by Brandon Mull
Still, he ran away from the oncoming tsunami, panting as he plodded across the sand. Could he possibly ride it out? Hold his breath and hope he might somehow make it to the surface before drowning? No, not through miles of water. This would be like having the whole ocean fall on him.
When Jason reached the parking lot, he turned to look back. The great wave was almost to the shore, curling up so high that the top disappeared into the overcast sky. The water before it had receded dramatically, turning the coastline into a sloping desert of moist sand.
“Not the best way to go,” said a gravelly voice at his side.
Glancing over, Jason found Tark beside him, wearing a Hawaiian shirt and sandals. Otherwise he looked exactly as Jason would have expected.
“How’d you get here?” Jason asked, panic giving way to curiosity.
Tark shrugged, staring up at the looming wall of water. “Serves us right, you know. This is what happens when you bite off more than you can chew.”
“We can run,” Jason said. “We can try.”
Tark grasped his arm, his hand so cold, it burned. “Better to accept the inevitable.”
Jason tugged and pulled, but couldn’t break his grip. For the first time Jason recognized that Tark’s eyes were entirely black.
“Wait a minute,” Jason said, the realization hitting him hard. “This is a dream. You’re not really Tark. I’m not really here.”
Tark grinned darkly. “Tell that to the wave.”
Looking up, Jason saw the wave curling over him—over the entire coast—the wave to end all waves, falling forward, stretching so far beyond Jason and the little parking lot that he could hardly imagine a place beyond its reach.
The sound was like being at ground zero during an atomic blast, so loud that Jason knew he would never hear again. Then he was tumbling helplessly through turbulent water that surged with unfathomable power. He immediately lost all sense of direction and found it impossible to keep the salt water from painfully invading his nose and mouth.
Jason woke up screaming, eyes squeezed shut, drenched in sweat, his body curled into a defensive ball. He opened his eyes and found himself staring at a faceless black head, inches beyond his nose, and screamed again, recoiling as best he could. The dark figure that had crouched beside him stood upright, took a step back, and held still.
Jason rolled away from it, deeply shaken, grateful that predawn light had begun to illuminate the forest. “I knew it was a dream,” he panted, trying to let go of the terror that had owned him. He was on dry ground. He could breathe. “It was horrible and realistic, but I called it. I knew it was you. I couldn’t stop it, but I knew what was up.”
The shadowy figure remained still. Jason found it infuriating to think that this voiceless, motionless creature was getting inside his head and manipulating his dreams. He despised the thought of it following him sedately all day, only to attack him mentally when he was at his most vulnerable.
Seething, Jason lurched to his feet. The creature did not twitch, but Jason reminded himself how quickly it could move when attacked. If he tried anything physical, he would only get hurt.
Jason stalked over to the figure and stood close, glaring at its blank face. “You’re a coward!” he yelled. “Stay out of my dreams! If you’re going to kill me, let’s get it over with. I’m serious. What’s your point? Why are you here? To make nightmares? Or is that just extra credit?”
The figure withstood the tirade without flinching.
“Are you trying to make me doubt my friends? To make me sorry I came back to Lyrian? Are you trying to provoke me into attacking you? Are you a spy? All of the above?”
The figure gave no acknowledgment of Jason’s presence.
Disgusted, Jason turned away. Why was he wasting his breath? It was like complaining to a mannequin.
Torn by worry and frustration, Jason kicked a small rock into the bushes. “I’m not sure what you’re trying to do,” he murmured bitterly, “but I think it’s working.”
CHAPTER 4
CHARM WOMAN
Rachel sat on a stone, the stub of a candle in one hand. She muttered a quick Edomic phrase. Staring intently at the wick, she willed it to be the focal point referenced in the phrase, and the candle flamed to life.
She blew out the tiny light. A thread of smoke curled upward.
Rachel repeated the phrase, exerted her will, and the little flame flared back into existence. She held her hand above it, feeling the warmth. She had now performed this trick hundreds of times, but she still experienced a fresh thrill each time the candle ignited.
She blew out the flame, then reignited it.
The effort used to tire her. Now it was easier than striking a match.
She blew out the flame.
Brought it back.
Blew it out.
Brought it back.
“You’re getting too good at that,” a voice said dryly. Startled, Rachel dropped the candle and turned to find Drake standing over her, his dark hair tied back in a ponytail, his flat features impassive. “You’d better slow down, or soon you’ll be instructing me.”
The candle had gone out when she dropped it. She picked it up. “You should let me light the next campfire.”
“I expect you could by now,” Drake agreed. “But we have to keep moving.”
“You found more marks?”
“Fresh ones. We’ve almost caught up to her.”
Rachel stashed the candle in her bag. She and Drake had been roaming these hills for more than a week, looking for the charm woman. Drake had insisted she represented their best chance of getting the lurker off their trail.
After splitting with Tark, Drake had led Rachel deep into the wilderness. The seedman had reasoned that since the lurker seemed to be tracking them for their enemies, the farther they got from civilization, the safer they would be. He had further hoped that perhaps the lurker would abandon them to follow Tark or else give up after participating in a fruitless chase with no end in sight.
