The Vine Eater (The Magic Eaters Trilogy Book 2)

by Carol Beth Anderson

  She halted. Get some people to do what? Confront a man with a gun? Ovrun had done that, but he was Ovrun. Most people, even trogs with combat training, would freeze or run when they saw a gun. She couldn’t ask this young father to risk himself.

  “Never mind!” Nora shouted as she spun and sprinted again. The gorgeous sunset seemed to mock her desperation.

  Gun—gun—gun—need a—gun. The chant, timed with her racing steps, took Nora all the way to Eira’s office. The elderly trog’s assistant waited in the small lobby.

  “Where’s Eira?” Nora demanded.

  Eira’s assistant stood, eyes widening. “She is out. What do you need?”

  Nora’s gasps threatened to turn to sobs. She refused to let them. No time for that. She bent over and propped her hands on her knees, trying to get air into her lungs. By the stone, she thought she was more fit than this. “We need a gun—and someone who—can use it!” Her breathing grew more controlled as she explained what had happened.

  “Come.” The assistant led Nora into Eira’s office, then used nimble fingers to insert a key into a locked cabinet. “Take one.” She gestured at five guns inside. “I know nothing of guns, but I will take you to two men who do.”

  Nora took two of the four guns she and her friends had stolen from the men guarding Taima. The assistant took the fifth gun. It was a preday relic, probably the one Eira had threatened them with the first time they’d met her. Nora grabbed a handful of bullets from a clay bowl and put them in her pocket. She shoved the guns in her waistband, under her light jacket. They dug into her skin, cold and deadly.

  The assistant locked the cabinet. “Let’s go!”

  “We need to run!” Nora said.

  They stopped at a tannery a few doors down. Behind the small building, Eira’s assistant gave a brief explanation to two men working there. The assistant gave her gun to one of the men, and Nora handed over the bullets. He loaded it. The other man told Nora that the bullets she’d grabbed wouldn’t work in her guns—and that both were empty. She cursed again. She was doing a lot of that today.

  They all ran, eliciting stares from trogs in the streets. The two men sprinted ahead, one of them wielding the loaded gun. Apparently at least one of them knew where the prison house was.

  By the time Nora turned onto the proper street, the men were standing at the house across the street from the prison house. Two guards were shackled to the columns on its porch. Nora rushed forward and grabbed a guard’s shoulder, squeezing it hard. “Where are my friends? Tell me!”

  Nora paced in Eira’s office. A few steps away, the yawning assistant slouched in a chair. Of all the times for Eira to be visiting other clans, Nora thought for the hundredth time.

  The assistant stood, stretching. “If Eira is not back by now, she will not return until morning. We must sleep. You will come to my house. Your friends may tell the man where the bunkhouse is.”

  “What if the searchers find my friends?” The assistant had sent out several search parties. She’d refused to let Nora go.

  “If your friends are found, someone will wake me. I will wake you.”

  That made way too much sense for Nora to argue.

  The assistant’s extra bed was comfortable, but Nora couldn’t do more than doze. She kept in close contact with Osmius and Taima, who’d left their mountain den to fly high above Deroga, searching. But they’d had no luck finding Nora’s friends. She guessed the group had hunkered down in a building for the night.

  At daybreak, Nora returned to Eira’s office and sat on the porch, jacket hood up, knees pulled into her chest.

  The assistant arrived before long. Seeing Nora, she shook her head and sighed. Nora paced the front room for an hour until Eira finally arrived.

  The elderly trog walked past Nora. “Come in.”

  Nora dropped into a chair in front of Eira’s desk and let the whole story tumble out.

  Eira wasn’t one to overreact, but her thin lips pursed a few times. When Nora finished, Eira said, “I assume you have an ill-considered plan to rescue your friends?”

  Nora bristled but responded, “The dragons are flying above the city and beyond it, looking for them. We’ve got to get to them before my father does.” She lifted her chin. “And yes. Assuming one of the dragons finds them, I do have a plan to get them back.”

  Eira’s brows rose.

