by JA Andrews
Hal raised his eyebrow. “Every one?”
“If I’ve only heard it once, or if it was poorly told, I have to work a bit to remember it. This story was told by a Keeper. You may not be fond of them, but they are excellent storytellers.”
The small fire in front of them flickered, tossed about by the wind. Will looked into it, considering how well he should tell the story. “The tale becomes interesting the day her childhood friend arrived at the palace, wounded and begging to see her.”
Will fell into the story, minimizing the way he spoke of Keeper magic. Killien watched him closely, seemingly hungry for more of the tale, and at the end, he thanked Will and looked into the fire for a long time.
“Do you know more tales about Keepers?” Killien asked.
Will glanced at him, then looked into the fire too. He knew every story of every Keeper recorded in the Stronghold. Dozens of which he had rewritten himself, combining different tellings into complete tales. “A few.”
“I want to hear them,” Killien said. “As many as you can remember.”
Chapter Thirteen
The sun disappeared over the horizon, and the sky pulled the last lingering light up into itself, turning the Sweep into a puddle of darkness. Will tried twice to walk among the wagons where Lilit and Ilsa were, but both times rangers efficiently directed him away. The second time was barely civil. Whatever orders Killien had given them regarding the foreign storyman, Will doubted it would keep him safe if they decided he was paying too much attention to the Torch’s wife.
Killien offered Will a place to sleep in one of his wagons along with a pile of blankets. Between a bundle of fabric for a pillow, and wool blankets from the Torch, he had a reasonably comfortable place to sleep.
At least at first. The ever-present wind sent swirls of cold night air jostling around him. His emotions were just as blustery.
First there was Ilsa. All day he’d strained to see her near Lilit’s wagon, but in vain.
Then there was Killien. On the one hand, he was more civilized than Will had ever expected. Even his slaves could read. But he had slaves, ripped from their homes and brought here. The truth of that was so stark he felt furious and sick at the same time. And just in case Will ever started feeling too comfortable, there was Killien’s hatred of Keepers to keep things interesting.
Finally there was Lukas's warning. Was Will fooling himself thinking he’d be free to leave?
Just above the Scales, the sinuous trail of black emptiness rose. A cold darkness crept into Will’s chest at the sight of the snake. The Serpent Queen kept drawing his eye back to her utter blackness. As though she were drawing in the whole world. She’d moved half way across the sky before he fell asleep.
The caravan rumbled to a start as soon as the grasslands were visible. Will walked, trying to work the aches out of his muscles. He stayed close to Shadow, using the horse to block the relentless wind. It wasn’t terribly strong this morning, but the constant pushing of it was tiresome. He kept his eye on the covered wagons trailing behind Killien, wondering which one held Ilsa.
He’d remembered a story of a woman who’d rescued her sister from the Naponese blood doctors. She’d disguised herself as one of the servants who disposed of the dead bodies and carted her sister out with the corpses. But unless he and Ilsa could camouflage themselves as a hill of grass, it was unlikely any disguise was going to help them.
Not long after dawn, a noise behind him made Will turn sharply. There was Sora, walking behind him, leading her own horse.
“Is there a reason you’re sneaking up on me?” he demanded, his heart racing.
Her eyes took him in, narrowed, and she drew her lips into her usual tight line. “You seem nervous.”
He ignored that and took a calming breath. He really shouldn’t try to irritate this woman. She was too close to Killien. And now that she was here, he felt the slightest sense of relief. Like he’d been waiting for her without realizing it.
“Does Killien want me?” he asked, hoping he’d be saved from the boredom of walking.
She shook her head. “He’s busy.”
She came up next to him anyway, wearing the same hunting leathers she had since he’d met her, well-used and plain. Where her arms had been bare yesterday, she now wore a blue wool shirt under her leathers, her shoulders shielded by a flap of chainmail, her wrists covered in thick leather bracers. Her braid lay heavy on her back, catching the sunlight in strands of bright copper. The entire Morrow Clan stretched out around them, but as he walked with her, the two horses blocking out the world around them, it felt almost like they were alone. She didn’t seem as annoyed today, so he risked some conversation.
