by Lena Coakley
Falpian looked down at the weapon in his hand and noticed the notches on the hilt. The Witchlander had taken lives, he realized. He would always have the upper hand until Falpian was as ready to kill as he was.
Be ready to harm and to kill if necessary. Be ready . . .
Falpian left the pantry. With the sword shaking in his hands, he kicked open the bedroom door.
The stranger was not in the bed.
The headboard where the chain was attached had been broken in one snap like a stick of kindling. But the prisoner couldn’t have left the house: The glass in the bedroom window was undamaged, and the door in the kitchen was the only way out. The stranger had to be in the study.
“Useless, stupid dog!” Falpian hissed to Bo. “Can’t you even bark?” Bo cocked his enormous head.
From where Falpian stood he could see both doors into the study—the one from the kitchen and the one from the bedroom. “I hope you will remember that I saved your life,” Falpian called. He cursed himself for hesitating in the pantry while the prisoner made his escape. “I only did what anyone in my place would do.”
He took a deep breath and charged through the bedroom, throwing open the study door with a bang. It, too, was empty. On the floor were some shards of glass and coils of rope. The prisoner had used the broken pieces of the water goblet to cut his bonds. Clever. Quick.
Falpian made the circle again: kitchen, bedroom, study, kitchen. Bo followed as if it were a game. Though he had been gone only moments, when Falpian re-entered the kitchen, the door to the outside was wide open and the stranger’s boots weren’t in their place by the fire. How on earth?
“Curses of Kar,” said Falpian. He stood in the door frame in his stocking feet and waved the sword at empty air. The storm had started up again. A ledge of new snow came up to his knees, and the prints Bo had made earlier were already gone.
Footprints. There were no footprints! If the stranger had gone out, where were his? Falpian quickly pushed shut the door and leaned his back against it. Oh Kar above, he must be a witch, a real red-wearing, throat-cutting witch—everyone knew they could appear and disappear at will, tell the future, walk on water.
A thorough search convinced Falpian that he was truly alone and that the open door was not just a ruse. He checked and rechecked: under the bed, behind the doors, in the pantry. He looked out each window, but all around the cottage, the snow was fresh and untouched.
He sat down at the kitchen table and pulled his knees up to his chest, a feeling of cold dread chilling his blood. Falpian might not know where the stranger was, but the stranger certainly knew where he was. In front of him on the table, the notches on the sword hilt seemed to mesmerize him: one, two, three, four, five. . . . How could such a young man have killed so many?
Quickly he got up and returned the sword to its hiding place. It was too heavy for him to use effectively if it came to a fight, and besides, Falpian had a better weapon than that. His own weapon. A Baen weapon.
With the humming stone in his hand, he sat down cross-legged in front of the kitchen fire and tried to steady his mind. Outside, the fir tree groaned in the wind. Above him, a board in the roof made a creaking sound. Then again: rieeeeek. Falpian smiled. What a fool he had been—a disappearing witch indeed.
Falpian awakened his stone. It came alive with the first breath, as if impatient for magic. In a corner of the room, Bo lifted his head.
When Falpian was about twelve years old, he and Farien had been called into their father’s study. Gently, and with great formality, their father had taken a stone out of a velvet pouch and laid it on the desk in front of them—a gift. A loaded gift.
The Witchlander was on the roof, of course. Falpian could see him now with the vision singing gave him. He was squatting by the chimney, wearing just his shirt and his woolens, the long chain still hanging from his neck. How patient he was. The snow collected on the top of his head and on his arms. Only his eyelids opening and shutting showed that he was alive. And his heart—that was moving too.
Humming stones were costly items, and yet their father must have hoped that Falpian and his brother wouldn’t have it for long. A talented singer pair would be too powerful; their harmonies would crack a stone with the strength of their merged voices. But through the years, the stone remained pristine.
