“I’ll tell you the real story of ArWhym Ellenrond and Ather Sandoval.”
Whym tensed, believing the words a threat. “I know that story. It ends with my great-grandfather’s head spiked on the walls of Riverbend.”
“That is the ending,” Stern acknowledged, “but the why and how are different from what you believe. What remains untold is as important to the story as the facts you know.”
“What don’t I know?” Whym asked. Other than what you’re planning for me.
Stern pushed his body to a seated position. “My father was following ArWhym’s orders when he turned him over to the Council. He was no traitor. In fact, he’d have gladly taken your great-grandfather’s place. He sacrificed his reputation to save what remained of the cause.”
The seeker’s stories of the past often took unusual twists that muddled the accepted history, rendering a turbid and baffling version of events. This claim, however, was not a nuanced understanding, but a direct rebuttal to the accepted facts. “Yet only you know this to be true?” Whym challenged.
“A secret loses its value with the telling.” Stern tightened his lips then relaxed them, blowing away the strands of white hair obscuring his eyes. “But there are others in the resistance who also know.”
“The resistance? What resistance?”
“Whym,” Stern looked toward the snapping embers, “do you understand the purpose of the climb, why we took the eastern face, why you were given the lead position?”
Whym shrugged. “Another test, I guess.”
“It was to demonstrate that reaching the summit requires all of us working together. I’m growing too old, too weak, to make the climb myself. I need someone to lead. I need you to lead.” Stern paused to let the point sink in.
Whym wished his master would, for once, state his meaning clearly. What had been mysterious and fascinating at the beginning of the apprenticeship, had become tiresome. “Kutan could have led as well or better.”
Stern sighed, a crease of frustration dividing his forehead. “From the time you left home, you’ve known your ancestry played a part in my claiming you. I’m trying to tell you I chose you because you alone are capable of uniting the regions and freeing the land from the yoke of the Council of Truth. We need you to raise the Ellenrond banner and lead.”
We? Is this the plan Ansel was talking about? This is ridiculous! First he concocts a history where his father’s a hero instead of a traitor. Now he comes up with this. Is he losing his mind? “I’m an apprentice. Who would follow?”
Stern placed his hand on Whym’s forearm. “I’ve spent my whole life preparing the regions to rise. This time will not be like the Mudlands before. All the regions will answer the call. But they won’t follow me. We need a leader to unite them. We need the Ellenrond name. We need you.”
Whym recalled the unveiling ceremony of the tapestry portraying Samir Fen standing on ArWhym Ellenrond’s neck. “That war’s been lost. Why fight it again?”
Stern’s pressed-flat lips revealed his disappointment in his apprentice’s response. “You’ve experienced firsthand the cruelty of the First Lord’s twins. The day will come when they rule. Would you let this happen?”
Whym hated the twins. He hated Lord Fen. He hated the Council for the humiliation its lords had meted out to his family. But hatred could simmer unexpressed while those hating lived long lives. Rebellion meant death. I’d rather return to Riverbend and become Rat Man after my father than bring the executioner’s axe down on the necks of my family. He was afraid to say this to Stern, so he said nothing, staring instead with open-mouthed surprise.
“Did Kutan tell you his mother was from the Fringe tribes?” Stern asked when it was clear Whym didn’t plan to reply.
The Fringe? Whym again shook his head, his tongue tied in disbelief.
“Then that’s his story to share when he’s ready.” When next Stern spoke, the words seemed uncharacteristically restrained. “You don’t need to answer now. But if we don’t stand together to stop him, Lord Fen will turn his eyes to Bothera after the Fringe tribes are slaughtered. If the Oracle falls into his control, there’ll be no one left to oppose him. The land will bow to King Fen, and Tyrus will succeed him.” He turned back over and left Whym to sleep on those chilling final words.
Riverbend, Chapter 15
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History begets myth when the passage of time blurs the edges of truth.
