by Cat Bruno
Like before, Jarek fell silent as he examined the clutter, although the disarray went beyond disorganization. Blaze lifted his shirt to cover his face, coughing and sputtering in the dirty, dank space. Dust and dirt circled and floated as Kennet’s hands swept across piles of books and papers. The skeletons lay silent in the corner of the room, neatly arranged and well-tended. When Blaze looked to him, Jarek shook his head, in warning to bide his tongue.
“Tell us what we can do to help,” Jarek called to Kennet as he pulled one of the satchels to the floor.
“Fill the bag with as many books as you can. Gather those ones on top there,” Kennet said, pointing toward a table. His eyes, pale and light, steadied.
As Blaze placed the rolled scrolls and leather-bound books into his own bag, Jarek moved toward Kennet, offering again to help.
“I cannot leave my bones,” he heard Kennet mumble.
Knowing that it would not be possible, or wise, to bring them, Jarek stated, “I would think that they should stay here to guard your work. One day, you will return.”
“Do you need to tell anyone of your departure?” Jarek asked, thinking on the woman whom Kennet had once nearly married.
Tapping at his brow with inked fingers, Kennet replied, “I should tell Rova, although he is in ill health of late. And I must tell Jacinda, for she will have to become headmistress here now.”
“Leave the bones,” Jarek called as Kennet stood over them, a look of longing across his thin face.
“You are certain that I will return?” he asked, bending down to wipe a long leg bone clean.
As he opened his satchel for Blaze, the Elemental said, “Find this Jacinda and tell her you must depart the Academy for a few moons. Make up whatever story you think will cause the least concern. On our way back to the ship, you can visit the Master.”
He would no longer coddle the madness-touched man and spoke with thunder in his words. Kennet did not offer argument of complaint, and the group left the catacombs a short time later.
After Kennet spoke with the other librarian, they made their way to Master Rova’s small cottage. Despite the late hour, a woman exited just as Kennet neared. Jarek and Blaze stood off to the side, in the shadows of another cottage, but they could hear the exchange in full.
“Kennet, I have not seen you in moons,” the woman prattled, her voice one of old age.
In a jittery reply, the librarian squeaked, “It is not often that I leave the library, Sheva.”
Hearing the woman’s name caused Jarek to step from the shadows, although he knew not why he had done so. When he was beside Kennet, her eyes, surrounded by wrinkles, gazed at him with kindness. She was old, with a sloping back and whitened hair that was pulled tightly against her neck. The moon years had not been kind to the woman, but her life pulse still thumped.
She does not know me.
He knew her of course, remembering stories that Caryss would tell of her foster mother. They were infrequent, for it was rare that the healer would speak of her past. Jarek knew, too, that letters to Sheva were just as rare, for it was known that Delwin and Crispin both had sent men to question the woman. Returning her smile, Jarek realized that he could not be silent, and, for Caryss, he addressed Sheva with truth.
“Many moon years ago, I knew your daughter,” he began.
The woman’s eyes misted, until she wiped at them and murmured, “I think of her often.”
Her reply was muted, and safe, he realized, for she did not know why he had come. Beside them, Kennet stood, his uncertainty obvious. Around them, the air hummed. But it was not of Jarek’s doing, for Kennet’s fingers weaved in circles and his eyes were calm and wise, clearer than ever before.
“I think of her often as well,” Jarek admitted, nodding toward Kennet in silent gratitude for the ward.
He knew not why he needed to ensure that the woman knew him as friend, yet Jarek added, “Her daughter fares well, Sheva, and will be pleased to hear that I have spoken to you, even briefly.”
“I have not met the girl and can tell you nothing of her,” the woman sighed, again revealing little and suggesting that she had answered the same before.
Just as with his brother, Jarek decided then that it was safer to leave the woman at the Academy than offer for her to travel with them to the Tribelands. She had already faced inquiry from the Royal Army and would offer nothing new if they visited again. With Izaak, the less he knew, the safer he was, and, in truth, Jarek had told the boy to never speak of him as kin. Not yet.