Falpian sang louder, and louder still. His voice felt limber and strong. How proud his father would be if he could reach out with his voice and stop the stranger’s heart. Beside him Bo whimpered and cried, pulling at Falpian’s clothes with his teeth, but Falpian was too focused to be distracted. I could do it, he thought. I could kill this Witchlander. The simple harmonies he could make with the stone weren’t as powerful as those at the echo site, but they were powerful enough. His father would tell him that he should do it.
And then a curtain was drawn back. Sitting on the floor, Falpian felt his eyes grow wide, but he wasn’t seeing what was in front of him; he wasn’t even seeing the young man on the roof. Disconnected images flew at him like tangled dreams: a laughing girl, a woman with black lips, a horse struggling in a pool of its own blood. Falpian closed his eyes, squeezed them shut, but the pictures still came. Emotions hit him in the chest like a blow. Grief. Such raw, angry grief. And something else hit him too: the shock of recognition. I know this anger, he thought. I know this grief. I know you.
Then, in an instant, the images, the feelings, were gone. When Falpian turned his mind back to the roof, the stranger seemed small and alone, not a muscle-bound witch, but something delicate and short-lived, like a crouching spider.
Falpian stopped singing and opened his eyes. He got up and pulled at the door, ignoring as best he could the blast of cold air. Gingerly he stepped out into the snow in his stocking feet, hearing the door close behind him.
“Come down,” he called. “It’s too cold.” The stranger could see him but didn’t move. “I’m sorry. I used the chain because I was afraid of you. Perhaps I should be. But I’m not a killer, and I don’t want to harm you.”
Without hesitation, the stranger stood up and, in one fluid motion, threw himself off the roof, straight at Falpian.
CHAPTER 12
ASSASSIN’S HEART
The Witchlander had him down in the snow and was yelling into his face, something loud and guttural, full of fury.
Falpian flailed and twisted, almost slipping out between the stranger’s legs before being rammed down hard again. The stranger straddled him, pinning his arms. His face was red from exertion, and he weighed as much as a bull.
Falpian continued to struggle, kicking up sprays of snow. When one arm became free he clawed at his attacker’s eyes, but the stranger quickly pinned his arms again. He was still yelling something, but somehow fear had taken away Falpian’s ability to understand words.
From inside the house, Falpian heard the sound of frantic barking. Bo! Hope warmed him for a moment. But no, even a dreadhound couldn’t get through that heavy door.
Falpian’s breath hurt in his lungs—he could barely move. The stranger’s face hardened to a look of cold determination, and he leaned down, pressing the length of icy chain against Falpian’s throat. Falpian struggled again with renewed energy. He couldn’t believe that there was nothing he could do. I’m not a killer, and I don’t want to harm you. What a stupid thing to say. Why not tell the Witchlander all his weaknesses?
Finally Falpian stopped struggling, exhausted. The world quieted. The snow fell. He began to shiver, but with cold or fear he didn’t know. This person would take his life. Falpian would never see his mother again. He would never again collect rattle shells with his sisters, or weave them little boats out of the eelgrass.
“Please,” he said again, not caring about the icy tears at the corner of his eyes. “I’ll give you anything you want.”
“Did you make them?” the stranger demanded hoarsely. He was panting, and Falpian could see a vein pulsing in his neck.
“What?”
“Did you make th
ose things? Tell me, or I will kill you right now.”
Falpian didn’t know what to say. “Things?” He could hardly hear his own voice.
“The gigantic things!” The Witchlander was almost shouting now. “That come from nothing . . . that come up out of the ground!”
Falpian racked his brain, desperate to say the thing that would keep him alive. “Trees?”
It was definitely the wrong answer. The stranger’s face flushed with anger, and the chain tightened against Falpian’s neck.
“I’m very sorry,” Falpian croaked, “but I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
To his surprise, the Witchlander didn’t kill him, but sat back on Falpian’s waist, something that might have been grief contorting his features. Falpian brought his hands to his throat. For a brief moment it looked as if the stranger would start to sob, but it was only a moment, and Falpian could have been wrong.