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—Excerpt from The Rise and Fall of Magic—The Faerie Histories
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Riverbend
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Volos, his coarse brown robes still dusty from travel, hung like a spider in the doorframe as he waited to be acknowledged. The First Lord faced the dying fire, drumming his fingers against the rough leather arm of the chair in his study. The timeworn chair, with cracks spreading into full rips on the arms, was his favorite. “Furniture and men are the same,” he’d remarked once to Volos. “Scars add character.”
“Your travels have been fruitful?” Artifis asked after Volos cleared his throat a second time.
The weather had taken a sudden turn—swift justice against the vestige of an early spring—and a chilling breeze whistled through the open window to sweep the room clean of warmth. Still, a sheen of sweat formed on his brow, the result of the rumors the First Lord had become prone to fits of unprovoked rage directed toward friend and foe alike. “They have, Your Grace. It was a long journey, but the arrangements are in place.”
“I’d begun to doubt your return.” The words were pregnant with accusation.
Thanks to the rumors, Volos had steeled himself for an upbraiding, however unfair. He’d appealed, near to the point of pleading, for another to be sent in his stead. Vademus Fen had been his choice due to his familiarity with the soldiers. In the end, though, Lord Fen had commanded Volos to set the trap in person.
Pointing this out, Volos knew, would worsen matters. “Your Grace must never doubt my loyalty or capability.”
“Why are you standing at the door, obliging me to strain to hear you? Enter.”
Volos stooped, shortening his stature, and tilted his head forward to give the impression of a bow. It was the stance expected—a posture exuding servitude. He entered the room with short cautious steps. The fire, consumed to the final embers, provided no warmth.
With only a single chair near the fireplace, Volos was forced to hover next to Lord Fen like a dog awaiting table scraps. The effect was intentional. Volos now regretted suggesting the furniture arrangement. He found himself uneasy in the First Lord’s presence for the first time in his long service.
Despite Volos standing by his shoulder, Lord Fen stared into the dying fire. “You’re certain Fink and Stern suspect nothing?”
“I consulted only your brother when selecting the men from the Fringe. They never strayed from my presence.”
“Vademus.” Lord Fen had long harbored a distrust of his younger brother, but his tone now oozed with animus. He turned to face his adviser with bloodshot eyes. “And the villagers?”
“Your Grace! Are you not sleeping?”
“And the villagers?” Lord Fen repeated, a sharp edge to his voice.
“No one came or went—no contact at all with the outside,” Volos answered. “Endeling is as remote and isolated as promised.”
“And you trust the soldiers to remain isolated? If word spreads that they wait in Endeling, Stern will smell a trap.”
Volos’ face darkened. He’d not shared the details of what he’d planned to do to secure the village. The First Lord had proven ruthless and practical. But to order what the soldiers had done in Endeling would have required him to be heartless. Deep down, Volos still clung to the belief—the hope—the man he’d sp
ent his life advising was, at his core, decent. “I took precautions. We disposed of the men and children. The women were left to…occupy the soldiers. Under threat of death and with ample food and drink, they can be trusted.”
“The children?”
Volos had done what he deemed necessary to ensure absolute secrecy, issuing orders as he would have wrung the neck of a chicken—cool, detached, efficient. “It made the women more docile.” He provided an incomplete truth.
He’d selected soldiers with questionable morals and knew what they’d have done to the children after he left. Better their deaths than that on my conscience. Death is swift and final. Suffering lingers. He intended to avenge the children’s deaths once the trap ensnared the seeker and the Ellenrond boy. He’d execute the soldiers himself. No one would discover the First Lord’s involvement.
“I see.” Artifis settled back against the cushioned chair.
Volos wanted him to rail against the atrocity. Instead, the First Lord’s casual acceptance of the news stripped bare Volos’ remaining belief in his humanity. Heartless—or worse.
“And the rumors of a last Steward?” Lord Fen, having previously dismissed the notion that the Stewards were anything but legend, surprised Volos with his question.