When Sheva quieted, Kennet slipped off, entering Rova’s rooms. Jarek hesitated, wanting to offer the woman something more, some explanation of who he was.
Coming closer to her, he said, “Caryss loved you always.”
After another pause, Jarek, unable to mask his regret, half-whispered, “I was with her the day that she died.”
No one had spoken such words to her, he knew, for her eyes closed and she suddenly sobbed, shaking and rocking until he placed an arm around her. So many moon years past had not erased her pain, or his, and, for a moment, Jarek struggled to keep his own face dry.
“Her daughter will one day rule the North,” he said against Sheva’s ear. “When it is safe, she will visit, and you will see how much of her mother remains.”
He felt the woman nod against his chest. A heavy, ice-edged wind circled them as Jarek’s hands crept toward the sky.
“She has lived in exile since just after her birth, but she has been well-loved all the same. Stay well, Sheva, and wait for her. As we all do.”
As he pulled away, Kennet came from the door. But it was the woman who addressed him.
“Who was it that killed her? I received a letter long ago explaining what had happened, but it was unsigned, and I knew not what to think.”
“One man held the blade, but her death falls at the feet of the King,” he hissed as the air sheltered his words.
“Why does he yet live?” she asked, wheezing and quaking, as if her own words scared her.
It was a question that he had asked many times, and Jarek did not fault her for the thought. Even now, the answer was not an easy one.
“His death would have triggered a war that we were not ready for.”
The reply was only half-truth. Delwin’s death would have allowed the Tribe to strike, and win, for Crispin would not have been able to defend Cordisia against the dark god’s kin. But it was more, too. If Conri would have attacked, the Wolves would have been acting alone and against the dark god himself. One king would have been replaced with another. It was a game of war, and all involved had held their play. The first strike must be the strongest, he knew, as did the others. And, for that, vengeance had been delayed.
“She is not forgotten,” he vowed, embracing the woman again.
Smiling faintly through a red-stained face, Sheva murmured, “Tell the girl that I long to meet her.”
Releasing her for a final time, Jarek nodded and bid her farewell. It was a difficult act to walk away from Caryss’s foster mother and his brother, so he hurried on, nearly running from the Academy grounds. Blaze and he carried the satchels, while Kennet did little but jog behind them. Overhead, the night sky had turned from gray to black, but Kennet did not call for an orb-light. Jarek, grateful for both the silence and the darkness, led the others as they raced back to the piers. They had been gone for a few hours at most, and the sails were still pulled high and taut, making it easy to find the ship.
As they climbed aboard, a warmer air greeted them. The books had grown heavy across his back, and Jarek quickly removed the bag from where it had hung. Blaze did the same, and both men were breathing hard by the time that Azzaro joined them.
“You are back sooner than we guessed,” the captain stated as he moved toward his steering block.
Standing upright and breathing easily again, Jarek introduced Kennet to Blaidd and Azzaro. But it was the Tribesman who the librarian could not look away from.
“You are kin to the High
Lord!” Kennet cried aloud, jumping forward and reaching for Blaidd’s newly shorn face.
Blaidd bowed, in jest, although it was clear that Kennet did not see it as such. When Kennet would have touched the Tribesman’s face, Jarek stepped forward, between the two.
“Does he have the tallora here?” Blaidd asked loudly and with sudden concern. His words were empty of amusement.
“Of course I do,” Kennet answered, unbothered.
Jarek realized that Blaidd was about to lunge at the librarian, and he grabbed the Tribesman and said, “He knows not to use it.”
“Does he?” Blaidd yelled. “Look at him! He has the look of a stable boy and the wits of one as well it seems.”
“Perhaps the looks of one,” Jarek agreed, in a rare attempt at jesting. “But Kennet knows more than any about the Tribe and the Crown. And he was friend to Caryss when few were. His uncle is with her still, or have you forgotten? What would you have him promise, Blaidd?”
