by Kaleb Nation
"Run, Astara!" Bran shouted, hearing the pistol clatter to the floor.
She dove to the side, and Bran didn’t hesitate a second, reaching his hand toward the gun, pulling it toward him; but the second his mind touched it, a hand seized it up.
"Don’t move!" Elspeth shouted, and he froze, his hand still out. And as suddenly as it had begun, all chaos ceased.
She was on the other side of the bed, Astara in front of her and standing painfully still—for in Elspeth’s hand was the pistol, and its end was touching the side of Astara’s head. Astara’s eyes were wide. Elspeth’s other hand tightened around the side of her head like claws.
"If you move," Elspeth said, "I pull this trigger, and she dies."
She pushed the pistol closer, deeper, and Astara’s head was forced to the side with the pressure on her skull. Elspeth’s fingers made indentions in Astara’s cheek. Bran felt his hand wavering in front of him, shaking as he looked at Astara. In a second, his mind released, caressing the bullet inside the pistol, feeling it. Could he stop it? Would he risk it? Astara met his gaze. There was fear behind her eyes, and it dug into Bran’s heart. She was afraid to die. Very slowly, Elspeth’s finger tightened on the trigger.
"All right," Bran finally said, dropping his hand to his side. "Don’t kill her."
Elspeth smiled. "You are just like your mother."
She gestured toward the bed with her head, "Now touch his hand, and it will all be over."
Bran looked at the body on the bed. It filled his entire being with dread, fear, horror…every terrible feeling at once. He felt as if he was being pushed from it by a magnet, repelling him; but at the same time, another part of him being pulled closer, almost sliding him off his feet in its direction.
"Touch your hand to his," Elspeth demanded, her tone hardening.
Bran hesitated, unable to move. Elspeth let out an impatient sigh, and she glanced at Marcus. He came forward, and with the back of his hand, slapped Astara across her face, so that she screamed in pain.
"No!" Bran said, but when he moved toward her, Craig blocked the way, a cruel smile on his lips. Elspeth wrenched Astara’s arms back further, holding them apart.
"Touch his hand," she hissed. Astara pleaded with her eyes, trying to tell Bran not to do it.
"Touch Baslyn’s hand," Elspeth spoke again, and Bran felt as if her voice was just an echo.
"Bran, don’t do it!" Astara screamed all of a sudden, struggling to get free. But Elspeth only pulled her closer, pressing her hand over her mouth. She screamed and fought, but Bran could do nothing. He pushed against Craig, but the man only stood there like a wall.
"Now," Elspeth commanded him, the pistol in her hand not falling for an instant.
Astara only fought all the more, her arms held tight; Joris and the bald men stood to the side, emotionless. Elspeth looked to Marcus again, and he hit Astara across her face a second time.
"Wait!" Bran shouted, trying to get past Craig. But the man only stood there, pushing Bran back, laughing brutally as he did. Joris looked at Bran, his teeth tight together, and there were tears of pain in Astara’s eyes as blood ran down the edges of her lips. She was crying, and Elspeth pressed the gun to her head even harder, digging it into her skull.
"Please, don’t hurt her anymore," Bran said, his voice breaking. "I’ll do it."
Bran couldn’t bear to look at Astara any longer, and Craig pushed him toward the bed. His hands shook as he turned toward Baslyn’s body, fighting the dread within him. He looked down into Baslyn’s face, so dead and empty. Every part of Bran’s soul cried out, screaming to make him leave. As he looked at Baslyn’s corpse, he felt as if something he had swallowed was trying to be free, rushing around inside of him to get out. He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them, his hand trembled, shaking as it moved slowly to Baslyn’s palm… hesitantly, the seconds ticking by like decades…
His hand came closer and closer, until it was right above Baslyn’s own—his skin bathed in the whiteness of the light above.
"Do it," Elspeth said in a whisper.
And he did.
And the moment his skin touched with Baslyn’s, he felt a rush inside.
Chapter 32
The Spirit Awakens
It jerked from him, pulling and quickening all at once — electrifying, as if something was born inside of him, a weight flying from his shoulders. And in that same second, Baslyn’s hand jumped and grabbed Bran’s in his own.