“My pardon, Your Grace. I was focused on the mission, with no time to chase myths,” he replied hesitantly.
Artifis fingered the rip in the chair arm. “You’ve always advised me to keep an open mind—that every story contains a kernel of truth. I find it out of character that you’d travel so far without collecting information on the subject.”
Never has he treated me with such suspicion! I must find out what’s happened to him in my absence. Volos tried to determine where Lord Fen was leading with the interrogation but was stumped. “The people of Endeling, to a man, believed. Some even claimed to have met him. But I didn’t wish to trouble Your Grace with unverified claims. As you said yourself, the stories of Stewards are remnants of a bygone age.”
Lord Fen stood and closed the window, choking off the source of the chill in the room. “Do they claim he lives within our borders?”
The prophecy! Volos realized the logic behind his lord’s questions. If the Steward lived beyond the borders of the realm, the prophecy might be referring to him as the threat to the Council, not Bothera and the Fringe tribes. Volos debated lying, but he never lied without careful consideration. “They claim he can be found in the uninhabited mountains beyond Endeling, north of the Mysts.” The location was far beyond the area the Council governed.
Lord Fen dropped back into the chair, his arms crossed against his chest, his face furrowed in thought. Volos had led the First Lord to connect the prophecy with the Fringe and Bothera. He’d needed to all but directly suggest invading the Fringe before Lord Fen had reached that conclusion. If he’s reconsidering that connection, what else might he be questioning? “Your Grace?” he ventured when there was no response.
“Volos, do you—” Lord Fen leaned forward as if to ask something important. “Never mind.” He relaxed into the chair and tugged at the fine hair on his earlobe. “Release the post to Fink and make sure he’s clear it must only be assigned to his best seeker.”
“At once, Your Grace.” Volos bowed and left the study, grabbing the oil lamp he’d hung outside the door as he left. The moment he was out of sight, he straightened his back and lifted his head. The journey had been his first separation from the First Lord in many turns. He’d forgotten what it was like not to bow. During the journey, he’d bowed to no one and liked it.
As Volos exited the First Lord’s chamber, the ache in his legs was but part of his overall fatigue. He was spent from the tension of the meeting, and his whole body was stiff and sore from the long journey and the many moons away. He’d looked forward to the comfort of a bed and some company with whom to share that comfort. But both would have to wait. He’d wait, as well, to go to Fink. First, he needed to meet with the man in the shadows, to be told what to do. He sensed the First Lord had turned his ear toward another during his absence.
Sentinel Mountain, Chapter 16
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At its height, the Allyrian dynasty spanned the Land of Amon from the eastern desert to the mines of Colodor. Unrivaled, it digested tribes and kingdoms with ease. The Fei were one of these tribes.
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Unlike the warlike Allyrians, the Fei eschewed the blood sacrifices demanded by the gods of their ancestors for the teaching of the Stewards. They lived in harmony as nomads along the Ippur River. Even after the spread of the Allyrian settlements drove the Stewards from the Land of Amon, the Fei remained at peace with the occupiers. But the Allyrian discovery of precious stones and metals in the foothills of the Crags spelled the end of that tenuous peace. The Fei were captured, enslaved, and sent east to appease the appetite of the mines of Colodor. If not for the chance discovery of the last settlement of Stewards by Fei miners, the Fei might never have escaped from the lightless voids that stretched under the Crags.
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—Excerpt from The Rise and Fall of Magic—The Faerie Histories
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Sentinel Mountain
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The climb up Dozers Down had taken three days. The northern route down took but a morning. During the descent, Stern had hinted that he expected Whym’s response sooner rather than later. But Whym continued to defer, not wishing to reveal his true feelings. By the time they reached the base of Sentinel Mountain, though, Stern had begun to realize the truth, and regarded his young apprentice with wounded feelings. Whym, likewise, nursed his own injured feelings with a sulking silence, resulting in a melancholy trek back to the Wildes.
