by Lou Hoffmann
Lucky scrabbled through everything he knew trying to find something to use as a weapon. He tried to reach for Ciarrah, but he needed both hands to hang on to his reins and saddle so as not to be flung to the ground by Zef’s frantic attempts to find escape.
A Wish, then, he thought, a Wish to get Zef and me around this blockade to Thurlock and safety.
He touched the Key of Behliseth with his mind, and felt as well as saw and heard its magical swell, soon joined by Ciarrah’s answering surge. With his attention divided, no time for careful formulation of a Wish, and his mind so recently occupied by the Charismata, perhaps the result was the only one possible. Suddenly, the horses hitched to the cart began moving, dragging the cart with its brake still engaged around toward Thurlock and past him. Sherah dodged out of the way, but several of their attackers—most of those who’d escaped Thurlock’s onslaught—were caught under hard-driving hooves of the cart horses.
Zef needed no encouragement to take advantage of the road suddenly cleared of the wagon, and she ran for all she was worth. Flying by, Lucky got a look at Thurlock’s face, and thought he looked surprised as hell, but then again, he was pretty sure his own face would show much the same expression. Because he felt surprised. Riding low over Zef’s neck for speed and security, Lucky tried his best to let the Charismata go, hoping—perhaps Wishing—the team of horses—who would thunder after him giving chase to the object of their affection—would somehow come through unharmed.
Zef was well past both the cart and Thurlock, but soon Lucky sensed the wizard’s approach behind him like a wind at his back. Eyes ahead, he saw someone appear on the road. The figure seemed at first an apparition, but though the person partook of the darkness Lucky had become so familiar with—he could see that even with ordinary vision—he was no shade. Solid flesh and bone, he lifted his dark metal staff and raised a wall of burning blue power, flames lashing outward from it toward Lucky and Thurlock.
Lucky didn’t know if he had it in him to do anything about that magical barrier, but he made up his mind to try. Before he could so much as put together an idea, though, Thurlock rushed by. He sat forward in the saddle with his long white hair flashing behind him in the wind created by his own speed. The glimpse Lucky caught of his face as he roared past revealed a fury Lucky had never guessed Thurlock could summon. With a bellow like a war cry, Thurlock launched his staff at the other wizard, who—immobilized by his own magical work—made a perfect, still target. The golden wood of Thurlock’s staff shone bright with glowing runes as it flew, and a bladelike tongue of brilliant light shot forth from the sun-metal globe at its tip. Sherah didn’t slow or miss a beat, carrying her rider swiftly after the speeding staff.
Split seconds before Thurlock’s staff found its mark, Lucky registered every detail of the unknown wizard’s face. Fierce anger flashed to dead-white terror, but before the sun-metal even touched him, he was dead—pierced through by the fire of Thurlock’s deadly wizardry. He stood for an instant as if the magic itself held him upright. Then, all at once, he fell. In that same moment, the towering sheet of blue flame flashed so bright Lucky’s vision failed. A second later, when Lucky could see again, nothing remained of the wizard except a few flakes of ash shivering in a sharp, crying wind. Thurlock sat astride Sherah beyond the fallen barrier, holding his quiescent staff, looking old but—surprisingly—not exhausted.
Lucky reined Zef to a halt beside Sherah, and she calmed as the howl of the wind died away leaving a warm midafternoon sun, a few hazy white clouds high above, and a slight, comforting summer breeze.
After a moment’s pained silence, Thurlock said, “That was some feat you accomplished back there with the cart horses, Luccan.”
Lucky wanted to answer, and even more wanted to address the fact that he’d just watched Thurlock kill—no, violently demolish—a human being. He waited a moment for words to come. They didn’t. Suddenly devoid of anything resembling energy, he tried to dismount before he fell out of the saddle.
He almost succeeded.
Chapter Three: Si Vis Pacem Para Bellum
IN THURLOCK’S absence, Han discovered new talents. The things he was learning to do were not things he’d ever expected or desired, but he found some satisfaction in finding out he could, when necessary, do them. He would have worried a lot if he hadn’t been working hard, but he was, and as a consequence the days sped by filled with all kinds of unexpected things.