  Nora was about to defend herself when Taima spoke into her mind. Nora.

  Suddenly breathless, Nora pointed to her head and blurted, “Hang on—dragon.” Silently, she asked Taima, Did you find them?

  In response, Taima sent Nora an image. Four people who appeared no larger than bugs had exited Deroga’s suburbs and were walking in the dusty wilderness.

  If I fly in quickly, Taima said, I can burn the man who took them.

  We’ve talked about this, Taima. You’d have to get close to aim properly, and that man could shoot you—or my friends. Stick to the plan.

  Very well. The beast’s disappointment was clear in her tone.

  Nora met Eira’s gaze. “The dragons have agreed to the plan. Are you ready to hear it?”

  Hours later, Nora and Eira brought a male militia member to a street where Taima, reclined and regal, waited.

  The young man was equipped with an envelope in his pocket and detailed instructions on his role in the rescue effort. An additional three militia members were currently traveling toward the city on Osmius’s back, prepared to assist in their own way.

  After Nora gave the young man several dragon-riding tips, he climbed on Taima’s back. He let out a short, high-pitched cry when she leapt into the air.

  Watching them leave, Nora felt a tingle in her legs, an illogical urge to run after the soaring reptid. It felt wrong, sending other people to rescue her friends. She’d wanted to go to the city to help, but Eira had insisted it would be too unsafe. Nora knew she was right—the princess of Cellerin was more likely to be recognized than anyone else. Besides, the militia members all had better magical skills than she did. But she didn’t have to like it.

  She turned to Eira. “What do we do now?”

  “We wait.” The trog let out a low laugh when she saw Nora’s dismayed expression. “You cannot do everything, Princess. Waiting is part of life.”

  27

  Derogan school officials just announced they’re increasing physical education requirements by fifty percent. Pardon me while I throw my skinny arms in the air and stomp around using the underdeveloped muscles in my legs.

  Some people improve society through physical strength, others through mental acuity. I think we all know which type I am. Every extra hour I run or do pushups is an hour I could’ve spent discovering world-changing new truths. (Or, you know, reading a good novel.)

  -“My Brain Is My Favorite Muscle” by Genta Ril

  The Derogan Chronicle, dated Cyon 17, 6293

  Zeisha’s eyes swept over her surroundings.

  Focus on the beauty. Those trees in the distance have such bright leaves. The sky is a nice shade of pale orange today. I see a bird of some sort flying way up high. Also, there’s a gun pointed at my back.

  Zeisha’s breath caught. She couldn’t see the gun, but it intruded every time she tried to distract herself. I don’t need pretty skies; I need to run away!

  But even if they hadn’t been guarded by an armed man, running would’ve been difficult. Zeisha and Krey walked on either side of Ovrun, whose arms were crossed, his hands shackled to theirs. His muscles must be cramping after walking like that for hours. He didn’t complain.

  From the other side of Ovrun, Krey spoke up. “Lars, you can unshackle us now. It’s not like we can outrun your bullets.”

  “It better be the last time you ask me that,” Lars snapped. After a pause, he said, “We need to eat. Let’s stop here.” Lars walked around to face them. “Anyone need to use the facilities?”

  If Zeisha hadn’t been so stressed and tired, she would’ve laughed. The only facilities were shrubs and tre
es. During the trek through Deroga, she’d endured the humiliation of squatting against buildings while shackled to Ovrun. Today, they were sweating out all their water. No one needed to “use the facilities.”

  Lars gestured to the dirt. “Sit down.”

  Zeisha scanned the ground. It was free of any plant life, and she groaned inwardly. Lars had successfully kept her away from her fuel this whole time. As they’d traveled through the city the previous night, he’d steered them away from wild plants. When Zeisha had tried to reach out for a tall weed, he’d threatened to shoot her hand. And nothing but stinky mold grew in the abandoned building they’d slept in.

  “One. Two. Three. Sit,” Ovrun said. He, Zeisha, and Krey lowered themselves to the ground smoothly. They were getting good at this.

