuts off the northwest garrison from the rest of the army.” He tapped his finger against a square symbol west of the Tiron River. “Which means Feras can take it as soon as the bridge is out. He’s got enough men now to hold it.”
“But without that bridge,” Dravek said, “Tiros will be isolated, too. No one will be able to get from here to Asermos and back.”
“It’ll be harder, but not impossible. Our people can cross upstream in the mountains or downstream in the hills where the banks are lower.” Lycas drew his finger down the rough surface of the map. “We control those areas.”
Dravek gave him an admiring smile. “Sounds like you have it all figured out.”
Lycas chuckled. “Yes, until about two hours from now when a new disaster changes everything.” He studied the map and felt a surge of excitement at the thought of turning this last Ilion gasp of aggression to his own advantage. “A garrison would be a real base of operations. It would change everything.”
It would also give his men a safe place to keep Ilion prisoners , showing mercy as Wolverine had dictated. Over the last year, Lycas had tried to mind his Spirit’s edict. In the Sangian Hills and Kirisian Mountains, he’d ordered his men to avoid battle when possible, if it didn’t mean giving up territory.
But when the battles came, his first duty was to protect his own people. Giving quarter to even one Descendant soldier would put the whole camp at risk, and cause more deaths in the end. So they slaughtered all who dared to fight them.
He consoled himself with the fact that the Ilions would rather die in battle than be prisoners of “beasts.”
He noticed the carved wooden snake fetish dangling from Dravek’s neck. “I’ll need your and Vara’s fire talents for a different mission.”
The Reawakened Page 27