Bran gasped, and he heard Baslyn gasp also, pulling the air in deep. He clutched Bran’s fingers tightly, squeezing so hard that Bran felt his bones grinding against one another. Bran bent over with pain, and suddenly, Baslyn’s eyes opened.
"Baslyn!" Elspeth said in a startled breath. Bran looked at Baslyn and saw his face: his eyes open, his skin white…but now, alive.
All of a sudden, Baslyn shoved Bran away. Bran fell backward, hitting the cold floor, and in an instant, Baslyn’s shadow was over him. Bran looked up and saw his face, blocking the light.
"You deserve to die, Bran," Baslyn said with a sudden fury, looking as if he was about to lash out at Bran with rage.
"I have done nothing but defend myself," Bran said.
"You have done nothing at all," Baslyn spat, "except cause trouble since the moment I allowed your mother to bring you into this world."
"I kept you alive," Bran said. "Isn’t that enough?"
"You kept me a prisoner," Baslyn hissed and he took a step forward.
Bran fought the urge to edge away as Baslyn came closer, his shadow falling over him—a powerful, real shadow.
"If it wasn’t for you," Baslyn said. "I would have had no reason to hide."
He turned his back on Bran, his shadow sweeping over the floor.
"Elspeth, Joris." Baslyn nodded at each of them and then turned to the other two men.
"Craig and Marcus," he said. "I see you have stayed behind with me."
He turned again, toward the door, where Shambles was lurking in the darkness. The moment Baslyn’s eyes met with his, Shambles began to tremble.
"Shambles," Baslyn said, "you’ve finally come to see me."
Shambles trembled, and Baslyn nodded. "If it wasn’t for you, they never would have found the boy, and for that you deserve a reward."
He glanced at Elspeth, and she jerked her wand out, slinging it across, almost as if to hit Shambles from far away. In the same instant, Shambles was knocked from his feet, and his head hit the wall with a sickening thud.
"Look: your magic is just as good as when I left you," Baslyn said to Elspeth. Blood dripped from the side of Shambles’s head. Baslyn began to walk away as if Bran didn’t even exist.
"Baslyn!" Bran said, and he stopped. He turned slowly but only stared at Bran.
"Should she punish you as well?" he asked, spitting the words out. Bran clenched his teeth.
"You’ve lost," Baslyn said, opening his hands. "It is the end. They brought you here, just like I said from the beginning."
He leaned forward, close to Bran, lowering his voice.
"It’s over," he said. He held his gaze, then gestured to Elspeth.
"We’re keeping the two of them," he said.
"We have a warded room," she replied in a low voice.
"You’re a step ahead of me then," Baslyn said. "Put them inside and we’ll see if they can think of a way to escape."
Craig took Bran’s arm, and he didn’t fight, watching as Baslyn and Elspeth stepped through the door, and he heard Shambles weeping on the floor.
Bran and Astara were escorted to the main room and to the door on the right. With a sudden movement, Craig shoved Bran forward. He tripped and fell onto the carpet of the room, and Marcus pushed Astara in beside him.
"We’ll check to see your progress later tonight," Craig said with a sneer. "Try the windows first—we’re at the top of the highest building in Farfield, and it’s a long drop."
He laughed, slamming the door. Bran let his breath out. He f
elt tired all of a sudden, as if all his strength had finally left him, and he could fight no more.
"Bran?" he heard Astara’s voice in the darkness. He searched the floor, sliding his hands across the carpet until he found hers. He grasped them tightly and pulled her closer.
"Are you all right?" he asked, unable to see her in the dark.
"I’m still here," she said, her voice low and close to his ear. He heard her voice crack.
"I tried, Bran," she whispered, her voice breaking again. "I really did."
"No, it’s over now," Bran said, comforting her. "It’s not your fault."
She shook her head. "No, Bran, back at the bookstore," she said. "I tried to use magic, to catch the bullet before it hit Adi. I had it for a second, but I think I was too late."
