by Jeff Wheeler
The light was now totally vanquished by the haboub. It had scarcely been past noon and now it was as dark as midnight. Paedrin had never seen such a transformation in so short a time. He shook his head in surprise, grateful he had his second sight. Closing his eyes, he could sense where everyone was sitting. It was like seeing ghost-shapes in his mind, and he could tell who was who by their posture and size. Hettie hugged her knees, resting her cheek on her arm. He wished he was sitting closer to her. She looked like she needed comforting. He was grateful Kiranrao was farther from her than he was.
“Of all the lands I have visited,” Paedrin said, “I’ve decided that I don’t want to live here.”
“Where then? Silvandom?”
“No. Nor Kenatos either. I feel a duty to restore the Shatalin temple. There may be some Kishion to evict, but that craggy mountain is calling to me. The lessons must be taught again.”
“Will you only allow Bhikhu? Or maybe I should be more precise. Vaettir-born?”
“I will teach any who wish to learn,” Paedrin answered.
“I would be very interested,” Baylen said. “I’m not sure I will ever be able to float . . . no matter how much I hold my breath.”
“I’d welcome you there. You have no wish to return to Alkire?”
“I was orphaned in Kenatos. What I’ve heard is it’s smoky, cold, and a place you’d get lung rot. They’ve always craved a better climate and offered to help rid the woods of the Preachán to claim a better land. They’ll pay for it, over time. The Preachán won’t stay defeated.”
“I’ve been to Havenrook,” Paedrin said distastefully. “It will take many years to make that place livable again.”
“Cruithne are patient.”
Paedrin found the conversation had helped calm his nerves. He was grateful to Baylen for instigating it. “You said that when you were a boy, Aboujaoude helped you. What was the situation?”
Baylen sniffed loudly. The air was thick with dust. The camels moaned with discomfort outside. “It’s of no consequence.”
“Tell me.”
“You’ll probably be disappointed. It’s not much of a tale.”
“Your reluctance to tell me only heightens my anticipation. It must involve a girl.”
Baylen snorted.
Paedrin lowered his voice. “I hit the mark then. Tell me. There is nowhere else we are going to go.”
“I’ll preface it by saying that I was very young . . .”
“And she was higher than your station. Let me guess . . . the daughter of a—”
“Baker. Yes, the daughter of a baker.” Baylen’s voice was very low. “Not nobility, surely. I was one of the many urchins who roamed the streets. But there was this baker’s shop. We would all smell it when we passed by. I could see her in the window. She was a tiny thing . . . probably six.”
“Six?”
“I was eight. Don’t let your imagination run wild.”
“I’m sorry. Go on.”
“She had long blond hair full of curls. She always had a serious look on her face. Aeduan girl . . . very pretty. She was the pride of the baker. You could see it in his eyes.” His voice was still low, but Paedrin could hear the memories seeping into the telling. “I was just a child, but I was hungry. Not just for the bread. I hungered for what she had. A family. I just wanted to be inside that bakery. I daydreamed that when I got older, I would carry sacks of flour for the family. I would sweep the stoop. I just wanted to be part of it, in some small way. I don’t think that little girl ever noticed me staring through the window.” His voice trailed off.
“The leader of my little band of urchins . . . he was a rough fellow from Stonehollow. His name was Drew. He was big . . . bigger than me though I was still stout for my age. I think he saw me looking in that window, over and over. He had a bit of cruelty to him, let’s say. One stormy day, when we were hungry and hadn’t found anything we could trade for bread, he suggested we rob that bakery.” He sighed heavily. “We had done that now and then, when we were desperate to eat. But I couldn’t stomach it. Not that bakery. Not where the little girl lived. To them, it was just another bullying. But I think Drew knew how I felt—at some level. He told me to do it.”
Paedrin inhaled deeply. “I’m waiting for the part when Aboujaoude comes. This is even more interesting without him so far. What did you do?”
