Reaping the Aurora

by Joshua Palmatier

  It didn’t keep her comment from sounding like a grumbled excuse from a child.

  “Even if you allowed the people to see the new crystal or we contrived some demonstration with the University mentors and the Wielders,” Hernande said into the silence, “it won’t quell Dalton’s supporters completely. None of it will come across as a practical solution to Dalton’s challenge: the healing of the ley. As we said before, the people need something visual, something for them to remember and hold on to that relates directly to repairing the system.”

  “We aren’t ready to heal the distortion over Tumbor. We’ve barely even begun to work with the new crystal. We’ve only tested a few new alignments.”

  “But you’ll be able to heal it soon?” Ty asked.

  Kara hesitated. She couldn’t tell if the taste of bile at the back of her throat was from Ty’s question or because she was already uneasy. “We should be able to heal it once we’ve settled on the best orientation for the node and figured out how to use the mentors to set up reservoirs of ley here at the Needle.”

  “So we only need to hold off Dalton and his followers until then.” Ty rapped his knuckles on the table as if that had settled everything and turned to go.

  But Hernande said quietly, “There is another option.”

  Ty halted halfway across the room, the orbs of the orrery bright above him. “What?”

  “We could let Dalton speak.”

  Ty barked out laughter. “It you let him speak, it will only make things worse.” Then he left.

  Marcus turned to the others. “I’m headed to the Nexus.”

  Kara waved him out. He trailed after Ty.

  “Do you really think we should let Dalton speak again? Look at how much damage he did just once.”

  “Can he do any more damage by speaking than is already being done by keeping him silent? Besides, if he’s right about the Gorrani attacking from the south, then perhaps we should hear what more he has to say.”

  “But we already knew the Gorrani would cause us trouble after what Lecrucius did. It doesn’t take much power to predict they’d attack us eventually. And we’ve heard nothing about these ‘dogs’ coming from the north. It could all still be nothing.”

  “Unless we let him speak, how will we know?”

  Kara stared down at the table, at the green-and-black markers, and thought of Dalton, of the Kormanley, of what they’d done here and what they’d done to Erenthrall—to her, her parents, Ischua.

  Her heart hardened. “No. Unless we find out who these dogs from the north are, we’ll keep him silenced. The Wielders can heal the distortion over Tumbor. We simply need a little more time to prepare.”

  Hernande leaned back in his seat, stroking his beard again, gaze distant.

  Kara watched him a moment. “What have you thought of?”

  He paused, contemplating her. Then said, “The Gorrani will be coming, regardless of whether Dalton’s vision of dogs from the north is true. We need to prepare for them. And I’ve just thought of a way that Morrell might be able to help us with that.”

  Marcus closed the door to the orrery behind him, nodded to the guards outside, then headed off down the corridor after Ty. He could hear the man’s tread ahead of him, so he picked up his pace.

  He caught the commander at an intersecting hallway. Ty must have heard him approaching, for he paused and glanced back.

  “Marcus.”

  “What do you intend to do about the Kormanley?”

  Ty’s eyebrows rose. “Continue doing what we’re doing now.”

  “But you don’t agree with that decision.”

  Ty shifted to face him directly. “It isn’t working, and the tensions on the street are only increasing. As I said at the meeting.”

  Marcus bowed his head. “I know. But I don’t think leaving things as they are will solve anything. We need to stop this before it goes any further.”

  Ty crossed his arms over his chest. “So what do you propose we do?”

  Marcus looked up. “I think you should bring in some of those people from the riot and make them talk.”

  Ty stared at him silently for a long moment. “Dierdre isn’t going to like that much,” he finally said.

  Marcus flushed, the heat rushing from his head to his toes. “I’ll deal with Dierdre.”

  “And what about Kara? And Hernande?”

  The guilt intensified the heat, but Marcus stiffened. “They don’t need to know, do they?”

  Marc groaned as he sank his teeth into a hank of pork loin. Juices burst from the cracked pepper coating on the outside and dribbled into his beard. He took another large bite before he’d even started chewing the first, then tossed the rest back onto the trencher among the roasted carrots and potatoes. The sauce that served as a thin gravy splashed onto the table, some splattering onto Cutter’s arm.