Like the shifters from Earth.
When they’d first stepped onto Ethran ground, they’d faced Sunlands arrows and swords. Han—along with all his troops—had thought they belonged to the enemy, and Han had worried they would hold that against him. Just as with Henry, he couldn’t hear any of their thoughts as long as they remained in human form—and apparently they’d decided to do that, for the time being. Although they and the Sunlands army under Han’s command had ended up fighting together to defeat the Terrathians’ shades and wraiths, they’d come to the Sisterhold afterward only because Thurlock convinced them to do so.
So on the day after Thurlock and Lucky left the Hold, when Han entered the barracks where they’d been temporarily housed, he’d been buzzing with apprehension—even though his main purpose was only to talk to Henry.
“Barracks” was a bit of a misleading term for the building they’d been given. On the base but set apart from the other soldiers’ quarters, the upscale accommodations had previously been the home away from home for what had been the Sunlands’ most elite cavalry unit, Shahna’s Rangers. In the afternoon the sun slanted through the stained-glass windows at maximum effect, and when Han stepped inside that day, colored light flooded the room.
He stood and breathed for a moment in the warm caress of rainbow light, oddly encouraged by it. Some of his anxiety melted away, but he had to laugh at himself.
It’s just light that came through colored glass, not a sign from the gods.
He still smiled, inwardly laughing at himself as he stepped through a second door and into the barracks’ common room.
Then his heart jumped into his throat as a chorus of applause greeted him.
Henry came walking toward him, but he stopped as a serious-looking man, perhaps a little older, with sharp eyes, a beak-like nose, and a corona of graying dark hair strode forward. He was holding out his hand, so Han reached out his as well.
“Talon Bastien,” the man said, just as Henry opened his mouth to speak. “Speaker of Bastien Clan. We’re eagles. I met you right after the battle, but I’m not sure you’ll remember.”
Han suppressed a slight irritation, mostly because he wanted to talk to Henry, but also because Thurlock had not left him any resources to work with the shifters. Talon’s forthright behavior seemed just shy of aggressive, but Han’s hands were more or less tied. He’d do what he could to see to it they had what they needed, but if they chose to make demands….
That might not end well.
Han knew already that Talon’s clan, the Eagles, were the largest contingent among the shifters, and that made sense from the story Henry had related after the battle—he’d said that people from all over the world, representatives of their various kinds, had been gathered for a conclave at the Bastien aerie. Henry’s story also explained the palpable grief that permeated the entire gathering.
“Many of the shifters gathered there couldn’t make the trip with the rest of us because of the sickness,” Henry had said, “and some others stayed behind because they wouldn’t leave their kin. And of course there are thousands more in Earth that couldn’t even get to the gathering. It’s different for me, Han. I’m the only one of us left that I know of, but a lot of other shifter kinds had thriving communities before the sickness came.”
Some of the ones who had come had been “sick” when they started out—meaning they were unable to fully shift between animal and human form—but none had been so far gone with the illness they couldn’t function. As nearly as anyone could tell, the journey through Naught seemed to have cured them, which had the bonus
effect of improving the mood among the shifters.
Thank Behl’s goodness for that. Thurlock had left their care to Han for the time being, and anything that might make it easier to keep them contented was a gift. Because he had no idea what to do beyond what he’d already done—give them a place to be and keep the peace between them and the Sisterhold. And, on the other hand, the “cure” that had occurred had made for some arguments, from what Han had heard, about whether to try to go back and get kith and kin who’d stayed behind. Some were for it, others too unsure of their position at the Sisterhold to want to make any such moves. They weren’t sure if they’d exchanged the frying pan for the fire.
