Breathing hard, Kall took a long time to focus on his friend and comprehend that he was not some specter from the surrounding graves. The knife fell forgotten to the grass. “What are you doing here?”
Then it came to him in a rush—Aazen’s washed-out face, his swollen eye, and the grim set to his mouth. “Your father,” Kall croaked. “He—”
“I know.” Aazen nodded. Kall mirrored the gesture. It was all the acknowledgment either seemed capable of giving.
“He will kill you,” Aazen said. “His men are hunting for you now.”
“They don’t know about this place,” Kall said. He retrieved his knife and started digging.
Aazen scraped dirt aside with his hands. “You don’t have much time,” he said. He hesitated, looking at the ground. “These won’t help you.”
Kall’s blade found the niche he’d been looking for, and he peeled the grass back, like slipping the lid off a stubborn box. Beneath lay a hollow space lined with wood and cloth. Two bundles of tightly wrapped linen were nestled on top of this, the larger tied with a rope to be worn on the shoulders. He drew them out reverently, as he’d seen his father do when he’d first shown them to Kall.
“I’m going back,” he said, glaring into Aazen’s skeptical eyes. “If I can just get to Father …”
“Your father believes you have betrayed him,” Aazen said bluntly. “He is allowing mine to deal with you, in whatever way he sees fit.”
Kall’s gaze faltered. “You’re lying,” he said automatically. “Father would never believe I betrayed him.”
“He has no say in the matter. Father has Morel under his control. I don’t know how …” Aazen’s mind seized on his healed wound. “Magic, perhaps.”
“Magic.” Kall’s forehead wrinkled. Magic was only a vague concept to him, little more than a fixture in the stories his father used to tell of his mother. Fantastic and sometimes brutal as the tales had been, he’d only ever listened to the parts about the woman herself, soaking up every small detail.…
No, Kall thought savagely, thrusting the memories away. All that had been a lie. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “I’ll go back and free him. I have these”—he clutched the bundles—“they have magic. Father told me. I’ll kill Balram!”
The words rang out between them, and Kall sucked in a breath, watching Aazen, hearing the words and their implications for the first time.
He’d just sworn to kill Aazen’s father. In one day, their worlds had shattered. Nothing would ever be the same for either of them again.
Aazen said nothing at first, only smoothed the dirt and grass back in place over the hole. He looked up as the sun dipped below the horizon. “You have to leave the city. I was sent out to lead Father’s men to wherever you might be hiding. I came to warn you, but I can’t stay here. When Father realizes I’ve put him on a false trail, he’ll be tracking me.” Aazen stared into the distance, as if seeing something frightening in the dark. “I can’t hide for long.”
“He won’t forgive you. He’ll beat you to death and won’t know he’s doing it,” Kall said bitterly. “You have to run.”
They had no choice. Aazen was right. If Kall went back now, without his father’s aid, he had no hope. It shamed Kall to admit his fear, but stronger than that was the anger, the fury at Balram and all he’d stolen from Kall’s family. Balram wanted him dead. The only action Kall could take right now to thwart him was to stay alive.
Absorbed in thoughts and plans, Kall didn’t notice Aazen’s silence. His friend got to his feet and started walking, out into the dark. Abruptly, Kall realized what he intended and yelled, “You can’t go back. You’ll die!”
Aazen paused, not looking back. “No. I don’t think … no. I’m all he has. He cares for me.”
Kall’s mouth twisted. “How can he? Your father’s a murderer.”
Aazen said, calmly, “So is yours.”
And then, as if it had been waiting, the scene in the garden broke fresh in Kall’s mind. He saw his father drowning Haig as the sun shone down and insects buzzed around their bleeding wounds. He’d managed to block it out before, when he’d needed to escape, but Aazen’s words conjured the memory effortlessly.
Kall put his head in the grass and vomited. Sweat dripped between his shoulder blades, but he was so cold his fingers were numb. He tried to stand, but the sickness racked his body. Aazen made no move to help him.
“You said … you said he was under Balram’s control!” Kall spat and wiped his mouth. “Father would never have killed Haig.”