  “Gods, that’s good,” Marc muttered through his mouthful. Cutter could barely hear him over the raucous crowd at Madame Busard’s. The tavern was packed tight with guardsmen intermingled with random people from the city, serving women twisting and winding their way through the throng with expert ease. Ten other men and women sat at their table alone, crushed onto the benches on either side, but Cutter was thankful for the seat. He would have preferred eating something back at the barracks, bread and a chunk of meat cut from the nearest haunch, but Marc had insisted.

  Ignoring the stain on his shirt from the splashed gravy, Cutter cut a slice from his own portion of pork loin, making certain it had a good portion of the cracked pepper coating and some fat, and ate it.

  He had to admit it was good. Much better than the overcooked rabbit, scavenged tubers and roots, and dried flatbread they’d been eating for the past few weeks.

  Marc reached for his mug of ale and took a hearty swallow, then watched Cutter slice another piece. He snorted. “You really should learn how to enjoy your meals more.”

  “I’m enjoying this just fine.” He stabbed a carrot and ate it. Surprisingly, it was cooked perfectly.

  Marc shook his head. “I don’t understand you.” When Cutter didn’t respond, he slammed down his mug, spilling ale on the table. “Where do you get off coming in here from some gods-forsaken village and taking over as alpha of a scouting pack? What happened to training our pups? What happened to earning your way up to alpha?” Some of the guardsmen at the table with them raised a pint in agreement or pounded on its surface in encouragement. Marc grinned at the support and turned on Cutter. “What exactly did you do back in that village?”

  Cutter paused with a forkful of potato halfway to his mouth. “I was a tracker. I hunted for game.”

  Those around the table guffawed or cursed in derision, waving a hand in dismissal.

  “A tracker!” Marc said. “That’s it? I knew that already. Did you take down a bear? Wrestle a mountain lion? Kill one of those werebeasts we keep hearing about up north?”

  “I killed a boar once. Otherwise, mostly deer, squirrel, small game.”

  Marc stared at him, then swore and turned back to his meal.

  They ate in silence for a moment, the others around them already distracted by their own conversations. Marc radiated a slow, simmering disgust, the same low-grade disgust Cutter had felt from him the entire time they were out on the plains.

  Except that wasn’t quite true. Once they’d discovered the destroyed settlements and the butchered villagers, Marc had changed. Cutter hadn’t felt disgust from him at all then. It had been replaced with a mild and grudging respect.

  The disgust had only returned here, at this table.

  Halfway through cutting another chunk of meat, he sighed, bowed his head, and closed his eyes.

  “I never intended to leave the Hollow,” he said. “I never expected to. I thought I’d marry, have children, raise them there in the Hollow, and die there.”

 
“Then why did you leave?” Marc asked.

  Cutter drew in a sharp breath. He didn’t want to talk about it. He never talked about it. It was one of the reasons he’d become a tracker—the isolation. But he’d started this. If he’d wanted to let it go, he could have simply let Marc remain angry.

  “When I was fifteen, I was bonded to a young girl. Her name was Laurel. She had the softest curly brown hair I’d ever touched, these pale gray eyes, like thunderclouds, two moles on her chin below her right ear, one slightly larger than the other.” He could see her clearly even now. “She was fourteen. We were to be wed when I turned seventeen.” He opened his eyes, began cutting into the pork loin again.

  “What happened?”

  “A year after we were bonded, she got sick. Half the village did. Some kind of flu. Our healer, Logan, did what he could, but Laurel and ten others died. That’s when I became a tracker. I started hunting, because it kept me away from everyone else in the village. All I wanted was to be alone. I expected to die alone, in the Hollow.

  “And then the ley Shattered. We heard it in the Hollow, felt it. Shortly after that, Allan came with the refugees from Erenthrall, with the Wielders. They talked about the city, and I suddenly realized there was more to the world than the Hollow. So when Allan asked for volunteers to go into the city with him to scavenge for food, I threw in my bow and tracking skills. And after everything that happened in Erenthrall . . .” He shrugged. “There was nothing left in the Hollow for me anymore. So I came here.”

