The Way Into Darkness: Book Three of The Great Way

by Harry Connolly

  She was utterly astonished to discover, as she stepped out of the holdfast door onto the dais, that nearly the entire town had crowded into the courtyard. At the sight of her, they cheered so loudly that Cazia jumped and yelped in surprise.

  There they were, her father’s people, filthy and bloody from a day of battle, men and women, young and old, and they were cheering for her.

  Cazia flushed, feeling like an imposter. The Watch Commander turned to her and gestured that she should step to the edge of the stone platform where the people could see her better. She did, and suddenly there were tears on her cheeks. A scholar’s tears, yes, but Fire take it, there was no more need to fear them. The people applauded and called her name.

  Her heart full, Cazia lifted her broken mace above her head. The cheers became deafening.

  Chapter 30

  She never got to see her father alive again. By the time the crowd had accompanied her to the riverbank where his boat was anchored, he had leaped into the river in his full iron armor.

  Cazia stared at the boat--empty of everything but the weapons she’d brought--not at all sure how to sort through the complicated feelings she had. He was a kidnapper and killer. He was a villain in countless songs and a dozen plays, and he deserved to be. He would never be the strong protector she’d hoped for.

  Soldiers searched the banks, but they found him against the downriver gates in the southern wall of the city. Cazia insisted on seeing him. She’d heard that corpses became horrifyingly disfigured in water, but he just looked like himself, only grayer. Maybe it hadn’t been long enough.

  Still, there was no doubt about it: no secret confederate had faked his death and spirited him away. He would never become a figure of folktales, haunting the nearby woods, blamed for every fire, spoiled well, or crop failure. His people had turned on him, and he had killed himself before they could take their justice.

  But there was too much to do for complicated grief. She mentioned casually that she hoped to have her mace repaired, and it was borne away immediately by someone who promised to see it done. Then it was a matter of working out who the local doers were.

  That’s how Cazia thought of them. Doers. People who do things. The Watch Commander became the new general. The merchants and laborers had leaders that they respected. Cwainzik had his own bureaucracy here inside the holdfast.

  She kept expecting them to make her skin crawl—they’d been confidants to her father, hadn’t they? His power base?—but it turned out that they were so happy and relieved by the turnaround in their fortunes that they seemed genuinely excited to have her there. Not one of them acted like an Enemy.

  And they kept asking her questions. Despite her best intentions, Cazia found herself sitting in her father’s chair.

  For her part, Cazia decided the best thing was to tell them what result she wanted and let them work out how to manage it. Almost every merchant spoke Peradaini, even if they had the annoying habit of making everything plural. The soldiers relied on translations, as did the lumber men and the orchard growers.

  It was slow, but it worked. They talked winter provisions, pilgrimages to nearby holdfasts, patrols to protect the walls, and more. Mostly, Cazia simply listened to their suggestions and told them to go ahead with their plan. Who was she to second-guess their choices? They were experts.

  The only thing she absolutely forbade was making servants of those people who had been cured of The Blessing. She explained that her plan was to free hundreds of thousands of people from every family, clan, and nation. Would all of them be tattooed or branded? Would a few thousand Freewell citizens rule over them all?

  And why should they enter servitude? Because they were victims of The Blessing? Cazia could not condemn people simply because they’d lost a fight. Grunts were human beings with a curable illness. When they were purged, they would be sorted out. Scholars and Evening People would come to her. Soldiers to the commander. Other folk where they were needed. Everyone who worked would eat. Old enmities between Finstel and Witt, Freewell and Italga would be put aside. No coin would be required of them and no debts incurred.

  The last was not particularly popular, but she had little patience for men and women who wanted to become idle rich on the labor of people who had lost everything. Let them daydream about the unclaimed chests of coin and gems in the abandoned holdfasts of Kal-Maddum instead.

  Thinking about the ordeal Tejohn had gone through, she almost cancelled the debt of every servant right then and there, but she could tell that would push them too far. Tomorrow might be a better day for that.

