by Lou Hoffmann
His workday wasn’t over, but frustration was overtaking his ability to tend to his business. He decided a break now would let him get more done in the long run. Without another glance in the direction of his desk, he stepped outside into the softness of the summer night. Instantly, he felt better.
As he stepped off the boardwalk that lined the sprawling, single-story wood buildings that made up Behlishan’s Guard headquarters, he looked over at the barracks currently housing the shifters, thinking as he often did about Henry. He wondered how it was possible to miss him when they barely knew each other. Nevertheless, miss him he did—to the point of a hollow ache in his heart, small, but not to be denied. When he first saw Henry’s tall, slender figure coming toward him across the moonlit yard, he thought that ache had fueled his imagination. But it was Henry, and when Han realized that, he stopped walking.
Henry stopped a few paces away, a distance that seemed painful all on its own to Han. He could see from Henry’s expression that he’d come for a reason—a serious one.
“Henry,” he said, by way of greeting. “What is it?”
Henry shifted from foot to foot as if nervous. “We, uh… they… we would like to meet with you.”
Han felt confused. Why should that be so hard to say? “Okay,” he said. “When?”
“Now?”
“Now!”
“If you can.”
Han almost wanted to say no, he couldn’t, but it would have been a lie. Besides, though Henry’s behavior made him anxious about what the problem could be, he’d rather find out than wonder. “Sure,” he said, and started walking toward the barracks.
He was met about fifty feet from the building the shifters had been living in by what seemed to be a committee of shifter representatives, joined—to Han’s surprise—by Olana. A larger group of shifters, possibly all of them, stood lining the barracks wall in a small, unnaturally still crowd. He started to get a headache. This looked like trouble of the discontent variety and he already had too much to deal with.
As before, Talon Bastien, the Eagle Speaker, stood at the fore of the committee, and as Han expected, he stepped forward to represent the group.
“We’ve been thinking about our situation, and about yours—that of the Sunlands. We wish to notify you formally of a decision we’ve made. We will not pledge ourselves to the Sunlands.”
Han’s ire began to rise. They’d done nothing deliberately to harm these people. At Hoenholm, once the truth that they weren’t part of the enemy had come clear, Han himself and all his officers had taken their own lives in their hands to stop the Sunlands fighters from attacking the shifters—or even harming them while defending. He knew keeping them cooped up almost like prisoners for the past week hadn’t been ideal, but they’d been cared for in every possible way, and the separation they’d imposed was as much for their safety as for the comfort of the Sisterhold’s people. He almost opened his mouth to speak, but the thought Olana sent stopped him.
“Wait, Han Shieth, my brother. Listen to them.”
Han stilled his nervous need to speak. The silence that followed covered the yard by the barracks like a blanket. Talon stepped forward, stood directly in front of Han, and placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Han Shieth, Dragon-kin. we’ve concluded that regardless of the nature of your shift, you are indeed one of us. After much deliberation—and yes, dissension, at first—we’ve arrived at true consensus. We are all agreed that in return for citizenship in any country you call home—and the freedom that should go with it—it is right and good for us to pledge our loyalty to you. We see you are a true leader, and if we belong to this land, we will follow you, work with you, fight with you, when you have need.”
Han didn’t know what to say or do. After his very serious speech, Talon seemed to fight off a smile or a laugh, and Han was pretty sure that was because he looked as flummoxed as he felt. He didn’t want people to follow him. He wasn’t even sure such a thing was allowed. Even the people serving in Behlishan’s Guard, which he personally commanded in addition to overseeing all military operations in the Sunlands, didn’t pledge any loyalty to him—they pledged to serve the Sunlands. Again, Olana came through with what might be help, though it wasn’t enough to make the ground he was standing on stop shaking. Because that’s what it felt like—his own personal earthquake.
“Han Shieth. You have forgotten already what your wizard Thurlock said about your destiny? So, I believe, it begins.”