The strategy had succeeded in avoiding interference from other imperial servants. But even after weeks on the run in the wild, Drake continued to catch glimpses of the torivor tracking them. Rachel had even seen it once—a humanoid silhouette crouched on a high ledge, backlit by the moon.
Drake had been able to provide whatever they needed as they roamed secluded mountain valleys and uninhabited forests—fish, fowl, venison, nuts, berries, mushrooms, and bubblefruit all combined to nourish them. The horses also found plenty of opportunities to graze and drink.
As the days passed, and the lurker neither attacked nor went away, Drake had remembered a woman who had once helped him save a friend from a flesh-eating disease. At the time Drake had asked the charm woman how she managed to use Edomic without drawing the notice of the emperor. She had replied that the emperor was well aware of her, but that she had a way of avoiding even his torivors, which allowed her to practice her craft in peace.
Based on that memory, and the hope that the charm woman still resided in the same vicinity where he had found her years ago, Drake had led Rachel south, into the wooded hills west of a sizable body of water called Jepson Lake. He had explained that the charm woman moved around a lot, but left coded markings to enable those who needed her services to locate her.
After a few futile days of wandering, Drake had recognized her marks on a boulder, and although the trail was cold, over the past several days he had maintained that the marks kept getting fresher. Each collection of marks looked like nonsense to Rachel, but Drake had explained that while most of the marks were meaningless distractions, a few left clear instructions once you knew how to read them. When she asked the secret, he said the charm woman would have to tell her, because he had vowed never to reveal how to decode the marks.
During the past weeks, Rachel had tried her best not to fixate on the negative. She tried not to count how many days it had been since she had slept in a bed. She attempted to downplay how many times she had felt too hot,
too cold, too sore, or too dirty. She strove to ignore how regularly she had been forced to ride, run, swim, or climb long after exhaustion would have normally demanded that she rest. She pushed away thoughts of her parents. She endeavored to forget about the endless conveniences of modern America that she had once taken for granted.
And she especially tried to not think about Jason.
Whenever her thoughts turned to him, it was like pressing an infected wound, increasing the pain without any realistic hope of making it better. Yet often she couldn’t resist. In moments of fear or discomfort, she wondered how much worse he had it, rotting in some filthy cell in the dungeons of Felrook. She pictured him cold, hungry, alone. She imagined him enduring ruthless torture. And she prayed that he was still alive.
Rachel climbed onto her horse and Drake mounted his. He led the way up a forested hillside and down into the valley beyond. He reined in his stallion near a cluster of boulders. She drew up beside him.
“See the grove on the far side of the valley?” Drake asked.
Rachel nodded. “Are the next markings so close?”
“No. Unless I’m mistaken, we should find our charm woman there.”
“Really?”
He flicked the reins, and his horse charged forward. Rachel followed, urging her mare to a gallop. The valley floor blurred by beneath her. She had been a competent horsewoman before coming to Lyrian, but after weeks on the run, most often on horseback, riding had become second nature.
It felt good to let her horse race at top speed, even if she had no hope of keeping up with Drake. He had not brought Mandibar to a full gallop for weeks, and Rachel had almost forgotten how truly fast the stallion could move.
Drake slowed his mount to a walk as he reached the edge of the grove. Rachel slowed as she caught up.
“What was that about?” Rachel asked.
He gave her a crooked smile. “Maybe I wanted to remind you who has the fastest horse.”
“Maybe you’re just in a good mood.”
He shrugged. “There’s a first time for everything.” He patted the stallion. “He’s not even tired. I’ve never ridden his equal. I may not have particularly liked Kimp, but I owe him for his fine taste in steeds.”
“May he rest in pieces,” Rachel said solemnly.
Drake chuckled, covering his grin with one hand. “It’s bad luck to malign the dead.”
She had made the same joke a few times before, and only kept repeating it because it always made Drake smile. “Don’t be a sissy. He tried to feed you to his dogs. He had it coming.” She had also noticed how it amused him when she talked tough. Deep down, beneath the banter, she remained haunted by the sight of Jasher and Kimp being blown apart when an orantium sphere had accidentally detonated in a grassy field near Harthenham.
Drake dismounted and gathered Mandibar’s reins. “Let’s lead them well into the trees before tethering them. I don’t like how near we’re getting to settlements.”
Rachel climbed down and led her horse into the grove. “How do we get this charm woman to help us?”
“We ask,” Drake replied. “On the only other occasion I’ve visited her, when she healed my friend Kaleb, she would accept no payment. I take it she’ll either aid us or she won’t. I expect she will if she can.”
They tethered the horses, and Rachel followed Drake deeper into the grove. He kept a hand on his sword. The trees were not very tall, but they had thick trunks with deeply grooved bark. Heavy, twisting limbs tangled overhead. She imagined that after nightfall the place would look haunted.
The undergrowth remained sparse enough to proceed without a trail. At length, Drake waved Rachel to a halt. He pointed up ahead, and she saw a long string of colorful beads looped around the knob of a fat tree. Three feathered hoops hung at the bottom of the strand.
“What is it?” Rachel whispered.