“Morel hates the Harpers. My father told me your father had reason to want Haig’s death.”
“No!”
Aazen looked down at Kall pityingly. “Get on your horse,” he said. “Don’t come back. Don’t come after Balram. I’ll have to … to kill you, if you do.”
Then Aazen went, his footsteps shuffling dully through the grass. Kall sat, frozen in shock, but he didn’t call out again. He simply listened, his breath aching in his chest, as his best friend walked away from him.
Finally, his movements wooden, Kall tied the linen bundles on to his back and mounted. He pointed the horse in the direction of the city gates, picking his way in and out of sparse trees, avoiding the open fields of the cemetery wherever possible. After a dozen glances over his shoulder, he left his home behind.
The horse plodded on the road south, and when next Kall opened his eyes, he saw nothing but moonlight on grass and a row of carefully laid stones.
Kall thought he’d turned a complete circle, bringing him back to the same cemetery he’d left earlier that night. No, the stones were different—there were more here, older, and of elaborate design.
He slid down for a closer look, but the family names were none he recognized. A twisted oak overrun by tall grass and brush marked the border of the cemetery. Kall tied the horse to the tree, out of sight, and settled on the grass.
For a long time he stared straight ahead, listening for the sounds of hoofbeats or footfalls that might indicate pursuit. Hearing none, he untied the bundles from his back and clutched them tight.
His empty gaze focused on one of the unfamiliar markers. The name “Alinore Fallstone” was carved deep into the stone next to some kind of symbol. There were more words written underneath the name in a language Kall did not recognize.
He stared at the symbols, at the incomprehensible language, until the words blurred and darkness fell completely over his mind.
CHAPTER SIX
Esmeltaran, Amn
12 Eleasias, the Year of the Sword (1365 DR)
Balram waited at the door to Aazen’s chamber. His gaze flicked briefly to Dencer, who’d found Aazen on the road and escorted him home. “Wait outside,” he said.
Dencer nodded and shut the door, sealing them off from the rest of the house.
Aazen stood in the middle of the room, waiting, while Balram locked the door and slowly turned. They stared at each other for a quiet breath, measuring, Aazen thought, how much had changed since they’d last spoken in this room.
“Kall is gone?” his father asked at last. He already had the answer, but Aazen recognized what he really wanted to know.
“Kall is leaving Amn,” Aazen said. “He knows that to stay is to die. Your secret is safe. I made sure of it,” he added, and realized immediately that it was a mistake. He sounded too confident, too powerful, and Balram sensed it.
His father’s eyes narrowed and something ugly broke on his calm, inscrutable face. “You made certain. You stood in this chamber and lied to me, took my life into your hands.…”
“I protected you.”
“You were protecting Morel’s whelp!” His father took a step forward. Aazen flinched. He couldn’t help it. “You gave no thought to me.”
“That’s not true, Father,” Aazen said quietly. “I give every thought to you, every breath of my life.”
“What is it you want, Aazen?” his father asked, his tone altering to curiosity. “You could have gone
with Kall. You were clever to lead me astray, more careful than I gave you credit for. I will never make that mistake again,” he added, his face darkening. “Yet you returned to me.”
“Yes. I want nothing from Kall.”
“Why did you come back?”
Aazen would never know why, just as he had never understood the desire that clawed him from the inside. The galling need to please his father, to win approval from this man, this thing who might kill him with a misplaced blow—the need would destroy him one day. He knew that, accepted it, because he could not do otherwise.
He tried to hide the helplessness he felt, but his father saw, and he smiled—a small, satisfied expression. Satisfied because he still had a loyal son, or because he had a pawn he could twist and control? Aazen wondered. Deep down, he knew it was the latter, and for one burning instant, he hated his father as he had never hated anything in his life. Then the feeling was gone, fading to ash as Balram put a hand on his shoulder.
“We will talk more of this later. For now, all that matters is you chose to return.”
“Yes, Father,” Aazen said. Resignation drained the anger as it had long ago drained the fight out of him. He barely registered the change in pressure at his shoulder, the alteration from affection to purpose—his father’s hand slowly turning him to face the wall.