“I know you don’t,” the stranger said grimly. “I don’t know how I know it, but I do.”
Abruptly the stranger stood up, and Falpian was left to stare at the snowflakes swirling down from a bruise-colored sky. He took a deep, racking breath. His feet were soaking wet, and there was snow all the way up the back of his shirt. When he sat up, he felt the pull of a strained muscle in his shoulder.
“You’d better have a key for this collar,” the stranger told him, heading for the door.
When they went inside, Bodread the Slayer was waiting for them. He sat rigid in the middle of the floor, growling, black lips curled. The stranger gave a shout and backed up against the door frame.
“Bo,” Falpian cried. “What’s wrong?”
The dog glared at him, saber teeth gleaming, and in that moment Falpian saw a real dreadhound in front of him: brutal and deadly. The saber teeth were impressive, but Falpian knew the other teeth could do as much damage: rows of sharp white incisors, big molars at the back for crushing bone.
Bo gave Falpian and the stranger two angry barks—one each—then turned and went to the fireplace, where he promptly flopped himself down and stretched out in front of the grate.
Falpian couldn’t be sure, but it felt for all the world like he’d been scolded.
“Bodread really is quite harmless,” he said nervously, only half believing it himself. He couldn’t help but notice the deep claw marks that raked the wood all around the door latch.
“Key!” the Witchlander demanded, holding out the chain that was still hanging from the collar at his neck.
Falpian didn’t think he could refuse. He retrieved the key and, with shaking hands, fit it into the lock at the stranger’s throat. When the collar was finally off, the Witchlander hurled the entire thing—chain, padlock, and all—out into the snow.
Falpian wasn’t sure what to do next. Was he the prisoner now? he wondered. But the stranger made no move to restrain him, only stood awkwardly at one side of the room, rubbing his neck where the collar had been.
After a moment, he turned to Falpian. “Why are you here?” he asked sharply.
“Why are you?” Falpian countered. “You’re the one on the wrong side of the border.”
He didn’t expect an answer, but after a long silence the Witchlander shot him a stricken look. “There’s a Baen in my head.” His voice shook, and his strange eyes were red rimmed. “It’s you . . . isn’t it?”
Oh, Falpian thought. Of course. All that talk about trees coming up out of the ground. The stranger was a madman.
“Sit down,” he said gently. “You must be hungry.”
But the Witchlander had spied the barrel of snowmelt Falpian kept by the fire. He quickly crossed the room and sank down in front of it, drinking deeply. Falpian felt a twinge of guilt. All the things he’d done to this man—and he was just a poor lunatic.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured.
After a pause, the stranger turned and looked at him, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “For what?”
“For . . . tying you up, for not giving you any water.”
“Seems logical to me. I did come to kill you.”
Falpian’s guts turned to ice. The Witchlander stood up, but still he made no move against Falpian. Instead he went to one of the windows by the kitchen table and squinted out, as if the trees themselves might be watching.
“There are no other Baen in the area? Just you?” His voice grew suddenly harsh. “I’ll know if you’re lying.”
Falpian kept his voice light. “No Baen but me.”
The Witchlander frowned and sat down in front of the fire, taking care to leave plenty of room between himself and Bo. He seemed too big for the chair—all knees and hands and elbows. Falpian wondered again how old he was and decided that in spite of their difference in size, they were probably the same age. Poor fellow must have wandered away from his keepers. Or perhaps Witchlanders didn’t care for their sick—just sent them out into the snow to die.
Falpian went to stir the cauldron on the hob and was surprised to see that the fish stew he’d set to warm before the interrogation was only a little burned. It seemed like an age ago. He ladled white glops of it into two wooden bowls and handed one to his guest.
“My name’s Falpian.”
The stranger took the bowl eagerly with shaking hands. “Is it?”
