“Yours isn’t,” Meilin argued.
“Because I am a loyal Oathbound, a protector of the leaders of Erdas,” Brunhild said smugly. “You are Greencloaks. Clearly not to be trusted, since you attacked us just now without provocation.”
That was an outright lie! The Oathbound had attacked them first. Abeke opened her mouth to protest, but fell silent when Meilin shook her head and drew the three of them aside for a quiet word. “I hate to say this,” Meilin whispered as they put their heads together, “but they’re not entirely wrong.”
“No, they’re only completely wrong,” Rollan put in, his voice low and angry.
“Yes, Brunhild was lying about us attacking the guards,” Meilin said, “but they do have a reason not to trust us.”
Abeke saw Conor reach up to rub his forehead, where the mark of the Wyrm had been, and she knew what this meant.
“Oh,” Abeke breathed. “It’s because so many of the Greencloaks were taken by the parasites and forced to serve the Wyrm.”
Meilin nodded reluctantly. “A lot happened when Zerif had his own little personal army of Greencloaks. We may be mistrusted by some people who don’t know the full story.” She cast an apologetic glance at Conor, who wouldn’t meet her eyes. “I think we’ll have to do as they say.”
“I don’t like it,” Rollan said flatly. As if responding to his anger, Essix dove, swooped low over their heads, then arced back into the cloudy sky.
“I don’t like it, either,” Meilin shot back. “But I don’t think we have any choice.”
Slowly, the four of them straightened. Meilin reached up to ruffle the black fur behind Jhi’s ears. Without speaking, she held out her arm. She would never order the panda to take the passive state, not after their history together, but she would hope for the best. Jhi sighed deeply and then disappeared, reappearing as a black-and-white tattoo on Meilin’s forearm. “As you see,” Meilin said to Princess Song and the Oathbound guards. “We will abide by the Citadel rules.”
“You do us great honor,” Princess Song said softly.
Conor had already called Briggan into the passive state. Seeing as she had no choice, Abeke stroked a finger over the fine fur of Uraza’s nose and then gave the leopard a nod. Uraza disappeared with a flash.
Rollan stood with his hands on his hips, gazing up at the sky. His green cloak was more ragged and faded than the newer cloaks the rest of them wore. It fluttered in the breeze. Essix circled high above, riding that breeze, showing no sign of descending again.
“Well?” Meilin asked him.
“She has no intention of coming down here,” Rollan said, not taking his eyes from the bird.
Meilin rolled her eyes, then nodded at Abeke and Conor. “You two had better go in and get settled. We’ll wait out here until Essix is feeling more cooperative.”
“It could be a while,” Rollan put in.
“Then it’s a good thing I’m so patient,” Meilin replied.
“You, patient?” Abeke heard Rollan say, and then Meilin said something in response that made him laugh.
Abeke followed Princess Song and Brunhild through the huge gate of the Citadel; Conor trailed behind her, looking around with wide eyes. The flags of the four regions flapped overhead, and the sharp iron teeth of the portcullis seemed about to take a bite of them. Abeke shivered, already missing the reassurance of having Uraza at her side, and hurried to keep up. The princess was tiny, but she walked swiftly, sweepingly, as she led them up a set of broad stairs to the main double doors of the Citadel’s central chamber.
“You are Abeke, are you not?” Princess Song asked, falling into step beside her. At Abeke’s nod, Song glanced back at Conor, who lingered behind them. “I hope you can answer my question. I have heard that one of you—Conor—was taken by the Wyrm. Is this so?”
Abeke glanced quickly back. Conor’s face was blank, but he was only a step behind; he must have heard the princess’s question.
“By one of the Wyrm’s parasites,” Abeke corrected.
“I’m sorry to have to ask this,” Princess Song went on, “but he served your enemy. Are you certain that you can trust him?”
Abeke raised her voice, to be sure Conor would hear her next words. “He served the Wyrm against his will, and he is free of it now. He is just as trustworthy as the rest of us.”
“That’s not saying much,” blond Brunhild put in, casting a suspicious glare over Conor.
Abeke felt her temper rise at the guard’s remark, but she took a deep breath to calm herself. They’d had one fight at the gate; she couldn’t start another one already.