  He stuck a chunk of pork in his mouth and chewed, not tasting it, thinking of Laurel, of the dark blotches on her skin as she choked to death on her own phlegm. Only when he swallowed, painfully, did he realize that those around him had fallen silent.

  He looked up, caught those sitting across from him staring.

  One of them chuckled and said, “Well, ain’t that a sad story.” The rest laughed.

  Cutter’s grip tightened on the handle of his knife, but Marc said, “Shut up.”

  Their laughter cut off at the tone of his voice.

  But Cutter had had enough. He dropped his fork onto the trencher with a clatter, wiped his knife clean, and sheathed it.

  “Where are you going?” Marc asked. It was a casual question, without any of the disgust Cutter had heard earlier.

  “Back to the barracks.”

  “Then I’ll see you there.”

  Cutter stood and stepped away, heading straight for the door. Someone slid into his seat almost immediately, said something to Marc, but he barely noticed. He needed to get out of the tavern, away from its press of people.

  He needed to be alone.

  “I thought he’d never leave,” the man said as he slid into the seat next to Marc.

  Marc gave the man a cursory glance—mustache, unkempt hair, a scrawny body frame—then bit another chunk of pork from his portion, intending to ignore the fellow.

  But he leaned into Marc’s field of view and said, “My name’s Armone.”

  Marc set his pork down and gave the man a closer look. “You’re an enforcer,” he said as he chewed. “I’ve seen you around the barracks. You aren’t in uniform.”

  The man grinned. “Neither are you.”

  “I just returned from a patrol around Tumbor.”

  “I overheard. Who was the man you were arguing with?”

  A prickling sensation ran down Marc’s shoulders. He chewed slowly for a moment, giving himself a little time, trying to figure out what it was that Armone wanted. When he’d finished, he grabbed his ale. “That,” he said, “was the bastard who was put in charge of our patrol. From that damn Hollow.”

  Armone’s mouth turned down in disgust. “He was given command over you, an enforcer?” He shook his head, taking the mug of ale from the man sitting across from them as his back was turned. “They come into the Needle—blast a hole through our walls!—and then somehow take over with the help of our own commander. Now they’re taking away our commands? They haven’t even been trained!”

  Obviously, Armone hadn’t heard Marc’s entire conversation with Cutter, only part of it. Enough to think that Marc despised the tracker. But he still didn’t understand what Armone wanted, and he clearly wanted something. He was fishing, trying to see if Marc would be tempted by the bait.

  Marc hadn’t decided what he thought of Cutter, but Armone intrigued him.

  He took a long swig of his ale, some of it dribbling down into his beard. “They’re taking over the whole damn Needle, not to mention the enforcers.”

  “Exactly! I think it’s a disgrace. I can’t believe Commander Ty is allowing it!”

  “What else can he do? Their damn mages and those Wielders they have are controlling the ley. Did you see what they did to the Gorrani? They could destroy us all. They’ve got us all by the balls.”

  “They do, they do. But Commander Ty’s accepted it. He didn’t fight them at all, after the Gorrani were dealt with. He practically welcomed that bitch Kara and those Hollowers through an open gate.”

  “How could he fight them? All they’d have to do is call up a lick of ley, and he’d be nothing but belt buckles and buttons. You can’t fight that.”

  Armone’s eyes narrowed and he leaned in close. “Oh, but you can.”

  Marc screwed his face up in disbelief, then grabbed the stolen mug of ale from Armone and dumped it into his own. “You’re drunk. I’m cutting you off.”

  Armone snorted, unperturbed, suddenly deadly serious. “I’m not drunk.”

  Marc caught his eyes, mug half raised to his lips. “What do you mean?”

  Armone glanced around the tavern, searching the crowd. To Marc, it felt like they were in their own little pocket of space, the attention of the men across the table elsewhere, even the off-duty enforcer brushing against him on his left engaged with one of the servers. Satisfied, Armone shifted and rested an elbow on the table, facing Marc, his body blocking out those seated behind him.