Then there was only pain.
Kall awoke to the sound of a falling tree.
He scrambled up and around Alinore’s grave as the sun disappeared, blotted out by the falling trunk. It struck the forest floor with a deafening thud.
Forest … Kall’s head whipped around. Trees surrounded him, and in the distance, a cap of mountains graced the southern sky. Haig’s horse was gone, and so was the cemetery. All that remained were the bundles he’d been clutching against his chest and Alinore’s grave.
Wrong … wrong, all wrong. Was he dreaming? Then …
“Watch out, you!” A terrific weight slammed him from behind, knocking him to the ground as another trunk fell past his vision.
“That the last of them, by the bloody gods?” shouted a second, muffled voice.
“All clear.” The crushing weight fell away, and Kall saw a man peering down at him, haloed by a sea of leafy green. The man’s eyes were large and startlingly blue against a dirt-smothered face, and his ears curved as if the tips had been threaded through a needle. On rare occasions, Kall had seen half-elves in Esmeltaran, but never one so large as the figure staring at him now.
“Six young oaks! Six of Nine Hells, that’s what you’re in for,” said the muffled voice again, this time at Kall’s elbow.
Kall shrieked as a head burst up from the loose dirt where only a few breaths ago a tree had swayed. A hand followed to wipe the dirt out of a black beard on a pitted, distinctly human face.
“Garavin drew the map,” the half-elf said, a bit defensively.
The head and the arm weren’t having any of it. “Which you strayed from by a full thirty steps! Look, you.” The human’s other arm burst up, spraying Kall with more dirt. He flapped a crude drawing in front of the half-elf’s blue gaze. “Any more off and you’d have taken the Weir!”
As the pair continued to argue over him, Kall started to slide backward, groping for a weapon, a stick, a rock, anything.
His hand closed on a branch that had been torn away from one of the falling trees. He raised it, and fire licked along his ribcage. Gasping, Kall dropped the branch and fell back, clutching his side.
Immediately, the half-elf crouched over him, his hands probing along Kall’s flank. Feebly, Kall tried to push him away, but the man only grinned and muttered, “Cease.” His brow furrowed as he examined Kall’s wounds. “Get Garavin,” he said to his companion. “I think the boy slipped through Alinore’s gate.”
“Wouldn’t be the first,” the bearded man grumbled. Instead of hauling himself the rest of the way out of the dirt, the man disappeared back into the earth, pulling his drawing with him.
“What is your name?” the half-elf asked when they were alone. “Who attacked you?”
“Kall,” Kall said before he thought better of it. He jerked his head to the south, but kept his eyes fixed on the stranger. “The mountains—they’re in the wrong place.”
The half-elf nodded. “If you were lying in Esmeltaran’s countryside last night, I daresay they are. Those are the Marching Mountains, not the Cloud Peaks. You’ve come a long way in a short sleep, Kall.”
The Marching Mountains—Kall summoned a mental map. He’d crossed the lake, the Wealdath … the Starspires, by the gods … all those miles. His mind boggled. “How?” he asked.
“My sister’s fault, entirely,” said a new voice, rough and engulfed by a deep, canine bark.
Kall looked up and saw the animal first, a lumbering bronze mastiff with folds of flesh dangling off its ribs and paws the size of a man’s fist. Matching its stride—barely—was a dwarf with skin the color of dead leaves and a full, matching beard that fell nearly to his knees. As the dwarf bent over, Kall could see the hair was as wire-hard as the spectacle frames wedged in front of the dwarf’s brown eyes.
The human whose head and arm Kall had glimpsed earlier trailed behind him, dirt-covered and oddly tall and gangly next to the dwarf. In profile, the man’s face tapered and curved so prominently that Kall could have hung a cloak from his chin. Gesturing animatedly, he tried in vain to slide his parchment drawing under the dwarf’s thick nose. The shorter figure’s attention was entirely fixed on Kall.