“Ahoo!” Agnis Stitch swung her thick arm in greeting when she saw them. She rushed over, plump body wobbling on stubby legs. “Where have you been? Fink’s all manner of worked up.” In all the moons since the beginning of training, Agnis had been the only visitor to the cottage in the Wildes. Whym considered her more a delivery person than friend or colleague—or collaborator. It was a surprise to hear her speak of business.
“Boys.” She nodded to Whym and Kutan, her lips pursed with concern after mentioning Fink in front of them.
Stern read the apprehension on her face. “It’s all right. We have no more secrets.” He glanced at Whym.
Whym smiled to stifle a snicker. Old man, you’ve got more secrets than the Oracle’s library has books.
“What’s Fink worked up about?” Stern’s tone revealed his concern as he continued toward the cottage.
Whym had been under the impression Fink waited for no one. If his chosen seeker was unavailable when the work was ready, the assignment went to the next on the list. His thoughts went to the promise Fink had made to Stern on the day after the Choosing. Many questions sprang to mind. Have the winds changed? Has someone issued a whisper for us? Is Marvil involved? Did the Council find out about Stern’s involvement with the resistance? Do they think I’m a part of it?
The loose folds of skin beneath Agnis’ chin swung against the sides of her neck as she shook her head. “Don’t know. Just heard you were needed, and volunteered to carry the message. I know you don’t welcome outsiders.”
Agnis hurried ahead and opened the door for them. The aroma of freshly baked tarts flooded out, making Whym’s mouth water. “Had some time to kill,” she said when she noticed their expressions.
“You’ve outdone yourself!” Stern raised his arms for effect. Four tarts were cooling on the table and a pot was simmering above the fire. Agnis beamed, her plump cheeks nearly swallowing her eyes.
They sat to eat without unpacking, the warm food providing a temporary respite from the awkward tension. When Whym took his first bite, he found the aroma had been deceiving. The food wasn’t delic
ious; it was intoxicating. “One day you must tell me your secret ingredients,” Stern said and stuffed the last of his trencher in his mouth.
“One day, when the oaks drop walnuts.” Agnis’ sideways grin hinted at a private joke.
“I do have a talent for grafting tree limbs.” Stern winked, something Whym had seldom seen from the serious man over many moons as an apprentice.
Drained from their sullen journey, they unpacked and prepared to sleep as soon as they finished their meal. Stern relinquished his spot to Agnis and joined Whym and Kutan on the other side of the hearth. The tiny cottage afforded no privacy, but she didn’t seem to mind. She wedged a soft hide bundle beneath her neck and curled beside the fire, a gentle snore soon escaping with each breath. It was a pleasant sound, particularly when compared with the seeker’s hacking snorts.
Despite Whym’s troubled thoughts, sleep came easily. Alone, he might even have slept past midday. But Agnis was flitting about at the crack of dawn preparing breakfast. She put out a spread of muffins, dried fruit, and slices of a white peppercorn cheese laced by purple wine-flavored veins. Whym was surprised to find himself hungry after the large meal the night before, but after wolfing down his share, he still eyed the leftover tart.
“I’m going to find out what Fink needs,” Stern announced as he slid off the end of the bench. “Agnis will stay until I return.”
“It’ll give us some time to get to know each other,” she added cheerily.
There’ll be another set of eyes to watch me. Whym felt a twinge of anger at the distrust, though he’d have done the same in Stern’s position.
“Eight days away, and there’s a mess of work around here,” Kutan said, as he picked at a piece of dried plum lodged between his teeth. He nodded to Stern, his lips flattened in disappointment not to be going with him to Riverbend. “It’s a shame you’ll miss the fun.”
Stern left soon after, and Whym and Kutan trudged to the herb garden at the side of the house. Whym started pulling out the mint encroaching on the basil. “I’m sorry about the way I acted on the summit,” Kutan said without looking up, his hands filled with sprigs of rosemary.
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