  “Are you tired of the Wielders being in control? Of Commander Ty taking their orders like he was a whipped cur?”

  Marc set his mug down without taking a drink. “Yes.”

  “And what about Father Dalton? Did you think the enforcers were stronger when he was in control?”

  “We never had any riots when he was in control.”

  Armone considered for a long moment, then gave a curt nod, as if he’d made a decision. Reaching out with one hand, he gripped Marc’s shoulder. “There’s a group of people I’d like you to meet, mostly enforcers, but some others throughout the city. We think it’s time for Father Dalton and those loyal to the White Cloaks to regain control of the ley and the Needle.”

  Nine

  “I THINK I’M GOING TO TAKE Morrell aside for that little experiment we discussed a few days ago, Jerrain.”

  Morrell glanced up from where she was watching Mirra practice folding the Tapestry in such a way that the sand they’d spilled onto the stone plaza on the second tier of the temple shifted into different prescribed patterns. Jerrain stood over them both, Keller cross-legged to one side, Hernande approaching from the direction of the temple entrance. Drayden stood in the shadows provided by one of the niches, nearly invisible. He’d attached himself even more firmly to her after the man had attacked her at the hospital. He even slept outside the door of her rooms now.

  Over the course of the last few weeks working with Hernande, Cory, and the other mentors from the University, she’d learned that she was neither a mentor nor a Wielder. She could barely sense the Tapestry being used—usually when she was within a few feet of the manipulations, and only then if the person manipulating it was strong. When she did, it felt like a faint breeze. She was more attuned to the ley, could feel it coursing through the ground beneath her, could trace its paths, at least the larger paths, but she couldn’t manipulate it like the Wielders. Hernande had wanted her teste
d, as students had been tested in the schools before the Shattering, but only the Primes had known how to do that, and the last Prime here at the Needle had been killed by the ley during the Gorrani attack. They couldn’t even test her abilities as a student at the University, since the orbs used were back in Erenthrall. No one had thought about saving them when they’d fled.

  Jerrain placed a hand on Morrell’s shoulder, holding her in place as Hernande drew closer. “Are you certain that’s wise? We’ve barely begun training her.”

  “We’ve already determined she can’t manipulate the ley or the Tapestry, at least not the same way we do. She’s learned the basics, but it isn’t going to help her understand her own talents unless we start testing her on those as well. This is as good a test as any.”

  Jerrain scowled, but released her and shooed her in Hernande’s direction. “I still don’t agree that she’s ready, but as you said earlier, these are trying times. We can’t hold too dearly to the old ways when we’re living in a new world.”

  Morrell climbed to her feet as Keller muttered, “Lucky little snit,” beneath his breath.

  Morrell knew he was merely teasing her, but Jerrain tutted and motioned Keller into Morrell’s position. “For that, you’ll take over from Mirra now, Keller. And we won’t be continuing the basic sand forms. We’ll switch to the more complex field shapes that we’ll be using to help the Wielders. Let’s see how long you can hold them this time. Mirra, get ready to pour the sand into his constructions to see if he can hold them without losing any.”

  Keller groaned as he clambered into Morrell’s spot while Mirra scraped the sand into a heap to one side with a self-satisfied smirk.

  Hernande steered Morrell toward the steep stairs that formed most of this side of the temple and led down toward the surrounding city, Drayden slipping into position a few paces behind them. “Any progress?” the mentor asked as, behind, Jerrain said sharply, “Hold it! Hold it!” and Keller gasped in dismay, Mirra’s deep-throated chuckle drifting back to them in counterpoint. Then they descended below the tier’s level and the sounds of the others dropped away, replaced by the myriad noises of the city beyond—the bleat of sheep, squeal of pigs, and a hundred conversations and shouts from the wide square before the temple entrance. Guardsmen were sparring to one side, before their barracks, others headed toward the kitchens across the way. A few of them, hunched beside the rain barrel they used as a wash basin, glared at her and Hernande as they reached the base of the stairs. Their eyes followed them as they passed into the shadow of the flat stone promontory that jutted out of the center of the stairs toward the square, their interest only waning when Drayden placed himself in their line of sight.