“Charm woman!” Drake called, raising his voice enough to make Rachel flinch. “We have met before! Please console us in our hour of need!”
They waited. Drake held a finger to his lips to discourage Rachel from speaking.
“You may pass” came a reply, well after Rachel had stopped expecting one. The sonorous female voice sounded younger than Rachel had anticipated.
Drake led Rachel past the strand of painted beads. As they advanced, she noticed various trinkets—some fashioned out of metal, some of bone or ivory, others of stone—dangling from other trees and shrubs.
They reached a small clearing. In the center awaited a large tent composed of stitched animal hides in mottled shades of gray and brown. The head of a wolf, still attached to the pelt, lolled over the entrance. Small carvings and graven figures surrounded the tent in a loose circle.
A woman appeared, taller than Rachel, but hunched, with ratty silver hair and a face that looked too young and smooth to match her spotted, wrinkled hands. She wore crude brown garments belted at the waist, and a colorful shawl. In one gnarled hand she held a staff topped by dangling trinkets that clinked when in motion.
“Drake,” she greeted, her voice melodious. “I believed we would meet again.”
“I would not have bet on it,” he answered. “Until recently I expected to rot and die in Harthenham.”
“You have brought a visitor,” the charm woman said. “What is your name, sweetling?”
“Rachel.”
Her attention returned to Drake. “What is your need?”
“We’re being chased by a lurker.”
The woman squinted. “Yes, I have sensed one nearby. It has been years since Maldor deployed a torivor.”
“Can you help us?” Drake asked.
“You have brought a terrible threat my way. But that harm is already done. We shall see if I can help you. Remove your footwear.”
Drake took off his supple boots and Rachel squatted to untie hers. The woman slipped strings of dark beads accented with teeth over each of their heads, mumbling quiet phrases.
The charm woman stepped back and invited them into the tent. Barefoot, Rachel ducked through the doorway. Three large bearskins lay on the ground. Elaborate mobiles hung from the ceiling, displaying a variety of gently spinning ornaments and crystals. Simple dolls made of wood and yarn sat opposite the entry in a staggered row. Incense burned inside hollow statues, aromatic smoke filtering through tiny holes, the heady scent mingling with the earthy smells of ashes and old leather.
The charm woman crouched on a low stool and gestured for Drake and Rachel to sit on the bearskins. The thick fur felt soft.
“How long has this torivor been after you?” the woman asked, her eyes on Drake.
“Five weeks,” Drake said.
“Has it guided soldiers to you?”
“Yes, until I led Rachel far into the wilderness.”
“The torivor has remained with you?”
“I continue to see it. Not clearly or often, but consistently.”
The woman rubbed a coin with a hole in the center that hung from a cord around her neck. “When was the last time you saw it?”
“Last night,” Drake replied.
“Has it visited your dreams?”
“No.”
The charm woman turned to Rachel. “How about your dreams?”
“How would I know?”
“You would know.” Her attention shifted back to Drake. “Is it more interested in you or the girl?”
“Almost certainly the girl.”
“Why?”
Drake glanced uncomfortably at Rachel. “I’m not sure we should confess why, charm woman. It could place you in greater danger.”
The woman laughed, quick and loud. “I could not be in greater danger. The emperor has hunted me for years. You have brought a torivor to my threshold. Speak candidly. The more I know, the better I can help.”
“The girl is a Beyonder,” Drake said. “She knows all of the syllables of a word that can unmake Maldor.”
The woman regarded Rachel with new interest. “I know of this word. You have
all of it?”
“Yes,” Rachel said. “So did my friend Jason, another Beyonder. He has been captured by Maldor, but it doesn’t seem like he’s had a chance to use the Word.”
“He could be dead,” the charm woman said.
Tears clouded Rachel’s vision. “He could be.”
“Though I expect that he lives,” Drake inserted. “He rang the gong and was admitted to Felrook. Maldor has never been quick to dispose of a significant enemy once captured.”
“You were close to this other Beyonder?” the charm woman asked Rachel tenderly.
“We became close,” she said, trying to bridle her emotions. She had cried enough over Jason. There was no need to make a scene in front of a stranger. “I didn’t know him in the Beyond. I met him here.”
“By what power did you cross over from the Beyond?” the woman asked. “Most of the ways have long been closed.”
Rachel explained how she had followed a butterfly through a natural stone arch and how she had entered Lyrian near the cabin of a spellweaver named Erinda, on the same day the solitary woman had died. Rachel also mentioned how the Blind King suspected that Erinda had summoned her.
“Intriguing,” the woman said. “Erinda was a former apprentice of mine. I have long wondered what became of her. She always displayed a profound interest in the Beyond. You have acquired an Edomic key word. Have you any experience speaking Edomic?”
Rachel blinked. “A little.”
“The girl can call fire,” Drake specified.
“Indeed?” The woman licked her lips, her gaze becoming more intent. “Who taught you this secret?”
Rachel glanced at Drake.
“I did,” he said.
“What business does a member of the Amar Kabal have speaking Edomic?” the woman challenged.
“I’m an exile,” Drake replied. “I’ve dabbled in many pursuits uncommon among my people.”
