Without a word, the wagons headed down the slope, people shaking themselves out of their awe slowly.
They reached the edge of the waterfall two hours later, the Bluff deceptively far away. The roar of that cascading water throbbed around them, mist thrown up in a spume that speckled Tom’s skin with tiny droplets even from this distance. It fell into an immense rounded basin, the water in the pool beneath deep, a pristine, almost ethereal blue at the edges, a torrent of white froth and mist near the center where the Falls landed. Those from the wagon train were spread out around the lip of the basin, parents holding their children back from the steep edge, others with their hands lifted toward the sky, letting the spume fall over them. Tom couldn’t see any way down to the water’s surface from the edge of the basin, short of jumping. A jagged cut in the basin wall allowed the water to escape and run west, forming the river to Portstown, but above . . .
Tom shifted his hand, squinting against the harshness of the light reflecting from the white-gray cliff face. “It’s not coming from the top of the Bluff,” he said.
“What do you mean?” Sam said.
Tom motioned toward the cliff towering above them, over a thousand hands high, if not more. “The river. It’s not flowing over the top of the Bluff, like every other waterfall I’ve ever seen. There’s a hole in the side of the cliff, a tunnel. It’s coming from the tunnel’s mouth, about two hundred hands down from the top.”
Sam raised his own hand to shade his eyes, then swore softly under his breath. “Look at how it’s carved a smooth path through the rock, almost perfectly rounded, even at the top.” He shook his head, turned to Tom. “So even if we do decide to go to the upper plains, there may not be a river to follow. It may be underground.”
Tom let his hand drop, felt the hollowness in his chest expand, but forced it back. He searched those gathered here and near the wagons behind for Arten.
And Walter.
He found them a short distance away. They stood at the edge of the basin as well, Walter staring at the blue waters below. Jackson, the Company assistant, sat in the grass to one side, a wide, flat satchel spread out on the ground before him, weights holding the exposed papers down. Tom had seen him with the satchel open during every break, diligently writing notes, but he hadn’t asked what he was doing. Walter and his escort hadn’t really interacted with the rest of the wagon train much at all, and after what Walter had done to Colin, after the riot those from Lean-to had caused on the docks and the hangings that followed, Tom had taken that as a blessing from Diermani.
But that would have to change. If they were going to start a town together, they needed to at least speak to each other. No matter how distasteful Tom might find it.
Sam followed him as he made his way to the small group. Arten saw him approach. “It appears that Cutter was right,” he said. “We’ll have to make a choice, either north or south.”
“There’s a third option,” Tom said. “We could simply set up Haven here.”
“No,” Walter said flatly.
Both Tom and Arten shifted, the Armor y guardsman frowning.
“Why not?” Sam asked, defensively. “We’d have water, and the land to either side certainly seems arable. We could set up near where the water spills out of the basin. We’d be protected from the worst of the wind from the plains by the Bluff, sheltered from the storms, and we’d have plenty of stone to quarry for the buildings from the cliffs.”
Arten nodded as Sam spoke, eyes fixed on the surrounding land. “He’s right.”
Walter shot him a resentful glare. “No. It won’t work. It’s not far enough away.”
“What do you mean?” Tom asked. “The new town—”
“Haven,” Sam interrupted, voice tight.
Walter’s eyes narrowed, but he continued, “Haven needs to be far enough from Portstown that the Carrente Family can lay claim to the largest amount of land possible. We’re not even two weeks away from Portstown by wagon, which means we’re at most a week away on horseback, five days at a hard ride or with a second horse. That’s not far enough.”
Tom pressed his lips together, surprised. He’d thought Walter had said no simply to spite them, to take out some of the resentment he felt at being forced to come.
Arten caught his eye, one eyebrow raised. “He’s got a point. Sartori and Daverren didn’t send us out here simply to settle.”
Tom squinted as he considered Arten, then Walter. “Then what do you suggest?”