Han had assigned some members of the Watch to keep an eye on the shifters for their safety—the Sisterhold’s residents were no more at ease with them than the other way around. At the battle, the shifters had done some damage to Sunlands soldiers before Han had figured out they should be fighting together, not against each other. True, it had been self-defense on their part, but claws and teeth left nasty wounds, and nobody liked to see their loved ones suffer.
When Han had approached Shehrice about providing for them, she’d had the wisdom to put some of the manor’s more amiable staff onto the task of taking care of them as needed. Fresh food was being brought in daily. They had cooks and cleaning staff, and their laundry was being done at the manor. Thanks to the building’s distance from the Hold and even the rest of the military housing, they had room to roam outdoors.
But still, they might feel like prisoners of war. Han admitted to himself that he would feel that way in their shoes, and he knew that was why he felt uneasy.
He’d not been prepared for applause. He was also not prepared for the look on Talon’s face, which did not convey the same level of approval. Han sensed immediately that Talon led his clan—and now probably all the shifters with him—with strength. He’d be a formidable enemy.
I hope it doesn’t come to that.
“I do remember you, Talon,” he said now. “Do you and the others have everything you need? I could try to answer questions, but we’re going to have to wait until things are a bit more settled around here”—and Thurlock is back—“before we can make any big changes or long-term plans.”
Talon’s eyes darted away—seemingly an expression of irritation—before he once again looked Han square in the eye. “Look. Henry told us about you, and a lot of the people here look at your eyes and remember about your… dragon thing. They think that makes you one of us. I personally don’t know about that, but I believe we can trust you. Some of your people don’t exactly love us. Am I right?”
With a wry expression meant to communicate that he wished it wasn’t so, Han nodded. “Yes. But you know, people don’t like change. And right now everyone’s kind of on edge. Some bad stuff has been happening—you walked right into the middle of it, so I shouldn’t have to tell you that.”
“Right. Well, I’ll tell you here and now, most of us want to stay. For a lot of reasons. Will we be welcome? Or at least allowed? Will we be free?”
Han really wished Thurlock was with him. He just wasn’t cut out for this. He spent a few seconds trying to decide what to say, but finally decided to speak his own mind. “As far as being free, wherever you fit into Ethra, you’ll be as free as the next person. We’ll all have to work together to figure out what that’s going to look like. I appreciate that we’ve had your cooperation so far. The truth is, you could leave this place if you wanted to push it, and though it might cause trouble, you’d likely be able to force your way to greater freedom to move around as you wish, even right now. As it is, I can try to fix any immediate problems, but I can’t make big changes, can’t give you leave for the full freedom I’m sure you want—not at the moment. I truly hope you can all be patient. I hope the way things are is good enough for now. Is it?”
Talon looked at him for a long time, staring intently and not blinking at all. Han felt like he was being read—but not only his thoughts—all of him.
Finally, Talon said, “Yes, for now. Then, as you said, we’ll see.” He turned and strode away before the words had left his mouth.
The rest of the shifters, who’d so recently applauded Han, now turned and in a general shuffle and hum went about their business. Han looked for Henry and saw him standing some distance away, looking at him but making no move to come his way. Han lifted his chin, hoping Henry could read the signal that he wanted to talk. He didn’t want to be too obvious and draw attention from the others.
Henry hesitated but then walked over to where Han waited.
“It was you I came to see,” Han said quietly.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I… I wish I could smooth everything out for everybody here, Henry, but I can’t. You’re different, though, because Thurlock brought you here himself and everybody knows who you are. You don’t have to stay here, and…. Well, I’ve asked you before. Things are a little more settled now. Maybe… I still think you might be happier staying with me.”
Henry smiled but said nothing, his eyes dancing with mild humor.
“Okay. I’d be happier if you were staying with me,” Han admitted. His face flushed with heat. He wasn’t used to this kind of thing. “But you could also stay at the manor, or even at Thurlock’s if you preferred.”
Now Henry looked troubled, or maybe sorry, and Han knew he was about to turn down his offer.