“That he will not attempt to kill me?” the half-breed snorted.
Unlike Jarek, the Tribesman took little to heart. He was becoming a capable swordsman, but his true skills were elsewhere. While Blaze and Jarek parried and jabbed, Blaidd often watched, taunting them both with words but rarely engaging in battle himself. He was young and fire-tempered, and Jarek wondered what Conall thought of the boy.
Before the Elemental could say more, Kennet exclaimed, “I would do no such thing! Everyone knows that I cannot abide the sight of blood.”
“For now, make certain to keep the tallora safe. Once we reached the Tribelands, the High Lord will need to be consulted about what to do next,” Jarek told him, without kindness.
“Oh how I long to meet Conri. I have heard so much of him, of course,” Kennet sung, his voice pitching high with excitement, as if Jarek had not spoken at all.
Nearby, Azzaro called for them to take to the oars, for it was time to be gone from Litusia.
*****
“You must come quickly!” the girl squealed.
The hour was late, but Pietro rolled from his small cot and searched for his pants. Pulling them on, he stumbled after the white-faced girl. Her unlaced bonnet bobbed and slipped sideways as she hurried. When she stopped just outside the Queen’s room, Pietro readied himself and entered alone.
To Assana’s right sat Becca, as fearful as the serving girl. Pietro did not need to be told what had occurred. The Queen’s face was swollen and red and still wet with tears.
“The bleeding will not stop,” she whimpered.
He was unsurprised at her words and had expected them since learning of the babe. Still, Pietro had to cover his disappointment, for she would not understand it anyway.
“My Queen, there was nothing to be done. Now, we must make certain that you will recover with ease,” he carefully told her.
In truth, he was thinking little of Assana or of her babe. His plans had become undone again. Now, he would have no reason to leave Ravenfold. Once more, he would be much a prisoner.
With a sigh he could not contain, he asked when the bleeding had begun.
“A quarter-hour ago. I called for Becca and sent Nissel to find you,” Assana muttered.
“Let me ready you a tonic of yarrow and dock. It will help with the pain and ease the bleeding.”
As she pushed herself to sit up, the Queen inquired if the babe might yet live.
“It is unlikely,” he responded, his words even and direct.
“I first noticed the cramping the night the Tribesman was spotted!” she cried.
As Pietro searched his pouch for the dried herbs, Assana continued, sounding half-mad as her voice quaked.
“It was the Tribesman, Pietro. I know it. He took the babe from me.”
Beside her, Becca cooed and wiped at the queen’s brow, trying to coax her to relax. Pietro scanned the room for the teapot, and said nothing as he spooned the leaves into the steaming water.
“I will tell Delwin of this. Of how our daughter was killed by the enemy that he has let live!” she shrieked.
Reaching into another pouch, Pietro found a tiny bottle of poppy milk. With his back toward the others, he added a drop into the tea and quickly placed it back with his other supplies. Clear-faced, he walked toward the queen.
“Sip this, my lady. You must not allow yourself such dark thoughts.”
A trembling hand reached for the mug. It was light yellow with small ravens painted around its rim, in flight, much like he longed to be. He abruptly thought of the Crow who had slayed Caryss as he continued to stare at the mug. Pietro decided then that he cared little for both Tribe and Crown. War was coming, yet it was not his and would never be. As a healer, he might tend to the dying or injured, but even that thought brought uneasiness.
Secluded from much of Rexterra, Ravenfold had become both prosperous and independent. For now, it was his prison. Yet, as he watched the Queen bring the mug to her rosy lips, he though of how Ravenfold could be more. It could become his.
“Thrice a day, you must drink the tea,” he evenly intoned, reaching for Assana’s brow and letting his fingers trail across her cheek.
“I will stay by your side, Queen Assana, until sleep finds you,” he hummed.
She nodded, and her eyes began to close with weariness. Once the mug was empty, he took it from her and placed it into a pouch.
To Becca, he stated, “I will sit with her for now. Come back at sunrise.”