He stood awkwardly as, after Talon, each of the leaders came and rested a hand on his shoulder, looking him in the eye and then passing by. When they’d all done that, they turned to the rest of the shifters in the waiting crowd, and held out their hands, palm up. All the people shouted in unison.
“Han Shieth! Han Shieth! Han Shieth!”
And then the moment of seriousness passed. The crowd began to mill about and talk among themselves until Olana came forward and held up her hand, a ball of light glowing at the tips of her fingers. If its purpose was to get their attention, it succeeded. When all were quiet again—and mostly looking curious—she spoke aloud in a clear, carrying voice that belied her small size and age.
“My brother Han Shieth, Dragon-kin of the Drakhonic. I address you now as a respected member of my Droghona people. As you know, we are not united, and no one is given the right to speak for all. Yet I have been communicating with a number of elders, and we agree to name you brother and friend of our people. At such time as you have need, you may look to us for what help those who wish to may offer. I do not pledge. I offer no oath, for that is not our way. But among us, I say now that you will find allies, and Droghona do not forsake those whom they befriend. May our friendship ease your burden.”
Here, Han was in more familiar territory, yet he still felt he was being singled out for a kind of loyalty he had no right to ask. He owed his own pledge to the Sunlands, to Thurlock, and to Luccan. He was a leader only insofar as he represented those entities, never on his own behalf. Yet what could he do but accept the offer? It was indeed a rare gift.
He sighed, nodded, and offered a word of thanks and a bow of respect.
Olana returned the respect and turned. As she walked away, all of the shifters followed her. Han was left standing alone looking after them, completely disoriented until Simarrohn came up behind him and laid her head on his shoulder.
“Me too,” she was saying in a horsey way.
Han smiled. Here was an offer he felt quite comfortable accepting. He turned and hugged her neck, offered a scratch behind the ears, then boldly kissed her white-starred nose.
“Thanks, Sim,” he thought. “And now I suppose I’d best get back to work. Rest up, mare mine, but don’t get fat. Stay fit and fleet, for soon, I’m afraid, we’ll have to ride into battle once more.”
THE WORST problem centered around the information Tennehk and his spies continued to gather. The Sisterhold was experiencing an exodus such as had never occurred before, as far as he or any of his advisors knew. Young people were leaving their families right in the middle of harvest, heading to Nedhra City. Baffling, because most of them had shown no signs of discontent before taking their leave with no particular words of farewell.
Han had met with Tennehk during a dinner break, and they sat in a corner of the inn sipping ale.
“I know where they’re going,” Tennehk said, then quaffed his drink and signaled for a refill before continuing. “Or at least I know what they’re going to. There’s a movement in South Town, maybe spreading elsewhere. Some kind of society with religious overtones. They’re good at guarding their secrets, though, so I don’t know much. I should… well, anyway I hope I’ll know more soon.”
He explained that one of his spies, a young man who looked even younger, had made contact and had begun to infiltrate the group. So far, he was on speaking terms with a few of the youthful members of the organization, and they’d hinted that they knew of something he might want to be part of if he was tired of the status qu
o in the Sunlands.
“That was their exact words, which they used several different times as if it was part of a brainwashing litany: ‘tired of the status quo in the Sunlands.’”
“The status quo like Thurlock?”
“I’d guess. And maybe Luccan, and probably you.”
Han still had most of his ale, and he wasn’t terribly interested in drinking it. It might make him sleepy, and he had way too much still to do. It was tasty, though, so he stared down into the cup wistfully, wishing Thurlock were there and could “tap” it to remove the alcohol content. Of course, he wished Thurlock was at the Sisterhold for a lot of reasons, mostly more important than Han’s ale.
“So,” he said to Tennehk. “This thing with the young folks. Are they doing anything? Causing trouble?”
“Not so far. They just seem to be really devoted to this… cult. But that centers around Mahl-Ahmadou as a god to be appeased, so it doesn’t seem like it’s going to be harmless for long.”