They entered a huge entrance hall hung with curtains of cobwebs and dust. Princess Song flagged down a passing man dressed in plain brown. “This servant will direct Conor to his rooms in the Euran part of the Citadel, and I will bring you to your rooms in the Niloan wing, Abeke.”
The brown-clad servant bowed and gestured toward a passage leading away. Conor started toward him.
“Wait,” Abeke said abruptly, and Conor paused, looking over his shoulder at her with raised eyebrows. “Do you have separate rooms for all four of us?” she asked the princess.
“Of course,” Song answered. “There is a place for Rollan in the Amayan wing, and I’ve requested that Meilin be given rooms next to mine in the Zhongese wing.”
Abeke shook her head. Conor seemed all right to her at the moment, but he shouldn’t be left alone. With Briggan forced into the passive state, Conor needed his friends around him. So did she, for that matter. “We will share a room,” she said firmly.
Princess Song blinked. “All four of you?”
Conor rejoined them. “Yes,” he said, nodding. “That would be good.”
The big Oathbound guard was standing behind Princess Song. “I know of a good room for them, Your Highness,” Brunhild said smoothly. She set off toward another hallway. Abeke, Princess Song, and Conor followed. “Though a prison cell might be the best place for the likes of you Greencloaks,” Abeke heard Brunhild add under her breath.
Abeke came to a sudden stop. Conor crashed into her from behind, but she kept her feet. The Oathbound guard and Princess Song turned to face her.
“I am not one to make threats,” Abeke said quietly. She felt Conor’s warmth behind her; his presence gave her words weight and strength. “So listen well, Oathbound,” she went on. “We are not called the Heroes of Erdas because we spent the Second Devourer War or the struggle against the Wyrm hiding in a bunker. We have fought, and we have lost much, and some of us have suffered in ways you can’t even imagine. You will not say bad things about Conor, or any of the Greencloaks, or you will have me to answer to. Do you understand?”
Brunhild went pasty pale and fell back a step. Her stone viper was nowhere to be seen. “Y-yes,” she stammered. “I understand.”
Beside her, Princess Song raised a finely etched eyebrow. “Clearly, Abeke, you are fierce, just like your leopard spirit animal.” She turned to face the guard, frowning. “These are honorable Greencloaks, Brunhild. Treat them as they deserve. Do you understand?”
Cringing, Brunhild bowed deeply. “Yes, Your Highness.”
Princess Song gave Abeke and Conor an apologetic look. “I beg your forgiveness, young heroes. The Oathbound mean well. There’s been so much destruction and confusion in the last year. And after so long serving as guards, they long to act.”
“It’s all right,” Abeke said. On the one hand, Meilin had been right—the Greencloaks didn’t have the best reputation at the moment, so the Oathbound couldn’t be faulted for their bad attitudes. On the other hand, she thought the Oathbound could bear watching. They might be loyal guards, but it was possible that they could be dangerous, too. And clearly Brunhild did not live up to her name.
WHEN HE’D FIRST JOINED THE GREENCLOAKS, CONOR’S dreams had been powerful, prophetic. On their very first mission, he’d had a dream so vivid it had felt like real life—he had dreamed about Arax the Ram and the path to find him. Later, it had been his
dream that had sent the Greencloaks to Stetriol for the final battle against Gerathon and the Conquerors, a vision that had led them to victory.
Now, every time he closed his eyes, his dreams were filled with black tendrils that reached out and pulled him into a sea of oozing slime. He struggled against the writhing tentacles, but they gripped him firmly, thrusting him toward four red eyes that arose from the darkness and glared malevolently at him. Then a huge, leechlike mouth appeared and gaped wide, revealing rows of triangular teeth dripping with corrosive acid.
The Wyrm!
Its grating shriek filled his head. The spiral mark on his brow amplified the sound until it was everywhere; there were no more Greencloaks, no more friendship or hope or light, no more Conor. He was the Wyrm and the Wyrm was him, and that was all.
The maw of the Wyrm gaped wider. The tendrils dragged him closer.
No! he shouted in his dream, struggling.
“No!”
And then he felt a hand on his arm, and he fought his way out of the oily darkness, opening his eyes to see someone gazing down at him, her brown eyes soft and worried.