“I said no. I couldn’t bring myself to injure that family, to taint what I saw behind the window glass. Drew was four years older than me. The others were on his side. I knew I wouldn’t be able to win that fight. Drew knew it too. Let’s just say that before I was on the ground being kicked in the street, I had broken one of Drew’s teeth, knocked two others into the mud, and almost had my fourth before one of them hit my head. I just remember splashing in that puddle of mud while they were kicking me. It didn’t even really hurt. I remember being so, so tired and wanting to sleep. That’s when Aboujaoude found me.” There was a grim chuckle. “I believe he dislocated Drew’s shoulder. Something about pain being a teacher. Then he cleaned me up and helped me to one of the Rike’s orphanages, where I learned to read, to watch, and to fight.”
Baylen chuffed to himself. “I’ve never told anyone that story before. Now, I know what you’re going to ask. Did I ever go back and meet that girl in the bakery. Yes. Her name is Marae and she runs the bakery herself now. Her father is a bit old, but he still helps out. Her husband’s name is Drew.”
Paedrin started. “Really?”
A chuckle sounded. “I made that part up. Sorry. She is married, and I don’t know her husband’s name. I don’t really care what it is. I buy my bread from that bakery. She smiles at me when I come in, and I always buy the biggest loaves and pay a little extra. Before I left Kenatos to hunt you and Hettie in Lydi, I bought one last loaf. She had a little baby girl in her arms and introduced me to her. I knew that I would never be going back to Kenatos again. But if anything I do can help stop the Plague from returning . . . if that little baby can grow up in a world where there is no Plague . . . well, I’ll take that instead of gold any day.”
“So you never told her how you felt?” Paedrin asked, his emotions struck by the story he had heard.
“Of course not,” Baylen replied. His voice pitched even lower. “For the same reason Khiara doesn’t utter a word about her feelings for Aran. Marae’s happiness is worth more to me than my own.”
Paedrin could see that Baylen truly had observed his companions. He had been watching them all, and Paedrin wondered—a bit uncomfortably—what Baylen had concluded about Hettie and him.
“So it’s not just about helping out Tyrus and a debt owed to a Bhikhu.”
Baylen chuckled. “There are always two reasons we do anything, Paedrin. The real reason and the one that sounds good to everyone else.”
“Well, since you can’t return to Kenatos when this is finished—though I see no reason you won’t be able to, since we will defeat the Plague and we will overthrow the Arch-Rike—you can visit Shatalin whenever you choose. It will take some time to get the temple ready for students. But you are welcome to be part of that family regardless. The strongest bonds come from families—those we are born into and those we choose.”
The keening wind was growing even louder. “It sounds like someone is crying,” Paedrin observed, more loudly. “It’s almost human.”
“It is not human,” Khiara said in a warning voice. With his new sight, Paedrin saw her stand across the other side of the tent.
“Are we missing anyone?” Tyrus demanded. “Did everyone come inside?”
Paedrin glanced around, quickly accounting for everyone. “We are all here, Tyrus, even the drovers.”
“The sound is coming from a beast . . . I can hear it,” Khiara said. “It’s been getting closer and louder. Sounds like no creature I have heard before.”
Quieting everyone with a hu
sh, Paedrin listened to the sound of the wind and sure enough he could discern a howling sound. It was like the yowling of a cat, though much deeper, and caused a chill through his heart.
“I hear it,” Paedrin said.
“So do I,” Prince Aran added.
“Do you want me to go out there and kill it?” Kiranrao grumbled from behind another stack of goods. “It may draw others toward us.”
“Stay inside,” Tyrus said, dropping his voice to a hush. “Draw near me. The storm blinds it. Be still.”
The sound of the creature was now loud enough for all of them to hear it. It cut through the moaning wind that lashed at the taut ropes and canvas. It pierced the darkness, defying them to describe the creature by its howl alone.
“What kind of beast is it, Tyrus?” Paedrin asked.
“Hush,” Tyrus snapped.
The drovers started to moan with fear. They were beginning to understand the danger, that they were much closer to the Scourgelands than they had perceived. “Away . . . we must away,” one of them babbled.