There was such deep sadness in her voice that Bran felt a sting through his heart. He moved next to her and pressed his back against the wall, and they were silent, letting the darkness drown them out. It was very cold, and Bran shivered. He felt Astara trembling next to him, though he couldn’t tell if it was because of the cold or the fear he knew she was hiding.
"I thought I could get to you and help you escape," Bran said. "I guess I couldn’t. Maybe if I had been more careful, they wouldn’t have followed me to the bookstore in the first place."
The darkness took over again, and slowly, Bran began to make out shapes in the room. He could see a large table beside a dresser against the wall, and the door to a closet. He saw a window that had thick curtains covering it, and he stood and moved for it.
He slid the curtains aside and looked down. He had to take a step backward at the sudden sight below. As his eyes fell upon the people and the cars, like little toys down below, he began to feel dizzy. All the buildings were lit with bright windows. He let the curtains fall again. His entire being felt so tired…
"Astara, why did you even care at all?" he asked abruptly. He turned from the window, sitting down next to her. "You could have left me alone to solve this by myself a long time ago—or never even helped me in the first place."
She was silent for a while. He knew she was troubled, fearful for her life and on the brink of despair.
"I guess I knew you needed me," she said simply.
Bran took a deep breath, because he knew it was the truth. He never would have made it that far without her.
"We’ve got to keep going," he whispered. She closed her eyes, and to him it almost seemed that Astara, for the first time since he had met her, had lost all hope. It pained him to see her that way, and he felt powerless because he had no means to comfort her.
As he leaned against the wall, unable to say much more, he slowly began to hear faint noises vibrating behind him, so that in the dead silence of the room he thought he could almost make out voices. He turned slightly, craning his neck to the source of the sound, feeling the rough plaster of the wall with his fingertips as he listened.
"Do you hear that?" he whispered.
Astara nodded quickly. Bran pressed his ear to the wall, and Astara did the same, sliding softly to find the best place, their breath slowing so they could hear better. For a few moments Bran didn’t hear much, but he finally found a part of the wall that seemed to be less muffled, so that when he pressed against it, he could just barely make out what they were saying in the next room.
"Over here," Bran said, and Astara slid closer, pressing her ear to the spot beside him. Bran concentrated hard on the sounds, trying to make words from them.
"I don’t care about you," Joris was saying, anger in his voice. "I don’t care about the boy or any of this. I’ve held up my end of the deal, and now I want my investment back."
"Your investment is irrevocable," Baslyn hissed. "There is no refund to the amount you have put into the Project. Farfield is not yet complete."
Joris seemed to be mulling over this, for he did not speak for a few moments.
"I tire of Farfield," Joris said strongly. "Where has it gotten us? Where has it gotten me?" He let an angered breath out. Have you no concept of the life I could have had if I had never once fallen for your scheme?"
"You entered the deal willingly," Baslyn said, his voice plain and controlled. "You entered it with the risks. You entered it with the chance of benefits."
"I see no reason not to kill the boy now and leave this place," Joris hissed. Bran’s eyes met with Astara’s, a clear look of panic crossing both of their faces at Joris’s words.
"You know the powers he holds," Joris continued. "You know them just as well as I do. Why risk a second time when he could be another Emry?"
The room beyond was left to such clear, angry quiet that Bran almost felt that they were finished talking. Baslyn said nothing in return, his silence seeming to anger Joris more.
"My promised benefits have yet to be reaped," Joris finally hissed. "We made a deal—"
"The deal has changed, Joris," Baslyn cut him off. The room was again abandoned to silence, as Joris seemed to think over Baslyn’s words.
"We will see," Joris said, his voice low enough that Bran almost didn’t catch it, and then he heard the door of the other room opening roughly. Bran and Astara pushed from the wall.
"What are we going to do, Bran?" Astara asked.
"I don’t think there is much we can do," Bran said, as he heard the door from behind the wall close with a darkly resounding thud.
Nearly an hour passed in silence before their door was flung open.
Bran and Astara looked up, squinting in the light from the doorway. It was Craig.
"Come with me, Bran," he commanded.