“How long have you been with the Morrow?”
She gave him a long, searching look, as though weighing whether the question was safe to answer. “Almost three years.”
A twinge of sympathy caught him off guard. He was exhausted after only one year in the Sweep. “That’s a long time.”
She turned her gaze back forward. “Not to the Morrow.”
“Do they…” He paused, trying to find words for his questions. “Are you still a foreigner to them? Or do they see you for who you actually are?"
Her face tightened a little but she didn’t answer him.
“They don’t see me either,” he said.
Silence stretched out between them. It felt like camaraderie at first. Until the chill of her silence crept in and turned it into just a new form of isolation. Will spun his ring on his finger.
“Why are you here, Sora?”
“I don’t trust you.” She sounded more thoughtful than hostile.
“The Torch trusts me.”
“He doesn’t trust anyone.”
That was unsettling. “Hal likes me.”
She fixed him with her inscrutable look. “I don’t trust you, storyman. And I intend to keep an eye on you.”
“Well, anytime you feel the need to walk with me, please do. You’re far from the most pleasant person I’ve ever met, but you are opinionated. And that’s entertaining.”
Sora stopped and put her hand on his shoulder, stopping him and turning him toward her with one motion. Will’s heart lurched as she stepped right up to him. She stood almost as tall as him, her eyes sharp and cold.
“I’m watching you all the time.” Her hand weighed like stone on his shoulder. She was so close to him he could see the stark green of her eyes, the dark copper lashes. Will was sure she could feel his heart pounding.
“Are you waiting for a goodbye kiss?” Will whispered.
Her eyes went flat and she dropped her hand. With a withering look she mounted her horse and disappeared into the crowd. Will stood for a moment, letting out his breath, still feeling the weight of her hand on his shoulder.
Will sat on the back of the book wagon and stared dully across the grass. It was the third morning and he already felt like he’d done nothing in his life but trundle slowly northward across the Sweep. He’d wanted to ride among the wagons that held Lilit and Ilsa, but between Killien commanding him to keep his distance and the number of Roven rangers that surrounded Lilit, he couldn’t figure out a way to do so. When he wasn’t talking with Killien, riding among the other rangers who merely tolerated him for Killien’s sake felt awkward and lonely. He’d ended up spending most of the day yesterday and all of this morning near the books. He’d written out four stories for Killien and read a good portion of one of the Torch’s books.
His mind continued its useless search through stories for a rescue plan, but thrown out three more ideas. He had neither floating firebrands nor a broken dam, and it would be hard to time his escape during the distraction provided by an attacking gryffon. If any gryffons still existed.
Last night, Will had given in to Rass’s pestering and let her put three thin braids in his beard, each sporting a silver bead. She’d pronounced it “much better.”
Talen had come and landed next to him on the wagon until he’d eaten all of
Will’s dried fish, then launched into the sky again and Will found himself wishing the little bird would stay.
The Clans and Clashes of the Sweep lay open on his lap to a page that mentioned the Morrow Clan. “Insignificant… weak… probably the only reason they survived is that they remain relegated to the easternmost margin of the Sweep, and have nothing worth plundering."
He toyed with his braids. The slight weight of the beads felt odd—empowering almost. As though adding those small beads gave him an unexpected measure of strength, or courage.
Sora rode up to the back of the wagon. “Killien wants you.”
“Good.” He tucked the book into the bag. “I’m terribly bored.”
She had a knife strapped to each ankle and a bow slung across her back.
“Expecting me to put up a fight this morning?” Will mounted Shadow.
“Yes. The entire clan is preparing for an attack from you.”
He let out a short laugh, until a thought struck him. “That’s all for frost goblins?”