Abeke. It was Abeke.
He took a ragged breath that was almost a sob.
“It’s all right,” she said quietly. She was on her knees next to the low bed. He remembered where they were. The room they’d been given was tiny, with one rickety bed, blank stone walls, a narrow slit of a window, and an inch of dust covering everything. In the distance was the sound of hammering—the Citadel being fixed up after years of neglect. Despite the noise, Conor had been so tired after their journey from Greenhaven. He’d sat down on the low bed just for a moment.…
He swallowed, his throat dry and raw as if he’d been shouting.
Maybe he had been. “I must have fallen asleep,” he croaked. Slowly he sat up, leaning his back against a stone wall. It was cold and clammy. A swirl of dust glinted in the dim light that shone through the narrow window.
Abeke shifted to sit next to him. “Another nightmare?”
Conor nodded.
“The Wyrm?” Abeke pressed.
“Yes,” Conor admitted. He reached up to rub the lingering ache in his forehead.
Intercepting his hand, Abeke pushed up his shirtsleeve, exposing the shape of Briggan in his passive state, a dark mark on his pale skin. Then she placed her own arm next to his, the mark of her leopard a swirling spotted shape on her warm brown skin. “We both suffered,” Abeke said. “The Wyrm took Uraza from me, and it took you from yourself.” She stroked a hand over her tattoo as if petting the leopard. “But we came through it. We survived. And we’ll keep surviving. We defeat the Wyrm every day that we go on.”
Conor stared down at the marks of Briggan and Uraza, side by side. Somehow seeing them together made him feel better, even without the comforting feel of Briggan’s rough head under his hand. He thought about how Abeke must feel. Her bond with Uraza had been shattered. And …
“Do you still think about him?” he asked.
“About Shane?” Abeke asked. At Conor’s nod, she went on. “Yes. I’m still not sure how I feel about him. It’s complicated. He betrayed me—more than once. I fought a duel against him, and it was the angriest I’ve ever been in my entire life. But he died saving me when Zerif forced Uraza to attack.” She shook her head sadly. “Shane was my first friend.” She leaned closer and looked into Conor’s eyes. He saw wisdom in her face, and hope. “But you are my truest friend.”
Conor wasn’t sure what to say. As someone who had worn the Wyrm’s mark on his forehead, did he deserve a friend like Abeke? He was saved from having to respond when the door banged open and Meilin and Rollan strode into the room.
And stopped short, looking around.
“This is where they put us?” Rollan asked. “A closet?”
Meilin ran a finger over the sill of the narrow window. It came away coated with dust. “I see they got it ready for us.” She pointed at the bed. “Are those sheets clean?”
“Probably not,” Abeke said, getting to her feet. The bed creaked alarmingly as she stood up. “What have you two been doing for all this time?”
“Oh, you know, waiting for Essix,” Rollan answered. He tapped his chest as a way of telling them the falcon had finally gone into the dormant state. He leaned against the wall as if he was tired, then slid bonelessly to the floor. “Also we spent some time being glared at by those Oathbound guards. And we did some sparring.” He nodded at Meilin. “She kicked my butt.”
“As usual,” Meilin said primly.
“I tried to get her to teach me that throw-the-sword-in-the-air thing she did out there by the gate,” Rollan said. “You saw it?”
Abeke and Conor nodded. It had been an amazing move.
“Yeah, well,” Rollan went on with a wry grin, “when I tried it I almost cut my own hand off.”
Meilin’s smug smile turned into a frown as she looked around the room, hands on her hips. “You know, I think this room could be a message for us.” Reaching behind her, she closed the door. She crouched on the floor, and the others leaned closer to hear what she would say. “Listen, there’s something very strange going on here.” Meilin spoke in a near whisper. “It’s supposed to be an important meeting of the leaders of the four lands, but it seems as if the Greencloaks are barely tolerated. And they really don’t like our spirit animals.”
Conor nodded. From everything he’d seen in the Citadel, this was true.
“Brunhild—who isn’t very merry, by the way—gave us some more trouble on our way here,” Abeke put in.
“Not surprising. The Greencloaks have a complicated history,” Meilin reminded them. “But even with that, it’s weird.”