Bran arose, and Craig locked the door again. Bran saw Marcus at a desk, a briefcase open beside him. He loaded some equipment into it and started for the elevator. Craig came to the next door over and pulled it open, gesturing inside.
"He’s waiting," Craig said, and Bran mustered up his strength and stepped through. The door closed behind him, and the light disappeared. Bran was left in deep darkness, but as he looked around, his breath was taken away.
On the far half of the room, the walls were lined with glass windows, with hardly a space between them. Bran could see over the edge of the building, all across the city, the lights sprawling below. It was a dazzling sight in the darkness, the room dimly lit by the reflection. Outside the windows in front was a concrete ledge long enough for a helicopter to land, and high above, through the glass, he could see the shape of the moon. It was a crescent, just like his necklace, though seconds later black clouds drew over it again, choking its light away.
In front of the windows was a desk, the top of it shining like a dark mirror. Bran swallowed hard when he saw Baslyn’s hand on the side of the chair behind it, the back turned to him.
"Come in, Bran," he heard Baslyn’s voice say. "Sit down."
Bran hesitated but knew it was too late to fight now. With slow steps, he crossed the room and came to one of the chairs. He forced himself to sit across from Baslyn.
The chair turned after a few moments of silence, and Baslyn looked at him closely. Bran tore his eyes from the face, not willing to look at him any longer.
"Can you not look at me without feeling remorse?" Baslyn asked, catching Bran by surprise.
"It is a horrible face," Bran clenched his teeth. "You are the reason for all that happened."
"And what do you believe happened?" Baslyn asked him.
"Everything," Bran said, not hesitating for a moment as the anger welled up within him. "My mother’s death. Astara, Adi, me — all of it." He slammed his fist on the desk with anger. He looked away, even though he could feel his eyes upon him. There was silence between them, and neither of them moved, until Baslyn reached to the side for a smooth glass cup and poured some clear water into it.
"Would you care for anything to drink?" he asked.
Bran kept silent.
"I don’t believe you’ve had anything to drink for a long while," Baslyn said. "In fact, you haven’t slept for a long while as well." He poured t
he water. "Nor have you done much of anything, except run from everything."
"I haven’t run from anything," Bran said, looking up. "I have looked for answers to questions that have haunted me all my life."
"And you were surprised," Baslyn said, "when you found that I was the answer."
Bran looked down.
"Are you sure you don’t want anything?" Baslyn asked again. Bran finally reached for the cup, drinking it down furiously as his thirst overtook him. He set it down, and Baslyn filled it again, and Bran drank it until it was empty. When he had finished, Baslyn smiled contentedly. They were silent for a long while, Baslyn watching him closely. It made Bran feel uncomfortable, but he tried to ignore it, knowing that Baslyn was trying to break him.
"You are much like your mother, you know," Baslyn started, and Bran’s gaze met with his.
"You want to save the world, to make up for crimes you didn’t commit." Baslyn leaned forward. "You want to be the hero—to right her wrongs."
Baslyn’s words had been unexpected, because inside, Bran knew they were true.
"I wonder," Baslyn said, "if you’ve ever seen what your mother looked like?"
Bran’s heart skipped a beat. Without thinking, he leaned forward, eager to hear more. Baslyn caught the movement, and Bran forced himself back again.
"I-it doesn’t matter," Bran said, trying to act as if he didn’t care, but it was too late.
"Oh, but it does," Baslyn insisted. "You thirst for it. It eats at you every day."
Bran tried to show nothing through his face, but he knew he couldn’t hide it.
"When I first saw her, I could hardly believe that someone such as her could be so intelligent," Baslyn went on. "She was so young at the time…"
Baslyn moved his hand, and it distracted Bran’s gaze. Very swiftly, Baslyn slid something across the table: it was a solid white wand all the way to the tip, cold and reflective like glassy snow, and on the back end of it was a long, jagged blue crystal, shaped almost like a knife There was something ancient about it. Wrapped around the sharp crystal were molded shapes of two solid white tigers, their mouths open as if attacking each other, holding the crystal between their fangs. Baslyn gently touched the tip to the side of the cup, and it gave a small ring.
