They lapsed into silence, and she closed her eyes. Brate took advantage of this fact and studied her. She was nothing like he once imagined a witch to be. He had only seen one before, from a distance, and only through a carriage window. Father’s description of a witch he had once met had shaped Brate’s opinion, and inaccurately at that. He had imagined they looked dark and mysterious, perhaps with long fingernails or streaks of white in their hair. Yet Anyia was pretty. No, not just pretty, she was beautiful. He felt his heart stirring, and he turned from her and looked out the window.
It was too dark to see anything but muted shapes. Soon they passed through Pallow land and were on the road that led down to his farm. He would have a lot of chores to catch up on tonight, but the heavy weight of six frills in his pocket made the thought worth it. He would bury them along with the others, and be much closer to his goal of leaving the farm and heading to the Triumphant King’s palace.
The smell of burning wood assailed his nostrils through the open window, and something tickled the back of Brate’s mind. His chest constricted as he came in sight of his farm. His barn was ablaze, lighting the night with an eerie glow. Sitting up with a gasp, he blinked. Inert forms littered the sheep pen. It was all he could do to keep from leaping from the carriage and running toward the enclosure.
As soon as the carriage was close enough, he threw open the door and ran out, leaving Anyia behind. The flames leapt into the sky, and the desperate screams and whinnies of Ranger trapped inside filled his head. Shielding his eyes from the light, he frantically searched for a way through the blaze, coughing as the smoke billowed in his face. He could taste it on his tongue, the acrid burn bitter. There was no way into the barn safely, and the heat from the flames pushed him back, away from the burning wood.
The sheep were dead, at least thirty, bleeding from wounds all over their bodies. Fin was nowhere to be found. Hot tears tickled Brate’s cheeks, but he did nothing to wipe them away. A fury was rising inside of him, one he hadn’t felt before. Moe must have told her brothers that he was gone from his farm. The Pallows were responsible. He was sure of it.
A slight noise caused him to whirl around. Anyia was standing behind him, covering her mouth and nose with her hand. She looked like she was about to fall over. “We need to get out of here,” she said softly, so that he could barely hear her over the roaring of the fire.
“I’m not leaving!” he snapped, turning back to the burning barn. The frantic call of Ranger was horrifying; no creature deserved to die like this. Great Star, wasn’t there something he could do? Anything. This wouldn’t have happened if he hadn’t left his farm unprotected for the sake of his greed.
His knees gave out from under him, and he dropped to the soft dirt. Rage boiled inside his chest, and he screamed to the sky, cursing the Star for his misfortune. He didn’t care that Anyia was watching him; all he wanted was for this to have never happened.
A rushing sound filled his ears, and a bright blue light enveloped the entire barn. The flames were extinguished in seconds. Impossible. Had he lost his mind? He was seeing things, and he blinked as the smoke drifted up from the charred wood. His horse was still frantic, the sound of hooves kicking against wood stark in the sudden silence.
It dawned on him what had happened. “Anyia?” he said, standing to his feet and turning to her. She was gazing wide-eyed at the barn, her face dark from soot.
“That wasn’t me, Brate,” she said, her haggard face now open with shock. “I am much too tired to have accomplished such a feat.”
“Then who was it?” he asked, searching the area for any sign of another witch within distance.
“Brate.” she stepped forward until she was almost touching him. “You did that.”
That didn’t make sense. Surely she hadn’t meant it. A tingling feeling swept across his body, like the pinprick of a thousand needles. He turned back to the barn, and then walking up to it, he touched the wood. It was cold under his fingers; the only sign it had been ablaze was the burnt wood and the smoke drifting into the breeze.
Everything snapped into focus and he pushed through the door. Ranger trembled in the back of his stall, burn marks dotting his hide. Smoke enveloped Brate, and he inhaled. It burned his mouth and throat, and he fell into fits of coughing. He copied Anyia and placed his hand over his mouth. Eyes watering, he stumbled to the stall. Ranger snorted, eyes wide with fear as Brate drew close and opened the door. He tried to dash out, but Brate grabbed his harness and pulled him close.