Once he was alone with the Queen, Pietro smiled.
*****
She woke before any of the others and crept quietly into the room. Not even Otieno heard her footfalls, which caused Syrsha to snort lightly. For a moment, she thought of Jiang, uncertain what to make of the man. But she had little time to decide, for the sunrise bells would soon chime.
After quickly braiding her hair, Syrsha twisted it into a crown atop her head. When she had finished, she called to Otieno, surprised that he still had not risen. He rolled onto his side, grumbling, and then pushed himself to his feet. While he searched for his tunic, Syrsha checked on Liang, who slept on the far side of the room.
“Within the hour, we must be in the anjin,” she told the other girl.
Liang grunted, half-awake and unmoving. Syrsha kicked at her gently before walking from the room.
Near the central courtyard there was a dining hall, which was mostly a large room with low, wooden tables and feather-filled pillows. Syrsha was not the only one awake so early, and she joined several other students as she reached for a steamed roll. Often, she would dine with Liang and Gregorr, who would take extra servings for her to eat. Without them, Syrsha grabbed several pork-filled pastries, chewing the first as she made her way to the training rooms.
Since she had been a child in Cossima, Syrsha realized that she was not like Sharron or even Otieno. The healer once told her a tale of how three wet nurses had to be hired for her care until her teeth came in. From then on, none would suckle her, and it was Gregorr who had been tasked with her feeding. Most days, he might eat a quarter of what she would.
Just as she finished the second roll, Master Ru appeared.
“I heard talk of your adventure last night,” he said as they both entered the room.
Syrsha swallowed hard, nearly choking, and felt her face burn red. She must have been followed, she realized, and not just by Jiang.
Once her mouth was clear, she stuttered, “I meant no harm.”
Ru reached for his glasses and wiped them with his long, wide sleeve. “You broke no temple rules by sleeping outside the students’ quarters. But you are gaining notice, Syrsha.”
Making sense of his words, Syrsha nearly sighed aloud. Instead, she told him, “Let them learn of me Master Ru. Let them know my name and why I have come.”
Her words were defiant ones, but Syrsha would prove herself worthy of them.
“One must be humble always, child, even one who wears the orange robes.”
“Perhaps I will learn to be so, Master Ru. But as
you have explained, my nature is just so.”
After the previous evening, it was becoming clear that the shihon searched for reasons to dislike her. He was not unlike Otieno, and Syrsha had studied too long under the diauxie to fear reprisals and punishments. The Tiannese master was not the first to try to tame her.
Ru had no magic about him, but he had something more, although Syrsha could not name it. He weaved no ward and called upon no power, yet he was a dangerous man. One that she knew would make an ever more dangerous enemy. He was, even without a title, the leader of Sholin Temple.
“I am not of Tian, Master Ru,” she offered in apology. “My blood is not yours and my bones are not yours. My eyes, even, are never my own. But I have come here in truth. I will never be Tiannese or Sythian, or any place in between. I am of the North, from a land far west of here and of both the light and the dark that lives there. You see me as young, but I am older than any who have come here as student.”
To most, her words would make little sense, yet the shihon listened, as if he sought understanding.
“You ask me to be humble,” she told him. “You want me to be afraid. Yet such has been stripped from me, more times than you could guess.”
It was then that she let her eyes darken.
“I mean no harm to any in Tian or in this temple. But see me true or do not see me at all.”
They stood alone in the training room. The Tiannese master, nearly thrice her age, looked upon her as his ash-stained stripes blazed with reminders of his triumph. Her own scars had faded, and her beauty, wild and unrestrained, posed no risk to the man. Master Ru had begun to view her as if she wore no mask.
With a flurry of his hand in dismissal, he stated, “I have seen you true since you entered. But you are a child. And a mortal one at that. Take heed, for I mean no harm, either, Syrsha. However, you must abide our rules.”
They had come to an impasse, but also to acceptance.
He who had conquered the great cat knew now that the wolf would not tame so easily.