  Still, it was satisfying to work with them all. They were pleased to have her time and attention—it was almost as if they’d been starved of the chance to be heard—and they were especially glad to have a weapon against the grunts.

  Planning session over, the chief servant of the holdfast knelt before her. He was a starved-looking man with sagging skin and whip scars visible through his ragged tunic. “Your meals is ready, Miss.”

  Cazia wasn’t particularly hungry, but she knew she should eat before she slept. It was so strange: she’d been in dangerous situations before, but the battle outside the sentry tower had exhausted her like never before.

  He led her into the same small room where her father had broken his fast with her. Great Way, had it really been that same morning? Piled on the platter was a huge cut of venison with two loaves of bread and a bowl of apples and greens.

  “This is too much,” Cazia said immediately, without thinking about it. She took a plate off the wall cupboard, cut off a piece of venison that was slightly larger than her fist, then tore off part of the bread. Both of these she added to the plate. On top of that she scooped some greens and apples. “Give the rest to the servant staff,” she said, pushing the still-overloaded platter toward the chief.

  He looked honestly surprised and did not move to take it. It was almost as though he thought she was tricking him. “Miss?”

  “Split this evenly among the servant staff,” she said again. “All of them. I’m guessing you aren’t well fed.”

  “We get two bowls of wheats porridges every days.”

  “You’re going to have a lot of work to do. It’s time the servants were better fed. Oh, and have one of your people bring one of the magic stones to my mother’s chamber. I don’t know how long ago she went hollow, but this will cure her. And my grandmother…” Cazia wasn’t sure how to continue.

  “Miss?”

  Best to just say it outright. “She died in the fighting. I’d like her to be buried somewhere I can visit her.”

  “Of course, miss.” Cazia told the servant where he could find Eshla’s body, then the platter was cleared away. As the meal went on, Cazia’s stitched lip became even more tender, but she forced herself to eat. She was interrupted three bites later by a young man in armor with his hand on his sword.

  For a moment, she was sure he’d come to murder her.

  Right behind him came the Watch Commander, who slapped the young man’s hand away from his weapon. Behind them both was Cazia’s translator.

  “The Watch Commander apologizes, miss. His nephews has bad habits he needs to break.”

  “Nephew?”

  “He is also seconds. He is here because you have no guards, and there may still be enemies within the holdfasts. Soldiers loyal to your fathers for one, more grunts for another.”

  Cazia looked from one man to another. The Watch Commander was an utterly forgettable man: balding on top of his face and hairy at the bottom, with a crooked nose and squinting eyes between, but his second was tall and lean with a long face. His jaw was set with anger and…

  His eyes were rimmed with red as if he’d been crying.

  Cazia felt a little twinge in her chest. Was this her weakness, then? Muscular, sorrowful fighting men? Well, it could be worse.

  Still, she didn’t like it. She didn’t want to spend her days with a handsome boy she couldn’t trust. “I know what sort of bodyguards scholars
get.”

  The Watch Commander looked nervous when that was translated. “That’s not what he means, miss. If you want to rule, you should have the trappings of rulers. Otherwise, your subjects will only do the things they already want to do.”

  That made sense, especially since Cazia hadn’t freed the servants yet, but she still didn’t know if this bodyguard was meant to protect her or control her.

  You should sit while your men stand, and you must command them. “I don’t want to be tyr or chieftain or…or queen. I just want to find out…”

  I just want to find out why this happened.

  There it was, as clear as daylight. The grunts had invaded human lands after tearing through the Evening People, and now that Cazia had a weapon they could use against them, she was ready to ask the next question: why? Curses didn’t just spring up out of the soil, did they? They had to be created.

  Cazia turned to the nephew. “Who did you lose?”

  He answered without hesitation in excellent Peradaini. “My father, miss. But my mother and sisters are alive because of you.”