“My name is Garavin Fallstone,” the dwarf said in an oddly formal accent. He extended a hand. When Kall only continued to stare uneasily at the group, a corner of the dwarf’s mouth turned up. “Ye need fear no attack from me or any of mine,” he said, his voice quiet but still rough as a boot scrape. “Laerin”—he nodded to the half-elf—“would have been about telling ye the same thing, had I not interrupted.” He deftly plucked up the human’s parchment, folded it, and slid it away in a pocket of his brick-colored vest. “The other here is Morgan, and the dog’s Borl. They’re not brigands, at least not right now.”
“Delvar,” Laerin said, as if that should explain everything.
“Means we dig.” Morgan glared at the half-elf. “Anyways, some of us dig, and some of us come within a druid’s death of slaughtering thousand-year-old trees!”
“Laerin knows the difference between a young oak and a considerably more established Weir,” the dwarf interjected smoothly. “No true harm was done. Morningfeast for one more, if ye please, Morgan.”
“I’ll see to it.” Morgan continued to glare at the half-elf as they strode off together into the trees.
“Do ye have brothers?” the dwarf asked incongruously as he took a seat on the ground next to Kall.
A memory of himself and Aazen on the sparkling lake flashed before Kall’s eyes. Mutely, he shook his head.
“Neither do I. I took my time growing accustomed to Morgan and Laerin. Ye’ll want to do the same.” He smiled. “Though I’ll make a wager ye give yer parents enough headaches for ten brothers.”
Kall glanced sideways at him. “You’re trying to get me to talk,” he said.
“Aye,” Garavin agreed, still smiling easily. “I’m needing to know if ye have family looking for ye. If so, I can save them the worry and send ye back through the grave—don’t mind the expression, it’s really a portal. But Morgan tells me ye’ve been in a fight, and more than a small scuffle. If that’s true, and ye’ve trouble of another sort following ye, then I’m needing to know how many of my diggers to pull out of the ground to defend ye.” The smile disappeared, but the dwarf’s voice was gentle and matter-of-fact.
“They don’t know where I’ve gone,” Kall said. “At least, I don’t see how they could.”
“Or they would have followed by this time,” Garavin said, nodding. “By ‘they,’ I take ye to mean the trouble and not the family?”
“I have no family.”
“I see.” Garavin said, as if he’d heard
the same raw-voiced statement many times before. “The choice is yer own, then.” He pointed to Alinore Fallstone’s marker—weed-grown, but in all other ways identical to the grave Kall had fallen asleep beside in Amn. “It’s not truly a grave, ye see. I never had a sister, but if I did, I’m relatively certain she’d be appreciating the jest.” Kall almost missed the wink Garavin shot him. “As I said, it’s actually a portal. There’re several hereabouts. A traveler in a rush can fly the Weave all the way to the Great Rift if he uses his head and knows where to set his feet.”
“I don’t know anything about that,” Kall said. “I came here by accident.”
“By falling asleep in a cemetery, weeping atop a stranger’s grave.” Garavin rummaged in a pouch that rode at his hip. He pulled out a vial of milky liquid that Kall recognized immediately. “Most folk of Amn haven’t that much sentiment in them, and more’s the pity.” He held the vial out to Kall. “Drink it all.”
Kall took the vial but did not drink. “I wasn’t weeping.” In truth, he remembered little about the previous night and his sleep, but he wasn’t going to admit that to the dwarf. “How did I get here?” he repeated.
Garavin’s keen eyes glinted like twin agates. “Drink and I’ll tell ye.”
Kall shrugged and drained the vial, feeling the warm liquid course down his throat. The fire that had burned in his ribs since the night before gradually began to cool, and Kall took his first easy breath with a sighing pleasure. He stopped, wary, when he noticed Garavin watching him closely.
“Ye’re quite trusting,” the dwarf remarked lightly.
“I’m not …” Kall started, then hesitated, his eyes going dark as they regarded the dwarf.
But Garavin waved away his suspicion. “No, no. Forgive my rudeness. I did want to see to yer wounds, but I have an awful curiosity. If I had a sister, I’m knowing for a fact she would have remarked on it. I found myself wondering what ye knew of the Art, one so young and full of Amnian blood. Yer eyes rounded at my talk of portals, yet ye took the healing potion as if ye knew exactly what it was.”
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