Falpian sat down with his own portion. Bo turned onto his back and lazily pawed the air as if he had never been that other dog, that menacing dreadhound with the flashing teeth. Falpian rubbed his belly with his foot. The stranger eyed them both warily, and Falpian could see he was trying to hide his fear, trying to act as if sitting by the fire with a dreadhound was nothing to him. Something about this bravado made Falpian almost like him.
“What is this?” the Witchlander asked, turning the stew over with his spoon.
“A Baen dish. Salted fish cooked in fish eggs.” The stranger grimaced, but he took a bite. “It’s not usually so coagulated.”
The Witchlander seemed to shudder as he swallowed, but he managed to eat the whole bowl and even helped himself to more. After that, they sat in silence, taking turns feeding logs to the fire. Darkness fell, and the wind howled around the house. What am I going to do with him? Falpian wondered. Being mad didn’t make the Witchlander less dangerous. In fact, it probably made him more so. Falpian was well aware that the stranger’s mood could turn at any moment—and then Falpian would be at his mercy. What if he wanted to stay all winter?
“Are you sure you don’t want to tell me your name?” he asked. “Or anything about yourself?”
The Witchlander turned those piercing eyes on him again. “There’s an assassin in these mountains,” he said. “I have to stop him.”
Falpian nodded and looked to the floor. It seemed prudent to agree with everything he said. “Did the Baen in your head tell you that?”
“I thought it was you. But then . . . I heard your thoughts when you were singing.”
“Heard my thoughts?” Falpian repeated. Maybe it was a mistake to ask the stranger so many questions. He stood up and started to collect the dirty bowls. “That’s . . . interesting.” He was reaching for a spoon when the Witchlander grabbed him by the wrist.
“Don’t believe me?” he hissed.
The pulled muscle in Falpian’s shoulder twinged, and the grip on his wrist was painful, but he made himself look into the Witchlander’s eyes. He’d been avoiding them, he realized, they were so bright and strange, but now he looked deep. He saw no madness there. Only sorrow and pain.
“I heard your thoughts,” the stranger said again. “And you don’t have an assassin’s heart.”
The truth of the statement hit Falpian like a slap. He could almost imagine his father nodding in agreement.
“Well.” He yanked his hand away. “How lucky for you.” The stranger stood up abruptly and Falpian flinched, almost dropping the bowls.
“I’ll stay the night and leave at dawn,” the Witchlander said. He stepped over Bo to get to the bedroom door.
“All ri
ght,” Falpian answered. He was in no position to argue.
“And my name’s Ryder.”
“Nice to—” The door slammed.
Falpian let out a hiss of annoyance. “By all means, take my bed,” he muttered.
CHAPTER 13
DREADHOUNDS
Outside Falpian’s cottage, Ryder stood in the dawn light, his arms reaching up to the sky. I greet the sun, I am the sun, he thought—the first words of Aata’s prayer, words that were never spoken aloud.
The last time Ryder had seen his mother, she was praying. She was standing in the clearing, her feet bare, her arms outstretched, when Ryder came out of the barn with his mended fishing nets. He couldn’t get the picture out of his mind; she hadn’t prayed since he was a little boy.
Ryder tried to set thoughts of his mother aside and concentrate. The chilling clouds were low and dark, threatening more snow, and the great white mountain seemed to hunch under their weight. It was the same mountain Ryder had known all his life, but it looked so foreign and strange now, with its crooked spire reversed.
He bent backward, holding the position for as long as he could. He didn’t know much about praying, but he knew you were supposed to be silent inside and out, empty of thought, a vessel for the Goddess. He came up slowly, put his palms up to the sky, and lifted one bent leg behind him, keeping his eyes fixed on the mountain for balance. I greet the air, I am the air.
You should be resting.
On such a beautiful morning? Mabis had said. Aata performed her prayers until the last day of her life. His mother’s hair had been a tangled mass, her skin yellowish and pale, but she’d smiled, and her eyes seemed clear and bright again. She was happy. Go get my fish, Ryder—a big one.