  Great Way, he wasn’t beautiful--not the way Alga was--but her heart broke for him. And his first impression of her had come while she was shoving food into her mouth.

  “Fine. But I get to sleep, change, bathe, and relieve myself in privacy. Are there female soldiers who can guard me?”

  The merchant and the Watch Commander exchanged glances. “Surgish women,” the translator said, “fight with bows only, not spears or swords.”

  That was another argument they would have later.

  Before she could say another word, the young soldier knelt beside the table, lowered his head, and said something in Surgish. When he finished, he pounded his fist against his cuirass very hard.

  “That was a traditional oaths in our languages,” the merchant said. “He has pledged to die to protect you.”

  Cazia had no idea what to say to that. “Thank you. Your Peradaini is quite good.”

  “Thank you, miss,” the soldier said. “I lived in Peradain for six years.”

  He didn’t say Peradains, which was a hopeful sign. Is he my reward? Cazia felt herself flush and looked away. “My father had a mirror that he used to speak with other tyrs, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, miss,” a servant said. “I’ll lead you to it.”

  The servant girl led Cazia and her new companion down the hall and up a flight of stairs. She had deliberately refused to learn the Watch Commander’s name—as well as the merchant couple, the chief servant, and so on—because she didn’t want to get to know them. She didn’t want to stay. But the soldier beside her had pledged his life to hers. Could she really do the same to him?

  Sure, she could, if she had to. And if she decided to slip away from the holdfast for some reason, maybe she could bring him along.

  That made her blush again, and she picked up her pace so he couldn’t see. They climbed a flight of stairs to a narrow, windowless stone room. Actually, it was little more than a storeroom, stacked with old blankets and frayed baskets. The mirror stood on a shelf in a corner, and Cazia would never have thought to look there for it if she couldn’t see the silver-white light glowing from beneath the dusty cloth covering it.

  “Why is this lit up?” The servant who had led them to the room looked frightened very suddenly, so Cazia did her best to defuse things. “I guess a better question would be why is it here, in this room?”

  Her bodyguard translated for her. “She says Tyr Freewell never used it. Not ever.”

  Cazia pulled the cloth off it and discovered to her surprise that the little silver mirror, no larger than her hand, had been mounted on a lead base as tall as her head. It would take a sturdy litter and four men to steal this artifact.

  Yes, the mirror was glowing. “Tyr Treygar,” she said. A startled woman’s face appeared in the surface, then shortly after, Old Stoneface himself.

  “You’re alive!” he exclaimed. “I’m glad to see it.”

  “Glad to be seen,” Cazia answered.

  “You’ve taken a real beating,”

  “Not as bad as it could have been. How are things there?”

  “Complicated. Still, the people are pulling together. Provisions will be short come wintertime unless we do something about it.”

  “We need sleepstones here, my tyr. We need sleepstones very badly.”

  He leaned forward and peered at something in her expression. “Cazia, are you all right?”

  “I’m very tired. More tired than… There was a fight today,” she said, and suddenly the memories rushed back to her: the steward with the broken leg waving at her to run, the young man who burst apart as a stone struck him, Issilas standing patiently beside her as people screamed and died around them. Cazia shut her eyes because there were tears again. Scholars must never weep. “They…they were so brave.”

  Tyr Treygar was kind enough to wait quietly while she composed herself. The servant and her guard politely looked away. Fire and Fury, why had she let them linger in the doorway?

  “I’m sorry,” she said when she was ready to speak.

  “You don’t have to apologize to me. I have felt the same way many times. I have some good news; there’s a medical scholar here. I’ll send him to you.”

  “Thank you. Truly.”

  “Can you fly back here? There’s something I think you should see.”

  “That might be difficult. They’ve sort of made me their tyr.”

  For a moment, she thought Stoneface might actually laugh, but he didn’t. Good. She was too tired to lose her temper. “Congratulations. Can you come?”