Walter didn’t answer, brow creasing as he hesitated. He’d clearly expected more of an argument. The hesitation made him seem his age—fifteen. “From what you claim that squatter said, the Bluff gets higher to the south. We should probably head north then. If we can cut farther inland, that would be best for the Carrente Family’s claim—and the Company—but if not, perhaps we can get a significant portion of land between Portstown and its northern sister port of Rendell.”
Tom considered, watching Walter, seeing the arrogant youthfulness in his face, the anger that simmered just beneath the surface, the resentment. But he saw something else as well, an eagerness, hidden beneath all of the darker emotions. For the first time, he wondered what it had been like in Portstown for Walter, to be Sartori’s second son—a bastard son—with so much of Sartori’s attention on Sedric, on the town itself.
Tom nodded. “I agree. Shall we rest here for a while longer, before we head north along the Bluff?”
Walter frowned, suspicion darkening his expression. Tom wondered how often Sartori had asked his son for an opinion, thought the answer might have been never.
Walter finally said, “Very well. Jackson needs to finish filling in his maps anyway.”
Tom ignored the touch of arrogance that colored Walter’s voice and glanced toward Jackson, bent over his sheaf of papers. “I’ll spread the word,” he said, then motioned for Sam to follow him as he left.
“Walter’s not as stupid as he looks,” Sam said, as soon as they were out of the Proprietor’s son’s hearing.
Tom shook his head. “No, he isn’t. I don’t think his father listened to him at all. I don’t think he paid any attention to him.”
“Perhaps he won’t be that bad as Proprietor of Haven.”
“Don’t forget, he was the one who got Colin arrested, who got him placed in the locks,” Tom said sharply. “He’s the one who sent my son home bruised and beaten more times than I can count. And everyone in this wagon train knows that. They won’t forget.”
“You’re the one who asked him what he thought, what he wanted to do.”
Tom glanced back toward Walter. “I know. He’s an arrogant bastard, but there’s some potential there.”
“Just be careful mentioning that potential around Colin,” Sam said, with a significant look.
Tom frowned. “Tell everyone to stock up on water here. We’re heading north.”
“It’s not as high as it was at the Falls,” a voice said gruffly.
Tom turned from his scrutiny of the Bluff to see Arten coming up from behind. The commander came on foot, his horse given over to one of the other guardsmen. And he’d abandoned the formal armor he’d worn as the wagon train headed out. His shirt and breeches were still cut better and made with finer cloth than anything those from Lean-to had, but it was better suited to the heat and the rough conditions of travel.
He’d also let his beard grow. Trimmed and perfect, it made his face sharper, more angular. And darker. Tom suddenly realized that Arten hadn’t originated from Trent. His features were more southern, from the Hadrian region or the Archipelago.
Tom nodded in greeting as Arten drew up beside him, wiping the sweat from his face with one large hand. “Is Walter calling a break?”
Arten shook his head. “No, we’re still moving. But I saw you up here, alone for once. I thought I’d join you.”
Tom smiled wryly. “If Sam isn’t following me around, then it’s my wife, or Colin. Or someone else from Lean-to with a problem they need resolved.�
�
“One of the pitfalls of leadership,” Arten said. “It’s why I’ve remained in the Armory. The Family assumed it was a fleeting passion of mine, that I’d grow tired of it and return to them and the Court.”
Tom’s eyes widened in surprise. “You’re a member of the Court?”
Arten smiled. “I could be. I was. But I never developed a taste for it. They sent me to the Armory, hoping I’d come to my senses. When I didn’t return to the Family as expected, they had the Armory send me to Trent. When that didn’t bring me scurrying back, they sent me to Portstown. They figured I’d break under the sheer depravity of it all. Much to their horror, I enjoyed it.” He caught Tom’s gaze. “There’s no pretense here. Or there wasn’t, under Sartori’s father’s hand. Sartori himself . . .” He shook his head regretfully.
“You could have returned to Andover once Sartori took over.”
Arten didn’t respond at first; he stared out over the plains at the wagons trundling along through the grass. He was silent long enough that Tom began to worry that he’d offended the Armory captain in some way. But then: “I haven’t returned to Andover for a different reason.”