She leveled a pointed gaze at him. “Do you know of any other enemies nearby?”
“You feel a bit like an enemy sometimes.”
This earned him a small smile. She motioned to his beard. “Getting more Roven by the day.”
He felt the beads. “Do you like it?”
She raised one eyebrow.
“I mean—” He shifted. “—does it look right?”
She leaned toward him and he pulled back.
“You’re a very nervous man.”
“I’m not nervous.” Even he could hear the petulance in his voice. “You’re just scary.”
She let out a short laugh. “If goblins attack, I wouldn’t have that silver anywhere so easily grabbed.”
Will rubbed one of the beads between his fingers. He imagined a bony goblin hand reaching for his face, and shuddered. Sora trotted ahead and he followed.
When he caught up, her armband caught his eye. The wide, dark fabric wrapped around her upper arm, and the claw tied to it with thin leather strips was viciously sharp. Under the band, a white, puckered scar ran down to her elbow.
“What sort of claw is that?”
Sora glanced down at her arm. “Snow cat.” Turning away she added, “Killien’s just ahead of the wagons,” and rode away.
A handful of tall covered wagons, including the one with Lilit and Ilsa, rolled along in a clump. There were fewer rangers around today, and none near Lilit’s wagon. Making sure Sora had disappeared, Will turned so he would ride through them to reach Killien. From the back of Lilit’s wagon he caught a glimpse of long brown hair and his heart squeezed out several painfully strong beats. Will angled Shadow closer, feeling his pulse all the way down to where his palms gripped the reins.
A horse laden with a tall load of blankets was hitched to the back of the wagon, plodding along after it. Colored silks hung over the back, fluttering in the breeze.
Ilsa stepped out from between them.
She climbed down, grabbed a bundle of blankets, pushed them into the fluttering silks and disappeared after them. Will slid off Shadow and walked toward her, too many emotions churning inside of him to name. He picked up the next bundle, intending to offer his help, but when the silks opened and she saw him, she froze. The sight of her made everything in his chest claw its way up into his throat, and his offer was strangled out into the single word, “—help?”
Her face grew alarmed. “You need help?”
The idea was so wrong he let out a laugh that sounded a bit unhinged, and she drew back. “No.” He stepped closer, desperately trying to speak normally. “I was wondering if you would like some help.”
She eyed him a little warily, but when he held out the blankets, she took it and went back into the wagon. He wiped his sweaty palms and picked up the next bundle. This wasn’t going well.
When she appeared again, he managed a reasonably normal smile. She pulled the silks shut behind her and climbed down, glancing around with a worried expression.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she whispered. “If the Flame saw you…” Her voice reminded him so much of their mother, but her accent—the rough Roven-ness of it cut at him.
“I’ll just help for a minute.” He felt as though he were trying to absorb everything about her. Now that he was closer, there was something of their father around her eyes. She looked healthy, and her grey slave’s dress was well-made. She reached for the blankets. A line of thin scars from a switch ran across the back of her hands.
“Thank you.” She glanced around again before continuing in a whisper, “I liked the story you told about Tomkin and the dragon.” Tomkin’s name sounded sharper the way she said it. Like the Roven accent could even make bookish Tomkin more savage.
“I’m Will,” he whispered, something inside him breaking at the need to introduce himself.
She glanced back at the wagon. “You should go.”
A jab of disappointment shot through him at her answer, but he tried not to let it show. There really wasn’t any other way this relationship could begin. In her eyes he was nothing but a stranger. A dangerous stranger as far as Lilit was concerned.
“It’s just…” He fumbled around for something to say. “It’s just nice talking to someone who’s like me.”
She pulled the blankets out of his hands. “There’s not much the same between you and me.”
With a flick of silk, she disappeared into the wagon.
Will stared numbly at the back of the wagon until Lilit’s voice floated out, jolting him back into motion. He mounted Shadow and wove his way out from between the wagons toward Killien.
