by Giles Carwyn
He stuck primarily to the rocky ridges, avoiding easy ground where he could. Eventually he would have to turn west and cross the endless barren plain stretching from the hills to the sea, but he wanted to wait as long as possible.
The foothills of the Arridan Mountains slowly faded into the distance behind him. They were named after the mythical serpent Arridus. The entire range was said to be the half-buried spine of the sleeping serpent who was born on the day the world was created. The Physendrian legend claimed that someday the serpent would awaken and swallow the whole world.
Brophy’s stomach growled. He was hungry enough to swallow the whole world. Finding water had not been a problem. Tiny springs broke through the bone-dry mountainside, creating weedy little trails down to the badlands, where the water disappeared into the cracks. The spots of green clinging to the moisture were easy to see, but the crude arrows he made didn’t fly straight, and he hadn’t been able to catch any game. It was three more days to Physen. Food would become a problem before long.
Brophy continued until the sun blazed across the western horizon, spreading rays of orange fire across the sky. He stopped and drank from a tiny spring and stared at the beautiful sunset. Distant clouds caught the dying light as the sun dipped below the jagged plateaus in the distance. Despite his exhaustion, he watched until the sun was almost gone. There had never been any sunsets like that in Ohndarien. By the Seasons, he didn’t know the sky could be so beautiful.
Blinking his sticky eyes, he looked for a place to sleep. Casting about, he found a sandy spot between two rocks. It was the best bed he was likely to find. He slumped down. It felt glorious to be out of the sun. The nights were warm, and he wouldn’t miss not having a fire.
After giving in to a sweet moment of relaxation, he dug into the sack that his unseen friend had thrown from the Water Wall. There were two plums, one of which he was determined to save for at least another day, and half a loaf of bread. He also had a handful of leaves from the spine flower bushes he found that morning. The plant’s fleshy pulp was bitter and made his mouth tingle, but it was edible. There were only a few leaves left, but it looked like a feast after walking all day with nothing to eat. Brophy carefully cut the first leaf in half and scraped the pulp out with his teeth. He chewed the stringy mush, dreaming of the plum that would follow.
Scythe interrupted just as he finished the last leaf.
“I wouldn’t sleep there if I were you,” the small man said from the top of a jagged boulder some twenty feet away. “Scorpions like that soft sand as much as you do.”
Brophy bit viciously into the plum. The succulent juice dribbled down his chin. The previous night, Scythe had come close to Brophy’s camp and tried to start a conversation. Brophy had ordered him away. The man left as quietly as he had come, but Brophy had slept uneasily. He’d awoken at every sound and many times at no sound at all, never knowing if he would wake with a knife at his throat.
He realized that he’d chewed the entire mouthful and swallowed without tasting it. It enraged him. His precious plums. The stranger was cheating him out of what small pleasures he still had left. Brophy leapt to his feet and hurled a rock at the man.
“I told you to leave me alone!”
The rock arced unerringly at Scythe’s head. At the last second, the little man shifted, and the stone flew past him, inches from his ear.
“You throw rocks better than you dodge them.”
“I made it through the stoning, if you remember.”
“I would have made it without a scrape.”
“Why don’t you go back to the wall and prove it?”
Scythe pulled back his hood and unwound the strips of cloth that covered his face.
“I don’t know you, stranger,” Brophy continued “I didn’t ask for your help, and I don’t want it.”
Scythe remained silent, crouching on the boulder like a vulture. Brophy returned to the sandy spot and lay down, determined to ignore him.
Dusk faded to dark, but Brophy’s eyes were still wide-open. He rolled around on the sand, trying to make a comfortable spot.
“You can see their fires,” the stranger said.
Pretending he hadn’t heard, Brophy rummaged through the discarded spine flower husks, looking for any scrap of pulp he might have missed.
“It’s hard to tell, but I’d guess their number is over twenty thousand.”
Brophy tossed a husk down. There was nothing left, not a single pulpy string.