“The Feud?”
Arten turned toward him, his eyes hard and guarded. “Do you know what the Feud is about?”
“The Rose.”
Arten grunted. “And do you know what the Rose is?”
When Tom shook his head, he continued, looking back toward the plains again as he spoke. “A little over twenty years ago, a trade caravan owned by the Taranto Family traveling south through the Borangi Desert stumbled across some ruins once buried in the sands, exposed by the sandstorms that plague the desert. Inside one of the buildings, they found the Rose.” He paused, but continued a moment later. “No one knew what it was, but those in the caravan, and those of the Taranto Family who came afterward to see it, knew that it contained power. More power than anything any of the Hands of Diermani wield. Godlike power, although exactly what that power was they didn’t know. But the Family members returned to Taranto lands, told the Doms, who kept the discovery hidden for nearly twelve years.
“But nothing in the Court remains secret for long. Our networks of spies are too effective. The fact that they kept it secret for twelve years is staggering and attests to the potential of the Rose itself. They knew that if the other Families found out about it before they could secure their hold on it, the Families would go to war. And they nearly succeeded. However, the existence of the Rose was exposed before they attained that grip. And not only are the Families enraged that the Tarantos kept it hidden, tried to seize it for themselves, but the Hands of Diermani are as well. After all, godlike power should remain within the control of the priests and the guidance of the church. Or so the Patrises believe.”
“So now the Families will go to war,” Tom said.
Arten glanced toward him. “Now they will Feud. But unlike past conflicts, this will be a holy war as well. The Doms of each Family will be driven by their respective Patrises. And from what I witnessed during the sessions of the Court I attended before I left for Trent, the Hands of Diermani are split on their opinions of how to handle the Rose. Everyone wants its power, Dom and Patris alike; and everyone wants control of the land surrounding it, the desert that is in the center of Andover, the center of nearly all of the Families’ lands. The desert that has remain unclaimed and uncontested for hundreds of years.
“This Feud, if it begins, will last for decades. Blood will be shed. Families will fall. All in the name of Holy Diermani.”
Tom turned back to his survey of the cliffs, silent for a long moment. “You could have remained in Portstown. You would have been safe from the Feud there.”
Arten shook his head, smiled bitterly. “The New World won’t be safe from the Feud. The war will affect everyone, everywhere. It already has. You’ve experienced it, with Sartori’s prejudice against your family and those in Lean-to.”
“Is that why you volunteered to join the wagon train?”
Arten didn’t answer at first. One hand rested on the pommel of the sword strapped around his waist, the other on his hip as he stared out at the Bluff, eyes squeezed tight against the glare of the sun off of the stone. “I didn’t like the way Sartori handled the refugees from Andover or the prisoners. And after the hanging—” He looked Tom directly in the eye. “I didn’t want to be part of that, of what it could become. Neither did any of the other guardsmen who came with me.”
“And what about Walter?”
Arten glanced toward the Proprietor’s son, to where he rode with a few of the guardsmen and Jackson Seytor. “I’m surprised. Not that Sartori would send him on this expedition; Walter was always an embarrassment, always getting into trouble, creating scenes. This was the perfect opportunity for him to rid himself of his bastard son.”
Tom thought he heard a touch of derision in the commander’s voice, but he couldn’t be certain. “Then what are you surprised by?”
“Walter. By how he’s handled it. I expected him to sulk, as he has, but I assumed he’d return to his old ways after that. To bullying everyone around him, as he did in Portstown, as he did to your son.”
Tom considered for a moment. “He doesn’t have his usual audience anymore. Brunt, Gregor, and Rick.”
Arten grunted, shook his head. “Nor his father. Putting him in nominal charge of this expedition may have been the best thing his father ever did for him, even if that wasn’t his father’s intent.”
“‘Nominal’ charge?”