Unnecessarily close behind the Torch rode Lukas, with a book spread open in front of him, making small notes in the margins and eating a roll. Nearby, Sini balanced on her toes on the wide saddle, her knees tucked up against her chest and her arms outstretched. She was such a little thing that even balled up she didn’t fill the saddle. Her blond hair was busy falling out of a ponytail, her bag of heatstones hung from the saddle, and she chattered at Rett who rode silent beside her. He held one hand fisted on his saddle horn, and when he opened it to peer inside, Will caught a dim glow of green. The stone Lukas had given him last night was fading. Rett looked at it, then clenched his hand closed, his face worried.
Sini glanced over at the big man, a little crease of worry forming in her brow too. “Look, Rett, I’m a bird.”
The big man considered her solemnly. “If you fly away, can I come with you?”
“Of course.”
“You don’t look like a bird, you look like a shrew.” Lukas's face was serious, but his voice was light.
Sini dropped her arms. “With wings?”
“Her nose isn’t pointy enough for a shrew,” Rett disagreed, looking back at his stone with a troubled expression.
“He’s teasing, Rett. Lukas is just envious because I have two good legs.” Sini wiggled her knees from side to side. “One leg—” Sini balanced on one foot and stretched the other leg to the side. “—two legs.” She switched feet and stuck the other out. “One leg, two legs…”
Lukas laughed and threw the end of the roll at her. It bounced off her grinning cheek, and even Rett managed a smile. Lukas glanced forward, catching Will’s eye, and his expression soured.
Killien spared a quick glance at Sini and Lukas as he greeted Will. Between the unusual slaves and the nearness of Ilsa, Killien was hard to pay attention to. But the Torch had read the histories Will had written, and the rest of the morning passed discussing them.
It was irritating to talk to the man. Killien had thought-provoking questions and sharp insights into the minds of other leaders. His thoughts about a historically weak king of Coastal Baylon made Will see the story in a whole new light. Will kept finding himself enjoying the conversation no matter how often he reminded himself not to.
The sun was high in the sky when Lukas closed his book with a snap. Out of the corner of his eye, Will saw him take a bracing breath, s
et his face into a mask of determination, and ride away.
Not long after, several rangers rode up to Killien, and Will excused himself. There were too many people around Lilit’s wagon to even consider trying to see Ilsa, so he set off for the books. To the northwest, clouds were piling up in the blue sky like glowing swells of whiteness, while underneath a dark line sat heavy on the horizon.
When the wagon came into view, Lukas knelt on the back of it, looking into a dark grey sack. Will wove through the crowd until he trailed a little way behind. Lukas pulled out a book, pushed the bag into a crate, and tucked the oilcloth back around the books.
Lukas's brow was drawn, his jaw set. His eyes burned with something jagged. He took a breath and shifted his legs off the back of the wagon. A snarl of pain crossed his face and he pushed himself off, dropping into the grass, one leg twisting underneath him. With obvious effort, he limped to his horse and pulled himself into the saddle.
Will waited until Lukas had disappeared before spurring Shadow closer. He climbed down near the corner where his own red bag was, while the rangers driving the wagon watched him. Will reached into his own bag of books and pulled out a few titles. When the ranger turned back, Will pushed the orange cloth to the side and saw the crate with Lukas's bag. He reached in and pulled out the first book he found.
Methods of Transference.
Will stared at the brown leather cover, his mind tangled up in the odd words. He flipped the book open and his hand froze on the page.
Methods of Transference
based on the stonesteep practices of
Mallon the Undying.
Chapter Fourteen
Will stared at the name.
Mallon the Undying.
The title Undying was chilling. He was Mallon the Rivor in Queensland. When he’d invaded eight years ago with an army of Roven, the first people to bring a report to the queen were gem cutters, and they called what Mallon did riving—cutting a gem so deeply that it became worthless. It was a good description of what he did to people’s minds. He cut something so profound inside them that they lost their will to refuse him.