“It isn’t that I don’t want to accept, or that I want to be somewhere else—away from you,” Henry said. “I feel like I have to stay with the others. I brought them here, and even though I didn’t really know for sure that’s what I was doing at the time, I’d feel I was being disloyal if I didn’t stick with them until they’re… I don’t know, settled, I guess.”
Han nodded. He understood. But, for no reason he could explain, knowing Henry was close but not with him made him feel absolutely alone. His eyes burned with the grief of it.
“I would, though,” Henry said. “I would be happier staying with you. If things were different.”
Not trusting himself to speak without an embarrassing amount of emotion flooding out, Han nodded, tried to smile encouragingly at Henry, then turned and headed for the door. He drew in deep breaths as he made his exit, and by the time he reached the bottom of the porch steps and put a foot on solid ground, he felt much more in control.
Just be patient, Han, he told himself. The day will come.
“Han!”
Han turned to find Henry at the top of the steps. He’d looked contained just a few seconds ago, now he looked like he was about to fall apart. It had the strange effect of soothing Han’s heart, for he understood that Henry felt like he did—or something similar. Henry’s apparent distress also put Han firmly into his usual role of protector and caregiver.
“It will be okay, Henry,” he said, turning to walk back toward him. But before he’d gone a few steps, Henry come closer and stood before him, a plea in his eyes, as if he was silently asking for something he couldn’t voice.
It amazed Han that without being able to get the tiniest message from Henry’s thoughts, he knew exactly what was needed. He wrapped Henry up in his arms and held him tight. He said nothing. After Henry took a deep breath and pulled away, he looked into his dark eyes and saw the man’s equilibrium had been restored. Han smiled, and Henry smiled back before turning to go back inside.
All is not lost, Han thought. He whistled a tune from Earth—“Our Day Will Come”—as he walked back to his office.
HAN SLEPT that night dreamless and well, despite fearing he wouldn’t be able to relax at all, what with worries about Henry, Luccan, Thurlock, the military operations in process, and at least a dozen other things, all topped with a pile of resentments he’d been nursing. Maybe it was Olana’s touch that had helped him relax, or the discovery that he wasn’t as alone as he’d thought, or just the lull in the uproar of urgent things needing to be done. Whatever the reason, when he woke from a solid six hours’ sleep, the
tight anger that had put him so on edge the previous day had let go.
He still felt betrayed by the rogue Guard soldiers who’d been involved with evil, with murdering children, in the Behlvale. He still felt a seething determination to stop Mahros. He still worried about Luccan and Henry and Thurlock and everyone who fell, in one way or another, under his care—which was damn near everybody. But he could breathe through it, and he could set his emotions aside to think clearly. In other words, he could do his job.
The dawn wind—the Gods’ Breath—seemed to blow away some of the detritus that had been clouding Han’s spirits. In the light of morning, he saw that parts of what he dreaded—the work he thought he wasn’t cut out for, could be delegated and only required his hand to hold the various strands, to keep tabs on things and be available for consult.
He needn’t worry about the children who’d been rescued. None of them—nor any of those who’d been murdered—belonged to families at the Sisterhold or nearby areas. Some might have come from the Fallows, or possibly other bordering countries, and Han had dispatched riders with portraits of the children to those places. So far nothing had come back, but the children were either being fostered by Sisterhold families or cared for by Shehrice and a lot of volunteers, with some help from Rose procuring necessary supplies.
The business of keeping track of Mahros could be called done, for the time being, as Tennehk could handle that just fine—better—without Han looking over his shoulder. Besides, Han was sure Thurlock would be working that angle too.
Lem was still at the Sisterhold, and he would be okay adding a lot of the day-to-day running of the Hold to his routine military duties until Rose returned, so that left just one more civic matter for Han to deal with. It was something he’d been dreading mostly because he didn’t feel like much of an expert in political matters. As he prepared, though, he realized with some relief that he’d already made a good beginning at it. He mused that possibly, when he was in the infirmary, feverish and drugged, he’d been possessed by the ghost of a politician. Or something, because he didn’t know where his idea had otherwise come from.