“Easy, boy,” he said, leading the terrified beast into the field behind the barn. Brate hitched him to the fence beside a water bucket. The poor animal was drenched in sweat and bleeding from multiple burns.
Content that he would be okay, Brate made his way to the sheep pen. There were at least fifty sheep missing, and the ones that remained were slaughtered. Anyia’s shape hovered on the edge of his vision as she leaned against the pen but made no move to join him. In fact, she appeared weary, sagging with one hand on the fence as if to keep herself upright. He pushed through the gate and observed the sheep’s wounds. Something was strange; huge chunks of flesh were missing, as if they had been feasted on. What had once looked like stab marks now indicated something much more. Confused, Brate turned to Anyia.
“Something ate them. Maybe a wolf?”
“Not a wolf. Come, Brate, we must leave.” The urgency in her voice gave him pause. “We have already lingered too long. What you just did will be like a beacon for miles to anyone who can sense the Deep rippling.”
Brate joined her, laying a hand on her shoulder to steady her. She was pale and trembling. “You have a lot of explaining to do.” He said it with as much authority as he could muster.
“I will.” Anyia struggled through the words as if resisting a force that was pulling them from inside her. Brate lowered his hand and turned, his gaze sweeping the yard. Fin had still not appeared. He ran for the hut. Maybe he was inside? Pushing open the door, he inspected the interior, scanning to see if there were any embers that had made it this far. Once he was satisfied it was clear, he grabbed a sack and threw the loaf of bread, some vegetables, a water canteen, some knives and a plate, and some flint into it. Slinging it over his shoulder, he headed toward the door but stopped in his tracks. He would need something to protect himself. Ma had kept his grandfather’s old longblade over the hearth, right? He turned and strode forward, snatching it up. It was heavy in his hand, and although he had no idea how to use it, at least he wouldn’t feel powerless.
A faint whine came from behind the hut as he exited. “Fin!” he called, racing around the back, stopping midstride. His heart leapt into his throat. The poor herding dog was lying on his side, struggling to breath. He had a long gash down his side, and as Brate knelt beside him, it looked like a giant claw mark. Brate threw the blade and the sack to the side, cradling the dog’s head in his lap. “I’m so sorry,” he breathed, and the last few minutes of anger and adrenaline finally caught up with him. A dam burst, and an uncontrollable urge overtook him. Whoever, or whatever, had done this would pay. Brate gripped his dog’s fur, closing his eyes tight and taking a deep breath.
He heard Anyia come up behind him, but he didn’t turn to acknowledge her. Instead, he focused on Fin’s ragged breathing, wishing there was something he could do. What if there was something? A thought entered and refused to leave, lodging in his mind. If he had been the one to put out the barn fire...
“Brate!” Anyia said, voice pleading. “We must go!”
He opened his eyes and turned his head to look at her. Her eyes were wide with fright. “What is coming, Anyia?” he asked.
She swallowed, fear mingled with exhaustion etched on her face. “Something neither of us wants to encounter.” She glanced about as if something would leap out of the shadows. “Especially when I’m too weak to access the Deep.”
Brate turned one last time to his dog, focusing on what he had been feeling when the flames had been extinguished. A strong desi
re for something to happen... the will to make things better. He didn’t feel a thing, but at once Fin’s wounds started to knit together before his eyes. Anyia gasped and grabbed Brate’s arm.
“NO!” she shouted. “They will come for sure!” She pulled him to his feet as Fin stood, shaking his body and then glancing at Brate as if nothing was wrong. “We must leave at once!” Anyia pulled on his arm, dragged him toward the coach. “We might already be too late!”
As they rounded the corner of the house, Brate’s gaze landed on three shapes loping through the fields coming toward them. The hair on the back of his neck stood up. They were huge, and moving fast. Anyia broke into a run, and weighted down as he was by the blade and the sack, Brate lost no time in following close behind her. He leapt into the carriage on her heels, followed by Fin, and Anyia shouted at the coachman to flee.
The horses needed no more urging. They broke into a gallop down the road, away from the village. Brate nearly bounced out of his seat onto Anyia’s lap, grabbing the back of the seat for support. Fin whined beside him, poking his head out the window.