“Maybe we got too comfortable being heroes,” Conor said quietly.
Meilin watched him for a moment, her dark eyes pitying. “Maybe,” she said, nodding. “But I have to wonder: If they dislike us so much—if they don’t believe we are truly heroes—then why did they invite us and the other Greencloaks to the Citadel? What is really going on here?”
BEFORE THE OTHERS WERE AWAKE, MEILIN SLIPPED OUT of their tiny room. It was located high in a crumbling tower of the Euran wing of the Citadel. As she descended the spiral staircase, she stretched her arms over her head and worked the kinks out of her back. She had asked the servants for more sleeping pallets, but they’d been little more than thin pads laid over the hard stone floor of the tower room. She didn’t want to be stiff and sore if they had challenges to face while they were here.
A few brown-clad servants eyed Meilin as she crossed the entrance hall on the way to the Zhongese part of the Citadel. At those doors, she was stopped by an Oathbound guard, who looked her over suspiciously. Meilin had been well trained as a warrior and as the daughter of a general. She knew how to give orders that would be obeyed. After fixing the Oathbound with a regal glare, he bowed and admitted her. She wanted to talk to Song. The imperial princess had helped the four Greencloaks at the gate. If Meilin was right and something strange was going on, then she might be a valuable ally.
As Meilin stepped from the dusty, echoey entrance hall into the Zhongese section of the Citadel, she paused for a moment, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. The air was scented with tea and jasmine incense and boiled rice. Smelling it, she felt a sudden, fierce homesickness. It was accompanied by a wave of sorrow for her father, killed on a battlefield during the Second Devourer War.
She and Rollan had been on their way to Jano Rion, the city she’d grown up in, when they’d received the summons from Olvan. They would go back someday soon; maybe Abeke and Conor would come, too.
Opening her eyes, Meilin went on. The Zhongese servants must have been hard at work, for there was no dust in this part of the Citadel, and a glistening carpet covered the stone floor of the passageway. A servant hurried before her, then opened a wooden door carved with Zhongese water dragons, ushering her into a big, bright room hung with embroidered tapestries. The furniture was made of black-lacquered wood and wa
s draped with jewel-toned silk and plump pillows with tassels at every corner. Seated before a low table was Princess Song. A girl stood behind her, putting a last pin into her gleaming black hair.
“Meilin!” the princess exclaimed, jumping to her feet.
Meilin bowed, keeping her face blank. “Your Highness.”
Song gestured at the maidservant. “Tea, at once.”
To her chagrin, Meilin’s stomach growled, loudly. She hadn’t had breakfast yet.
“And bring spiced buns,” the princess added smoothly, “and some fruit.” She seated herself at the low table. “Won’t you join me?”
Meilin sat down, feeling uncharacteristically awkward as her sheathed sword bumped the table. The princess was so tiny, so perfect and delicate in her exquisitely embroidered robes. Song wasn’t wearing green today, Meilin noted, but purple and deep blue.
“We have met before, haven’t we?” Princess Song asked.
Meilin was surprised she remembered it. “Yes, Your Highness. Once. Briefly. A long time ago.” Her father had been reporting to the emperor, bringing six-year-old Meilin with him so she could see the vast palaces. A few years older, Princess Song had been like a painted doll. The two girls had played stiffly and politely with the princess’s toys, tiny perfect houses with tiny perfect people. Meilin had been reminded of those toys not that long ago when she and her Greencloak friends had gone to the artificially preserved village of Samis in pursuit of the Crystal Polar Bear of Suka.
“I have admired you for a long time,” Princess Song said softly.
Meilin swallowed her surprise and called on her lessons in etiquette. One of the main things she had been taught was to conceal her emotions, to be always calm, self-possessed. She raised her eyebrows. “Indeed?” she said carefully.
“Yes.” Song fell silent as the servant girl set tea and food on the table and then left the room. “You are a brave and skilled warrior. I know how difficult it is for a Zhongese girl to study the martial arts.” She leaned over the table and touched the edge of Meilin’s cloak. “And to become a true warrior, as you are. A Greencloak. I have to admit that I envy you.”
Heart of the Land Page 2