“Don’t you want to see the army that is preparing to march on Ohndarien?”
“What do you mean?”
“They are right there, maybe twenty miles distant. You can see their cooking fires.”
Brophy stood up. The moon hadn’t risen yet, and he could barely see by starlight as he scrambled out of his sandy bed and crawled to the top of the steep ridge. He peered over the edge and sighed. Far below him, hundreds of tiny fires lit the dark plain like a cloud of sparks. He closed his eyes and lowered his head to the rock. The gritty stone scraped against his forehead.
“How are you going to stop them?” the stranger asked.
“How are you going to stop them!” Brophy shouted. He hated that man. He hated his superior airs, his smug voice, his damned persistence, everything about him.
“Your aunt asked me to prepare you to take the Test. But from what I’ve seen so far, you haven’t got a chance.”
“You have no idea who I am.”
“I’ve seen those bruises. I know how you got them. How long did it take Krellis to best you that night by Trent’s body? Two seconds? Three?”
Brophy searched for another rock. He found a little one and hurled it into the shadows. It clattered across the ground.
“What will you do the next time you face him? How will you overcome his strength, his speed, his ruthlessness?”
Brophy clenched his jaw and turned away.
“I know you want to take the Test, Brophy, but you are fifteen years old. Your aunt Baelandra was the youngest ever to succeed, she did it at twenty with the full support of all eight Brothers and Sisters. Were you planning on sneaking into the Heart and taking that Test alone? Were you going to slit your wrists first just to make it interesting?”
Brophy gritted his teeth and held his silence.
“Let’s suppose you did become Brother of Autumn. What then? Do you expect Krellis to step down and retire peacefully?”
“I’m going to kill him,” Brophy said.
“A fine idea. Let’s say you succeed. What then? How will you defeat this army? How will you gain the loyalty of the troops trained from boyhood by the man you just killed?”
Brophy’s breath hissed through his clenched teeth. “Somehow,” he replied.
“Somehow? You haven’t thought of anything so far. I don’t see why that should change.”
Brophy leapt to his feet, grabbed his sack, and started walking away.
“You can’t run from life forever, Heir of Autumn,” Scythe shouted. “Eventually you’ll have to stand still and let it hit you in the face.”
Brophy walked for another hour, stumbling over the rocky ground lit only by the stars. When he stumbled across a little patch of sand, he decided to call it a night. He hoped he’d lost the little man in the darkness, but Brophy doubted it.
He rolled around in the sand making a little nest for himself. The top few inches were cool, but the sand underneath still held the day’s heat. Brophy tried to relax, fearing the sleepless hours to come. He knew he’d never fully close his eyes with Scythe lurking somewhere out there in the darkness.
Pulling his bag of delicacies protectively to his stomach, he hunkered down for a long night.
FIRE! LIGHTNING! Brophy sat up, clutching at his throat and came away with a hard, wriggling creature. Pain exploded into his hand, and he threw the thing away. His breath seared his lungs, and his neck felt like it would burst.
Scythe leapt out of the darkness, a wicked, curved knife in his hand. He knocked Brophy
onto his back and knelt on his chest.
“No!” Brophy yelled, punching the man. Somehow he missed.
Scythe’s eyes were tight. His hand lanced out, spearing Brophy just under the ribs. Brophy squeaked. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t move. Scythe slammed him to the ground again.
“Hold still, you fool, or you will die,” the man said.
Brophy tried to fight, but his limbs had gone weak. Scythe grabbed Brophy’s good wrist and shoved it under his knee.
“Neck’s the worst place to get stung, boy. That poison hits your brain, and you’re dead. Understand?”
Brophy struggled to breathe. He nodded.
“Then stop fighting me.”
He forced himself to go limp.
“Good. Now hold very still. This will hurt a lot.”
Brophy’s breath whistled. His throat was swelling shut, and he couldn’t move his neck.