“What were those?” Brate asked, glaring at Anyia. “What did they want? Are they responsible for destroying my barn and killing my sheep?”
“They are... ” She paused, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. “By the Star, you are strong,” she muttered. Opening her eyes, she gazed at him. “They are called phalynks,” she answered. “They are spawned from the Rift.”
“They are creatures of evil?” Brate pulled Fin away from the window and looked out. There was no sign of the phalynks, but it didn’t mean they weren’t out there, hunting them. He pulled his head back in. “What do you mean, I am strong?” She didn’t seem to be talking about physical strength, because although Brate was of medium height and build, he wasn’t heavily muscled like Gillum or Forstran.
She shivered, and a shaft of fear shot through him. If a Covenwitch was uneasy, he should be terrified. “The Rift is seeping once again into the sphere of man, Brate. The crater in the Deep is widening, and all sorts of spawn from the Liar will come forth.”
A cacophony of questions filled Brate’s mind, tumbling over each other. He decided to go with the one he had asked before. “What did you mean when you referenced that I was strong?” he asked as they hit a rough patch of road. He braced himself as Anyia lurched forward, catching on his knee and pushing back up with a grimace.
“The pull of your will is unique,” she replied. “Brate, I am more convinced than ever that you are the Bender.”
Shock arced through his spine and belly, making his arms go numb and his stomach churn. “Impossible.” The word escaped his lips with little volume. It was more like a whisper that came straight from his core. “The Stewards are little more than legend. What, does this mean I’m a warlock?”
She tilted her head. “Perhaps,” she answered. “But the Bender is much more than just someone who can access the Deep. You are...” she struggled to find the words, and Brate remained silent to let her form her thoughts. “Let me put it this way: you are dangerous. Very dangerous.”
Brate’s stomach dropped at her words. He glanced at Fin, and said, “But what I did was save my barn and my dog. How is that dangerous?” How could he know what she said was true? Yet no one could have done what he had just done without being able to manipulate the Deep. The Bender? The strongest Steward of all, destined to close the Rift once and for all? She was speaking madness, surely.
“You force things and people to bend to your will,” she answered. “But the question is, are you a good man, Brate Hightower? Without the proper training, you could burn the sphere to the ground.”
Uncertainty filled hi,. Was he a good man? How did someone just know that of themselves? She seemed to have made up her mind, for she inched a little farther away from him.
“So you are saying I can force people to do what I want?” He suppressed a shudder.
“Yes.” Her face was shadowed, but he thought he saw her eyes widen. “And not just people. Anything.”
“So when you said I could burn the sphere to the ground, it wasn’t just a figure of speech,” he answered.
To his surprise, she leaned forward and gripped his forearm. Warmth spread up his arm at her touch. “You could repair the Rift,” she said as the carriage slowed. Their mad flight had led them to the next village, Brecksville. “You, and the rest of the Stewards.”
Chapter Six
Malok Mountain Keeper
The frigid mountain air whipped Malok’s long, black hair, forcing him to lower his head against the wind. His arms were full of scrolls, prohibiting him from raising his arms against the gusts that battered his face. Even though it was summer and the sun was high in the sky, the fresh wind brought a biting coldness with it. It swept down from the highest tip of Grole to the sunken valley where the town of Brack nestled, and where Malok rushed to bring rolled parchment to the Brothers. Brack was situated amidst towering peaks on all sides, yet it seemed Grole was often the angry one, sending his icy breath to swirl about the city and bounce around the sides of the mountain walls surrounding them.
As far as Malok knew, Brack was the highest city in the sphere, stretching thousands of feet above the sea. Although he had never ventured down the mountain, the sphere beyond the Scrape Lands must be vast. The Brothers said it was so. Best not to wonder for too long. It wasn’t like he was going anywhere beyond the web anytime soon.