Arten smiled. “I think you’ll find the Armory will follow Walter’s orders only so long as those orders make sense and are to the benefit of everyone involved. I’ll give him a chance to be a Proprietor, to be something other than his father, but if he falters—”
Before Tom could find a suitable response, Arten tensed, his hand tightening on the pommel of his sword, his smile vanishing. “Something’s wrong,” he said.
Tom heard one of the horses below scream. The sound was muted, coming from a distance. As he spun, orienting on the sound, he saw one of the horses hitched to a wagon rear, feet kicking the air, its teammate doing the same, both thundering back down to the ground before lurching forward, still harnessed to the wagon. The wagon shuddered as it was yanked forward, the man in front yelling, pulling on the reins hard. Those walking around the wagon scattered, a few harsh cries and screams piercing the relative quiet.
And then the wagon foundered. Its front end jumped into the air, as if it had hit a ridge of stone hidden beneath the grass. The frenzied horse stumbled, feet collapsing beneath it, and with a wrench the entire wagon began to tilt.
It slammed into earth, dirt and grass plowing upward from the impact, the second horse dragged to the side and over by the hitch, feet kicking the air. A hideous shriek cut across the plains—a horse in pain—and then the wagon ground to a halt. The driver was thrown clear, his body like a rag doll, limbs loose and wild.
Tom stood stunned, the second horse still kicking the air, now on its side, the wagon shuddering with its movements. The entire event had happened in the space of a few heartbeats, yet it had seemed so slow at this distance, so quiet, all of the sounds dulled.
But as he watched, he thought he saw the air around the wagon shimmering, a vague distortion, there and then gone. He blinked and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm, but it didn’t reappear.
He and Arten shared a grim look, then began jogging toward the wagon.
Below, the wagons behind the one that had foundered turned toward it; those in front halted. The people who had scattered when the horses first reared now rushed to the animals, toward where the hide covering of the wagon had been torn from its supports. Chests and trunks and bundled goods lay scattered in a rough arc around the back of the wagon, but the men who arrived at the wagon first went to see to the horses. They were worth more than all the wagon’s contents combined.
Someone broke from the group as it gathered and raced towar
d Tom and Arten.
“I believe that’s your son,” Arten said.
Colin met them halfway to the wagons, gasping as he ground to a halt.
“What is it? What’s happened?” Tom spat.
“One of the wagons . . . The horses went wild . . . The wagon . . .”
“I can see that,” Tom snapped. “What spooked them?”
Colin shook his head, catching his breath. “I don’t know. But Paul’s hurt.”
Tom thought about the rag doll figure he’d seen fly from the front of the wagon as it rolled and felt ropes tighten around his chest. He pushed away from Colin, heard Arten’s feet pounding the ground behind him, but his eyes were on the wagon. Men had climbed into the traces, were calming the horse that lay on its side, still kicking, nostrils flared, head thrashing, as they tried to cut it out of the tangled reins and harness. Its teammate lay beneath it, not moving.
The women had gathered on the grass to one side of the wagon.
“Let me through,” Tom shouted as he pushed the thought of the loss of the horse from his mind and slowed. The women parted, and Tom saw Ana and the priest, Domonic, kneeling at Paul’s head, another woman standing to one side, Paul’s arm cradled in both hands. Paul’s rounded face was ashen, his lips almost blue, his eyes water y and wide, breath coming in short, harsh gasps.
Before Tom could speak, Ana said, “Ready?” Paul swallowed and nodded.
And then the woman kneeling on Paul’s opposite side pulled the smith’s strangely angled arm out straight and wrenched.
There was a sickening sound from Paul’s shoulder, like gristle being chewed, followed by a tortuous click that sent shudders into Tom’s gut.
Paul roared, his body arching up from the grass as Ana, Domonic, and two other women tried to hold him down. The woman who’d pulled his shoulder back into its socket was thrust backward, stumbled and fell with an undignified oomph.
Paul’s roar died down into barely controlled panting. Tears and sweat streaked his face, and he appeared even paler than he had when Tom arrived. His arm lay curled against his chest, held there gingerly.
Well of Sorrows Page 13