Scythe jabbed his hand into a leather pouch at his side. “Was it big or small?”
“Wh…What?”
Scythe flipped his dagger up and cut a line down Brophy’s neck. The stroke was sure and swift. Brophy hardly felt it.
“The scorpion, was it small as your finger or big as your hand?”
“Big…Big as my hand.”
Scythe withdrew a tiny vial from the pouch. He bit off the stopper and spat it away. “Good. You might be alive in an hour.” He dumped the entire thing on Brophy’s neck.
Brophy screamed, arching his back. He fought with everything he had, but somehow Scythe kept him pinned. His scream became a wail, then a gurgle. He slumped to the ground again, motionless.
Scythe pressed his fingers against the uncut side of Brophy’s neck for a long moment. With a sigh he flopped down to the sand and leaned against Brophy’s chest. He glared at the starry horizon and shook his head.
“I hate Physendria.”
4
BAELANDRA STOOD ON her balcony overlooking the garden. Beyond the wall, tall sailing ships and fat galleys rocked at anchor. She had come to watch the sunset, but it had died hours ago. Not even a flicker of purple remained in the night sky. The streetlamps had been lit all over her beloved Ohndarien. They shone like little fireflies, coming alive along Northridge and the distant shore of Stoneside. The evening air had cooled to the perfect temperature for dinner with friends in the Night Market or a walk on the Windmill Wall. It was a night for sex, long and slow under the stars with the scent of lavender drifting into the windows and night sparrows chirping in the trees.
I used to know what it was like to be in love, she thought. I used to know that sweet, aching need for one man. But she could no longer remember it. She could see it, could picture it, but the emotion was gone from her body as if an organ had been ripped out.
Outside Baelandra’s garden gate, two soldiers leaned on their spears. Though the guards claimed they were here for her protection, she was a prisoner in her own house. There was unrest in the city, they said. She should stay at home for a few days.
On the first day of her captivity, Baelandra was incensed. She refused to acknowledge their presence and walked right past them. They blocked her way with their crossed spears. After she tried to get around them several times, one of the soldiers slammed the butt of his spear into her stomach. It took everything she had to stay on her feet. Wrapping her dignity around her like armor, she walked back into her house and stayed there.
There were several ways to escape from the building. She knew them well, but there was no point in sneaking off like a thief in the night until she had someplace to go. Her city had been taken from her. She and her Sisters would have to take it back.
Shara was the last person Baelandra had spoken with who wasn’t under Krellis’s thumb. That was six days ago, when she left to investigate Brophy’s story and never returned. Since Shara, Baelandra was not allowed visitors. Hundreds of people had come to the gate only to be turned away. No friendly faces passed those tall spears. Her household staff failed to report to work. They were replaced by strangers, performing the necessary duties in sullen silence.
The lack of news was the worst part. Baelandra had friends in every quarter of the city. Information used to flow to her like streams into a river, and now she was dying of thirst.
One day she pressed a servant girl relentlessly for information. “Just tell me about Brophy,” she begged.
“He survived the stones,” the girl whispered, but she would say nothing more.
Hearing that Brophy was alive lifted her spirits briefly, but despair slowly settled over her again.
She stared at the darkness atop the Hall of Windows. The absence of those four torches cried out with thunderous silence. It was as if the soul of the city had been snuffed out.
The wind rustled in the trees just off the balcony. Baelandra blinked and tried to focus. She wanted to cry, but she wouldn’t let herself. This was her mess. She had created it, and it was hers to clean up. Tears would mean surrender. The last move had not yet been made.
“You should have killed me,” she said to him, wherever he might be. “You don’t make many mistakes, but that is one you will regret.”
“Lady of Autumn, I have news for you.”
The voice came soft as a nesting sparrow. Baelandra froze, then forced herself to continue staring ahead at the water. She collected her thoughts. The voice came from the branches to the left of her balcony. Keeping her face locked forward, she watched the tree out of the corner of her eye.