The Jin’tai were a private people. Malok kept his curiosity for other cultures to himself, for such things were strictly forbidden unless you were a Brother. The Brothers kept the web protecting their Land taut. Anyone who dared to venture through soon found themselves listless, confused, and returning to where they had come from. Often it was to the same place where they had first thought of venturing into the Scrape Lands. Malok had heard of people going back to the same tavern where they had boasted of trying to enter, or to their bed where they first dreamed of the Jin’tai. The Brothers passed these stories to the Northlandian people, often as a warning. The web was unpredictable at best, dangerous at worst. And the people who lived beyond it were ignorant, untrustworthy, and craved power. To remain safe, the Jin’tai must stay within its confines.
Worst of all, there were accessors of the Deep to the south of the web. That alone was enough to keep the Jin’tai from daring to leave the safety of the Scrape Lands. Who would want to, when all was said and done? Contentment was a key virtue.
Malok lost his footing on the stones under him, unable to brace himself. His knee hit the ground, taking the full brunt of his weight. He held back a curse, keeping a tight grip on the precious cargo in his arms. The sharp pain in his knee raced down his leg. Thankfully he had a good grip on the scrolls. Truth forbid he would have ruined them. Malok stood to his feet and ignored the cut. The blood seeped through his woolen trousers, tickling his skin. Small price to pay; the Brothers wouldn’t be pleased if he were to ruin the words of wisdom in his hands.
“Malok!” Turning his head at the call, he saw another acolyte, his best friend Garron, running toward him, hair flying in the wind. “Wait for me!”
“Hurry!” he grunted, holding back a grimace from his face, the pain in his knee throbbing. Garron pushed up the inclined road, reaching Malok and taking some of the scrolls from his hand.
“Why did you try to bring them all in one trip?” Garron asked, elbowing Malok good naturedly, his thin eyes alight with laughter.
“I’m regretting it,” Malok replied, looking down at the crimson stain on his knee. “But come, the Brothers are waiting.”
He led the way up the street, buffeted on all sides, growling a curse toward the breath of Grole. A sharp turn west led them down the meandering street that ended at the outskirts of Brack, which led to a steep climb into the mountain Loun itself. It was aptly named. Loun meant “the curve” in the Early tongue.
Those curves were treacherous, yet he had traversed it hundreds of times, his feet naturally findin
g the grooves in the rock. He could have made the journey blindfolded. Worn from decades of travelers, the smooth stones almost made the journey more dangerous.
Now that his hands were lighter, he shifted the scrolls to one arm and used the other to steady himself on the cliff face. Grole’s breath was now blocked by the sheer rock, and he was grateful. It would have been far more dangerous than it already was if he was forced to fight the wind, as well. Eventually the road evened out, and in the distance he could see the tip of the Library’s roof.
“Brother Broad is not doing well,” Garron said, breaking the silence.
Malok grunted. He didn’t care much for the stern man, whose knobby head and stretched skin made him appear like the skrales of the Bright Lands he’d read about in Folk Tales of the East.
“His breathing has become ragged, and Brother Criel is worried. They sent me for the blue flower oil.”
“I could have gotten it for you,” Malok answered. “I was in the city already.”
“You had left when Brother Criel realized we had run out.” Garron’s voice was strained. “I know you don’t like Brother Broad, but someone with as much wisdom as he...” his voice trailed off.
He understood Garron’s sentiments. It was a shame when anyone died, but a Brother? It was worse than if a mere man did, for the Brothers were... a different type of man. Hopefully one day he could understand as much as the Brothers did. It was why he had joined the Brotherhood as an acolyte, to learn the ways of the venerated men whose life work was to gain as much knowledge and wisdom as possible. A rush of excitement thrilled him. It wasn’t long before he graduated from acolyte to apprentice, and continued his journey to enlightenment.
The Library loomed before them, and as Malok entered its doors he was grateful for a respite from the cool air. Using one hand to brush his hair from his eyes, he squinted in the darkness, waiting for his sight to adjust. The sconces on the walls held flickering torches, casting dancing shadows on the walls. Several Brothers were assigned to the fire, always watchful to prevent a blaze from enveloping the precious scrolls and books that lay within the Library walls. Even now, as he watched, a Brother did his rounds, inspecting the flickering torches.
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