  Lars passed out dried fruit and meat. They all shared a bottle of water. The lukewarm liquid tasted heavenly on Zeisha’s dry tongue.

  She considered striking up a conversation with her abductor, like she’d done the day before. But he’d now held her captive for over a day. Her friendliness had expired hours ago.

  Krey, however, chatted with Lars like they were old friends. The soldier had been tense during most of their journey, but now, he relaxed. He spoke of his job, renovating preday homes. Zeisha mostly tuned it out, but her ears perked up when Lars said, “Yep, for every ten homes I work on, I do one for free. Someone who can’t afford it. I like to give back, you know?”

  Zeisha cocked her head and stared at him as she chewed a tough bite of meat. The man who’d kidnapped them at gunpoint regularly engaged in charitable work?

  Lars’s gaze drifted to her. “Everything okay?”

  No, she wanted to say, I’m eating with my left hand, which I’m terrible at. Ovrun is lifting my right hand up and down over and over so he can eat. My wrist just started bleeding, but I don’t want to complain, because I know both his wrists probably hurt worse than mine. And—oh, yeah—you abducted me so the brain-eating king can control my mind.

  She stifled the words and nodded instead.

  Lars lifted his pack in one hand and his gun in the other. He stood. His voice turned gruff. “Enough talk. Let’s go.”

  As they again walked through the dry dirt, Zeisha pondered the man behind her. He gave his time to help the needy. Yet over the last day, he’d abducted innocent teenagers and threatened repeatedly to shoot or otherwise injure them. And all because someone told him to. He believed he had no choice in the matter.

  But he does have a choice. Unlike you, he could refuse. That’s the difference between you and him.

  This dusty wilderness was nothing like the beautiful park Zeisha frequented in Deroga. But a strange peace filled her as she listened to the part of her she’d chatted with for weeks now. The part of her that spoke truth. The part of her most connected to God.

  Yes, he has a choice, she responded. When I killed during the militia battle, I had no choice. She let the truth travel from her mind to her gut, let it warm her down to her sore toes and chafed wrists. I’m not the one who shot those vines. It was the person controlling me.

  The truth spoke to her again, so loud, it was a wonder Ovrun and Krey didn’t hear it: Then let it go.

  She filled her lungs with air, and as she blew it out slowly, she released her shame. Her guilt over actions she hadn’t chosen.

  A sense of stillness and acceptance filled the places she’d emptied. She smiled, despite her aches and fear.

  The next steps she took felt a little easier.

  Ovrun rolled his aching shoulders. The chains connecting him to Zeisha and Krey rattled. He suppressed a groan, unwilling to give Lars the satisfaction of complaining aloud. But damn, his shoulders and wrists hurt.

  The journey had been mostly quiet. Lars didn’t want them talking, afraid they’d somehow share coded messages with each other. Ovrun didn’t mind the silence. He was busy brainstorming ways to break free. That morning, he’d seen Lars move the shackle key to the front pocket of his pack.

  All I gotta do is get that key.

  Easier said than done. When they’d stopped to eat, Lars had kept his pack well out of his captives’ reach. Maybe we can rearrange ourselves so I have more mobility. With my arms crossed, I can’t do anything. If Krey and Zeisha moved—

  His thoughts ground to a halt. Sure, if he, Krey and Zeisha could sit and brainstorm, maybe they’d find a way to attack Lars. But what were they supposed to do, ask him for some privacy? Lars was nice, not stupid.

  I’m crap at strategizing. It wasn’t like that was news to Ovrun; his best weapons had always been his instincts and physical strength. Maybe making a plan was useless. Or less than useless. His brain was spinning in such tight circles that if an opportunity presented itself, he wouldn’t be ready for it.

  I’m relaxed. Alert. Despite this resolution, his thoughts continued to churn to no effect. Trying to form a plan with no resources was like trying to bake bread with no ingredients.

  By the stone, bread sounds good right now.

  Movement ahead caught his eye. It was far enough away that he couldn’t hear anything, but something or someone was up there.

  On Ovrun’s right, Krey’s shoulders stiffened. He’d seen it too.