“Blood and fire,” Han said, almost to himself. Then, bringing his attention back to Tennehk, he asked, “What about the military garrison in the city? They’ve never been my most loyal unit—always try to go their own way. But I’ve never doubted they’d defend the city.”
Tennehk ran a finger across his lip thoughtfully. “I’ve heard there’s some discontent in the ranks, but I haven’t heard anything that would indicate their basic loyalties have changed.”
“Good. I’ll let them be, then.” Han took a sip of his ale, then a bite from a slice of crusty bread that remained from their dinner. “So, that’s the city. What about the Fallows?”
Tennehk shook his head. “This is disturbing, Han, so brace yourself. I don’t know what’s going on in the Fallows. I’ve sent some very trusted people, very experienced with wilderness reconnaissance. They’ve disappeared. Not a single word back from any of the three.”
Not only was that bad news for intelligence gathering, but Han knew Tennehk valued each of his agents as a friend. “Gods, Ten. I’m sorry.”
Tennehk blew out a breath. “Yeah. Well, I’m trying to keep the faith. It’s just not something that happens often, with my people. I’m choosing to believe they’re okay. But listen, that’s about all I have to report—I hope some of it helps, and I’m sorry it’s not more. I’ve got to get over to the infirmary. We’re swamped over there. People acting strange. Oh!” He tapped a finger to his temple. “Almost forgot this bit. Among our patients—some of the kids have come back from the city. They don’t seem to remember what they did, or why they left. They’re confused and… melancholy, I guess, is a good word. Depressed. The healers are thinking something has tampered with their minds, a lot like the soldiers that were with Mahros in the Behlvale.”
Chapter Twenty-One: The Library Incident
WHEN LUCKY had seen the library at the Sisterhold, he’d thought that, given an opportunity to explore, he could learn to love the place. All the library at the University of Nedhra made him want to do was sneeze. Musty, dusty, and dimly lit, it took up the entire top floor of the oldest building on campus, and its shelves reached so far up Lucky couldn’t even see the top. Before he left, Thurlock introduced him to Mayli, a bored-looking library assistant—apparently a student of magic working her way through school. Her job was to get the books patrons wanted off the impossible shelves, and put them back in the right place when the patron was done.
“So,” Mayli said, and then she yawned. “The old man says you have to try to find places you saw in your dreams. That would be illustrated geography—shelf 503 B2j, or geology, 626 K3b. Which do you want to start with?”
“Uh….”
“You haven’t got a clue, have you? Gods, you act like you’ve never been in a library. Never even been to school, probably. You’ve no business being here at all.”
Of course he’d been in a library, but true, he really hadn’t ever been to school and even though it wasn’t his fault, he wasn’t proud of the lack. Both perplexed by her attitude and hurt, Lucky just stared.
Mayli yawned more, examined her fingernails, and sighed heavily. Finally she said, “Well? What, you want me to decide for you?”
She obviously doesn’t like me, Lucky thought. Might serve her right if I unleashed the Charismata on her…. But when it came right down to it, he didn’t want anyone to like him only because he forced them to. Also, the Charismata wasn’t a toy, and using it on a library assistant for no good reason would be frivolous—which wouldn’t be so bad except Thurlock would certainly hear of it. Anyway, Mayli’s opinion of him didn’t matter one bit in the bigger picture. All he needed was for her to do her job.
“Sure, you can decide,” he said, making sure to keep his tone even and polite. “One place I’m looking for is a dry, rocky environment, mountainous, extensively eroded. The rock is mostly red, layered and twisted or folded, so possibly a mixture of igneous, metamorphic, and sedimentary, meaning it’s likely a very old land formation, probably created by upthrust as a result of tectonic plates shifting early in the planetary history, not long after cooling created—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Mayli spoke loud enough that she caught a warning look from the librarian sitting at her desk halfway across the room. In a library-appropriate whisper, she went on, “I don’t even know what you’re talking about, igneous… tecto…. Whatever you said.”