“Makapenrinee,” whispered another drover, his eyes widening with recognition.
Light filled the tent as Tyrus’s hands glowed blue with flames.
“The scars of others should teach us caution.”
- Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
XIV
Do you sense it? Annon asked Nizeera, reaching out and plunging his fingers into her fur. He did not want to reach out to it with his talisman, for fear of attracting the creature to them. What creature is it?
It is a Vecser, came her response. They are vicious hunters and can smell blood and flesh. It is blind to us because of the storm. They hunt in packs.
As if to reinforce her thoughts, the sound of another came, even farther away. The first was drawing near to the tent and they could hear the crunch of the sand as it approached.
Tyrus’s face had a grayish cast in the flame light of his fingers, his eyes fixed on the tent door. Were their enemies already prowling the borders of the Scourgelands, seeking them? Would they even be able to approach the woods unseen?
A thought came to Annon’s mind—a quick memory of his time in Basilides. He wore an iron torc around his neck, a device imbued with magic that had banished the serpents inside the lair. It repelled any animal, including his friend. Nizeera felt his thoughts and her hackles rose, her ears flattening, and she hissed at him.
Annon reached out and took Tyrus’s wrist to get his attention without speaking. He motioned to the torc around his neck, offering it as an alternative to using the fireblood so soon. Tyrus examined his gesture and then nodded curtly.
Closing his eyes, Annon withdrew inside himself and uttered the word in his mind that activated the torc—Iddawc. The torc had jewels embedded into each end and he felt their warmth begin to flush his neck as they responded to the thought. Waves of mental blackness extended from him, and Nizeera squirmed away, her mind repulsed by the fear emanating from the torc. She skulked in the corner of the tent, as far away from him as she could, hackles raised.
The screeching sound of the beast outside changed instantly. The baying stopped. The ferocity of the sandstorm increased, but not because of the magic the Druidecht wore around his neck. He felt the twin orbs pulsing against his skin, becoming unbearably hot. Annon mastered the pain, determined to keep the dark creature at bay. He clenched his fists and hugged himself, exerting his mind to endure the heat. Sweat trickled down his face with the effort. He did not like the black shroud preventing him from feeling Nizeera’s thoughts.
After several long moments, Tyrus signaled for him to stop. He gratefully relinquished control of the magic and the stones began to cool instantly. The shroud passed away and he felt Nizeera’s mind again, quavering with fear and anger that he had summoned its power.
“Well done,” Tyrus said.
“I would have killed it easily enough,” Kiranrao said petulantly. “Next time, send me to do such work.”
Tyrus turned and looked at the Romani solemnly. “That was a Vecser, Kiranrao. The plural is Vecses, as they hunt in packs. It was trying to get our scent. They are different from Weir . . . more like dogs than cats. Their hinds are lean, like a greyhound, but their chests are massive and their jaws lock tight. They have long tails with a pod-like sac on the ends. I did not want it getting our scent yet. Annon’s suggestion avoided the confrontation.”
Kiranrao leaned forward, his jaw jutting arrogantly. “Tyrus, you are as fearful as a child. I could feel it all the way over here. If you could only see yourself. We haven’t even entered the Scourgelands yet and you are already trembling.”
Annon felt a surge of anger at Kiranrao’s words. He had noticed the tremor in Tyrus’s hand as well, but he would never have stated it as nakedly as Kiranrao had.
“Of course I am terrified,” Tyrus replied, a half smirk on his mouth. “I know what we are about to face. I know the dangers far better than you. Trust me, Kiranrao. Even you will face your fears when we enter. Even you.”
The Romani snorted. “I fear nothing. You lacked the proper weapons when you last ventured in there.”
“We will see.”
Annon did not like the tension filling the tent. He watched the two men stare at each other, wrestling with their expressions instead of words, their faces illuminated by the flames in Tyrus’s hands. Kiranrao rolled over against the pile of provisions, turning his back on them all.
Annon breathed easier when he did.