  Behind them, Lars said, “Stop walking. Sit down.”

  They did. Lars crossed in front of them, gun in his right hand, eyes fixed on the horizon, where shadowy shapes hinted at the city ahead. The figure was slightly larger now. It was coming their way. Lars walked forward, then stopped and turned so he could watch his prisoners and whoever was coming. “Don’t get up,” he said gruffly, aiming his gun at them.

  The approaching figure soon revealed itself as a person on an orsa. A little closer, and they saw it was a man. Closer still, and Zeisha drew in a soft breath. Ovrun didn’t gasp, but he’d seen the same thing she had: the rider was one of the former militia members.

  The orsa halted several mets from Lars, whose gun was raised and steady. The militia member held up both hands, one of them still gripping the orsa’s reins. “I’m here at King Ulmin’s command. I have a message to deliver.”

  “A message? How did the king know where to find us?”

  The militia member pointed at the orange sky. “He wanted to know how your mission went. He dispatched a feather lyster to locate you.”

  “Why didn’t the feather lyster bring us the message?”

  “Because you probably would’ve shot a man diving down from the sky at you. The king said you might feel less threatened if a rider came.” He gave Lars a nervous smile. “Listen, the letter is in the front pocket of my jacket. I can get it, or you can.”

  Lars paused, then said, “You get it. Move slow.”

  The former militia member nodded and slowly lowered a hand to his front-left pocket. He inserted two fingers into the pocket and pulled out an envelope.

  “Drop it on the ground,” Lars said. “Then back up your orsa. Sorry to be so careful, but I wasn’t expecting to meet someone.”

  “Believe me, I understand. I’d do the same. Can’t be too safe.” It took a few tries, but the young man convinced his orsa to step back. “Sorry; I’m usually on a push scooter when I deliver,” he said with an awkward laugh.

  Ovrun gritted his teeth. Believe him, Lars. Please. His next thought was directed toward the young man. And when Lars bends down, it would be a great time to pull out a weapon or attack with magic.

  But Lars kept his gun and his eyes trained on the supposed courier as he squatted and retrieved the note. “Does His Royal Highness expect a response?”

  “No response, just obedience.”

  Lars’s matted curls vibrated as he nodded. “Then you can head on back to the city. I’ll obey the king’s orders.”

  The militia member’s eyes briefly found the captives before he turned his orsa. In seconds, he was trotting back toward Cellerin City.

  When the messenger was too far away to do them any harm, Lars turned to face his captives. He sat a few mets in front of them
, laid the gun in his lap, and lifted the envelope.

  Ovrun tried to determine if he could somehow scoot close enough to kick the guy. But there was too much space between them.

  Lars tore open the envelope and pulled out a folded note. His thick brows rose as he read. After a wait that felt interminable, he looked up. “Seems the king’s gonna be away from the palace for a couple days. He doesn’t want you there until he’s ready to see you himself. So we get to wait at a house in the city.” He held the note up, shaking it. “It’s weird, though. A house? Why not a jail?”

  “He probably wants to keep all this quiet,” Krey said.

  Lars stroked his beard with one dirty hand. “Yeah. Maybe that’s why he told us to travel through the city late at night. Which means we’ve got a few hours to kill.” He pulled his pack off his back. “Anyone hungry?”

  “Starving,” Ovrun said. It was a lie, but he had to keep his strength up. He ate dried meat, tuned out Krey’s conversation with Lars, and watched for an escape opportunity that never came.

  28

  Human rights activists have long opposed the use of physical restraints when someone is arrested. They argue that even flex restraints (known as eights), are cruel.

  Researchers have developed a nasal mist that renders someone temporarily semiconscious. They claim it has no side effects and is the most humane way to restrain someone.

  Am I the only person who thinks this is ridiculous? If I’ve committed a crime, by all means, tie me up! Use coarse ropes or thick chains if you need to! But don’t take my mind. If I’m going to jail, I want to remember the experience.

  -“Show Some Restraint” by Genta Ril

  The Derogan Chronicle, dated Cyon 19, 6293