  You do know I’m only fifteen. “I will,” she said. The servant and guard became restless. “But I touched a kinzchu stone during the fighting. I’ll have to wait for my magic to come back.” She didn’t want to say this next part in front of the servant and bodyguard, but it seemed she had no choice. “My tyr, we can defeat the grunts now, but doesn’t it seem that there is more to this?”

  Treygar nodded. “That’s why I want you to come back up here, my tyr. We have one more people to contact. Hopefully, they will have answers for us, too.”

  He draped the cloth over his mirror, breaking the connection. Cazia did the same, plunging the little room into darkness. “Sleep,” she said. Could the granite kinzchu stone she touched be the reason she was so exhausted? “I have to sleep right now or I’m going to fall over.”

  The servant curtsied. Her guard said, “We’ll show you to the tyr’s quarters.”

  Ugh. She could just imagine the way her father’s rooms would look. “No, my stomach isn’t strong enough for that. Take me to the room where Issilas is resting.” They started down the stairs. Cazia turned to her guard. Mustn’t learn his name. “Did you hear that a medical scholar would be coming tomorrow?”

  “I did, my tyr,” he said.

  Cazia wished he would go back to calling her miss. “Well, your holdfast was difficult to find in all these woods. Can you set a signal fire in the sentry tower or something?”

  “We used to burn green wood and oil to make a column of smoke to signal visitors from the air…”

  There was an unspoken but at the end of his sentence. “Do that, then. I want the cart to get here as quickly as it can.”

  He spoke as if asking a question was an act of bravery. “Won’t that attract the grunts, too?”

  “Let’s hope so.”

  Issilas was still in bed, and a scowling chambermaid hovered over her. She began to sit up as Cazia entered, but the maid pushed her gently onto the bed. The cool compresses over her ribs had dried out, but Cazia couldn’t cast the Fifth Gift yet. She took a bowl of water--not cold enough but it would have to do--from a table by the door and wet the compresses again. The girl hissed with surprise but didn’t otherwise complain.

  Cazia stood and realized the chambermaid was gaping at her. Had they never seen a tyr comfort an injured servant before? She shooed everyone out of the room except the injured girl an
d lay down on the second bed. She knew it wasn’t even dark outside yet, but sleep could not be denied any longer. She fell asleep wondering if her throat would be cut before she woke, and whether it would hurt.

  The same chambermaid woke her in the morning. Issilas was asleep, so Cazia signaled for quiet as she put on her robes. Fire and Fury, the girl had gone pasty white overnight. She wasn’t healing; she was getting worse.

  Cazia’s bodyguard waited outside her door, hand on his sword. He suddenly looked very like the palace guards who had tormented her in the Palace of Song and Morning, and she decided it was better not to learn his name after all.

  Breakfast was spare, which suited her fine. A flying cart, she was told, was landing even as they spoke. Cazia ditched her food and raced out of the holdfast into the courtyard.

  A small crowd had gathered as the cart slowly descended. The driver leaned out over the rail, scowling at the muddy yard below. They’d have to make a stone platform for the carts so they wouldn’t get mired.

  But when the cart’s only passenger stood up and began to struggle over the rail, she exclaimed with delight.

  “Doctor Twofin!” Cazia raced down the stairs across the yard, the crowd parting for her. The old man had barely gotten his boots on the ground when she threw her arms around him. Her former tutor gasped at the sudden collision, and Cazia drew back from him suddenly.

  Great Way, he looked so frail.

  “Little Spinner, thank you for reuniting us again,” he said. “I feared I would never see another friendly face.”

  This did not sound like the Doctor Twofin she knew. Where was Fury’s spark, which had always seemed so strong in him? “How did you get out of Peradain?” she asked, unsure what to say.

  “I was taken out. Not… Not rescued. Imprisoned. By Tyr Finstel. I was made to do magic, until…”

  He couldn’t finish. The old teacher lifted his hands and stared at them, as though expecting them to be covered with blood. Cazia took hold of them gently. “I have been in your situation,” she said.