“Right,” Luccan said. “Well, let’s try geology of the mountainous regions of this continent, shall we? Do you think you can find that?”
After shooting him a venomous glare, she went to the far side of the room, and then slid a ladder along a track on a wall of shelves as she progressed along it, looking up. When she found what she was looking for, she climbed up about two-thirds of the way to the top of the wall and started examining the spines of books. She moved the ladder farther along the track as she went, until she finally came to a stop. She pulled out a tall, wide, but slender book—or perhaps portfolio would be the right word—used a gesture and a word to magically send it down to Lucky’s study table, and then did the same thing with two monstrously thick volumes, and then repeated the process with two long boxes.
Curious—and also feeling like he’d gone from a dire situation in a world in trouble to something like a Harry Potter book—Lucky looked in the boxes first, and found they contained rolled scrolls.
“Be careful with the scrolls, please,” Mayli said as she approached Lucky once more. “They’re very old and valuable.”
Valuable to someone, maybe, but for Lucky the scrolls proved to be useless. The drawings were more like diagrams than illustrations and the letters looked like none Lucky had ever seen before, so he couldn’t read them. Hoping for help, he looked for Mayli, but couldn’t find her. Probably she had other duties besides babysitting him. Another person wearing a similar apron worked nearby with the same kind of feather duster Lucky had seen Mayli wielding.
“Excuse me,” Lucky said. “Can you tell me what these letters say?”
The young man, who wore a name tag that read, “Craytonh,” looked at Lucky with disdain and said, “Why are you even here?” Then he walked away.
Not bothering to get put out about the young man’s attitude—what would be the point?—Lucky put the scrolls away and turned his attention to the two gigantic tomes sitting side by side on his table.
Lucky read the title of the first one aloud. “Mile by Mile across the Karrighan Continent.” The author’s name, Yohan Willockson, rang a bell. After a moment, Lucky remembered Thurlock talking, not too flatteringly, about a wizard named Willock, who wrote a famous book called World Windings. Maybe Willockson was related? But there was no way for him to know, and it didn’t really matter. He dragged the weighty book closer and began to browse through it.
After what seemed like a million pages without seeing a single thing of interest, much less usefulness, Lucky sat back, squeezed his tired eyes shut, stretched through a yawn, and then looked around for a clock.
One wall of
the library had no bookshelves. Instead, display cases held “Significant Objects,” two doors led to “Privies,” one door was labeled “Staff Room,” and one more was marked “Promenade.” Above that door, a strange device enclosed in a glass globe hung suspended in midair. After studying it, Lucky decided it must be a clock. It had the sorts of gears and things one expected in a timepiece and resembled the one Thurlock kept on his mantel or occasionally on his person. But Lucky couldn’t decipher the time despite giving it a solid try, so after making use of the privies and taking a brief walk on the promenade to wake up his limbs, he asked the librarian. For the entire time Lucky had been there, she’d been seated behind an imposingly huge desk on a raised platform near the wall of doors. She had spectacles like the ones Thurlock sometimes wore—which intrigued Lucky, because he’d not seen anyone else in Ethra wearing them—and she looked over the tops of them when she answered.
“It’s seven hours and twenty minutes past noon, which you can see if you merely glance up at the clock.” She rose, took off her glasses, folded them, and put them in her top desk drawer along with the notebook she’d been writing in. Locking the drawer with a key she pulled from a pocket in her robe, she said, “Nevertheless, I thank you for drawing my attention to it. My workday should have ended twenty minutes ago.”
“Oh,” Lucky said. “You mean the library’s closing?” That wouldn’t be a good thing, as Thurlock had quite clearly told Lucky to stay there until he came back.
“No. Certainly not. I suppose you also can’t read the library hours posted on the door? We don’t close until nine. The assistants are here….” She trailed off and seemed to be looking at Lucky accusingly.