“Who are you, child?” she murmured, carefully throwing her voice that direction.
“I’m not a child. I’m thirteen and nearly grown.”
“My mistake, young lady. Who are you and why have you come to me?”
“I have news.” There was a slight pause. “News to sell.”
This was definitely not someone she knew, but who then? Krellis could have sent the child, but subtle tricks were not his style.
“What is your news and what is your price?”
“I know where the beautiful lady with the blue stone at her waist is being held. I know who is holding her, and I know…” Again a pause. “And I know what they’ve done to her.”
Oh Shara, what have I gotten you into?
“And what is your price for this information?”
“A pittance,” the young woman said, though Baelandra heard the hesitation in her voice. “One hundred silver stars.”
“I see. Who sent you with this information?”
“I sent myself. Five days ago, I picked the beautiful lady up from your dock. I sailed her to Stoneside and waited for her to return. She paid well and she…was interested in a business opportunity. When she didn’t come back, I decided to find her. I have ways of knowing things in this city.”
“I’m sure that you do. I will give you ten silver for your information—”
“Ten! That’s an insult. Her life is in danger.”
“And then,” Baelandra continued as if she had not been interrupted, “I will give you 190 more if you deliver a few messages for me.”
The tree rustled. A young girl with short red hair leapt out of the leaves like a squirrel. She caught the edge of the railing, banging her knees into the stone. With a soft grunt, she hopped the rail and rolled into the balcony.
Baelandra watched the guards by the gate. They hadn’t seen.
She stepped back into her room, out of sight of the quiet city. The young woman followed her into the shadows. She peered into every dark corner, chewing on her bottom lip.
“Two hundred?” she asked.
“Two hundred.”
The girl held out her rough and callused hand.
“You’re a waterbug,” Baelandra said.
The young woman shrugged. She stuck her hand out an inch farther. “Deal?”
A smile tickled the corner of Baelandra’s mouth, and she let it come. It was her first genuine smile in years, it seemed. She took the dirty little hand.
“Deal.”
5
/> BROPHY TRIED to open his eyes, but they were gummed shut. With a grunt, he brought up his right hand and winced. Any movement sent stabs of pain up his arm. He cradled his right hand on his chest and rubbed his eyes with his left.
He was in some kind of cave or a dark room. He tried to sit up, but the whole world lurched, and he thought he would vomit. He lay back down for a moment until the world stopped swinging. His throat was parched, making it difficult to swallow.
More slowly this time, he opened his eyes and looked around. The walls and ceiling were yellow stone. Brophy stared a long time before he made the connection.
Somehow he was in the capital city of Physendria, the City of Gold. The Ohndarien soldiers who told him about Physen talked about the “gold” with a smirk. The only gold to be found in Physen was in the king’s coffers or in the yellow stone of the underground palace.
Brophy sat up. He swayed, but this time he realized it was only his bed that moved. He was lying on a circular platform covered with a thin padding. The bed was suspended from the ceiling on four delicate copper chains. A large hole in the ceiling opened up to the sky above. The shaft was flared at the bottom and plated with a shiny metal that reflected the fading light throughout the room.
Brophy held up his aching hand in the pale light. Wrapped in a thin, dun-colored cloth, it was three times its usual size. The skin at the edge of the bandage was a sickly gray color. He looked away.
Gingerly, he touched the left side of his neck. It was swollen almost to his chin. He tried to swallow again and couldn’t. Brophy took a deep breath and let it out slowly. At least he was alive.
Swinging his legs over the edge, he tried to stand. The bed rocked on its chains. His neck throbbed, and he gritted his teeth. Enough, he thought. The Children of the Seasons were taught pain control from the time they were seven years old. Brophy imagined the pain as a black cloud within his body. He felt it, turned it over in his mind. He made it larger, then smaller. Soon it became a thing, an idea, not a part of him. He shrank it away to nothing, and it disappeared.