A firm hand jostled Annon’s shoulder, rousing him from his sleep. “The storm is easing. We will go.” It was Tyrus.
Annon rubbed his eyes, his neck stiff and his legs cramped from the awkward position inside the tent. The others were coming awake as well and the tent door flapped open in the breeze. Annon stood and stretched and tried to speak to Nizeera, but she was still angry with him and skulked out of the tent ahead of him. Ducking his head to pass through the flap, he saw the air had a strange greenish cast to it, still full of dust, but the visibility was much improved. The wall of the storm was ahead of them now and the amount of sand that had built up around the tent wall was surprising. The camels were hacking and snorting, their hides thick with dust and sand, and several rebuffed the drovers who were trying to tend them.
Craning his neck, Annon stared up at the sky and saw that the sun had already faded into twilight.
Tyrus emerged from the tent and tossed a water bladder to Annon. “Fill your pack with provisions, as much as you can safely carry. There will be no other food inside the Scourgelands. We’re going tonight.”
“Why not wait until sunrise?” Annon asked, brushing the dust from his sleeve. The drovers were beginning to load the camels with burdens.
“A thought,” Tyrus replied, approaching him. “That sandstorm is blowing directly toward the Scourgelands. It will lose its fury when it reaches the trees, but if we approach from behind it—”
“Then it will shield us from the gaze of those who watch the borders,” Annon said, realizing it. He chuckled to himself. Tyrus was a cunning man. “You are right. And approaching by night will also help hide us.”
“Precisely. I thought the storm would delay us, but actually it comes as a boon. It was impenetrable, remember? The darkness lasted for a long time before the storm blew past us. The drovers know we are close to the borders of the Scourgelands. The presence of the Vecses tells me that Shirikant is watching the borders closely for us. Let’s take advantage of the storm to slip inside unnoticed.”
“I didn’t realize we were that close,” Annon said nervously.
“We are,” Tyrus said, and then motioned for him to return to the tent and fetch food for the journey. Annon did so, stuffing his pack with dried meats and fruits, nuts, and seeds. The Boeotians did not make things like cheeses or breads. Their fare was hunted or collected among the roots or other edible plants that
were unfamiliar to Annon. He missed Dame Nestra’s bread and honey, wishing selfishly that he could borrow the Tay al-Ard for just a moment to return to Wayland and fetch some for them. He longed for the simple Druidecht life he had left behind when he had chosen to answer Tyrus’s summons.
Annon secured the straps of his pack and shouldered it. There was still plenty of food left behind, and Tyrus gave instructions to the drovers to take it back along the path they had come from. He described a rock formation that he had pointed out to them earlier, one with a distinctive tower-like structure that stood above the rest. He instructed the drovers to leave the food there and that it would be used after their quest was finished. The drovers glanced at each other and looked at Tyrus in wary disbelief. Annon could see that they did not believe any of them would survive. But they agreed to do as they were bid out of loyalty to the Empress.
Tyrus explained his plan to the others and they set off into the darkening night. The storm had left so much dust in the air that the stars were invisible. The heat from the day was still oppressive, even though the sun had set. Annon trudged through the sandy dunes and noticed Hettie scouting ahead. She stopped and studied the series of tracks left by the Vecses. Crouching by them, she gazed at the shape and followed the trail a short distance.
Annon approached her. “I wish I had your skill,” he muttered softly. “Are those even tracks at all?”
Hettie looked up at him and nodded. “Heavy creatures, judging by the depth of the prints. These are still fresh. See how their tails drag behind it, like this? I’ve never seen such tracks before.”
Her eyes showed her alarm and unease. He knelt and gripped her shoulder. “Be careful, Hettie. Just promise me you’ll be careful.”
She could have said the same thing in return, but she did not. They stared at each other, feeling a sudden surge of intense emotions. Their mother had been pregnant when she had ventured into the Scourgelands. Eighteen years ago, under a similar starlit sky. Annon and Hettie were children of the Scourgelands in a way. The thought sent a black chill through him. They both rose and Hettie gave him a quick, forceful hug.
