Suspicion pricked his senses like barbs, spurring him into a jog that set his leg to throbbing. He cleaned it and applied what was the last of the pig’s ear. When had he used the rest? He worried increasingly about the time that had passed. A fierce shade of red decorated the edges of the wound, but it hadn’t swollen. A careful prod revealed tenderness and heat. There were no streaks leading away from it, which was encouraging.
“This would be an excellent opportunity to engage those mythical healing powers, beast,” he said aloud, wondering again what he would do if the rakeshi ever answered him. He dug in his pack for willow bark, but it was gone. How could that be? To his consternation, he had no food, either. Best take care of that straightaway, or the teasing fever would only get worse. A subdued headache was a constant reminder of the demon’s presence.
As if he needed reminding…
Sometime later a brace of rabbits and a handful of woody wild carrots filled his empty belly. A hollow among the trees shielded him from view. The branches filtered the smoke of the tiny fire over which he cooked the meat. After he ate, he put the flames out, brushed dirt over the embers, and laid his bed atop them. A low pile of rocks protected one side, and a fallen log on the other. Evergreen boughs made a cover to help protect him from the weather. It was warm enough, and the sweet smell of pine and earth pleased him. Before long, the wind rustling the treetops lulled him into dreams.
Asleep one moment and awake the next, Sherakai kept his eyes closed and focused on discovering what had changed. Time in the Twixt’s Wilds had conditioned him to light sleep and instant suspicion. The breeze still rustled trees overhead. The air smelled crisp and cold; he was aware frost had fallen without even seeing it. There came a creak of branches, then the scent of hay and horses.
Startled, he opened his eyes to see a figure sitting on the tree trunk. Shadows surrounded him, but gentle light suffused him.
“Good morning, little dragon.”
“Imitoru! You’re alive!” he cried. The scent of pine filled the air as he pushed off the covering branches.
“We haven’t much time left,” came another voice, just as familiar, just as dear. Fazare stood a short distance away in the path leading into the hollow. The morning sun robbed him of substance. He looked surreal. Ethereal.
And Sherakai knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that Fazare was dead.
“No, no, no, noooo…!” Imitoru couldn’t be dead, but he wouldn’t be with Fazare otherwise.
“You have a long way to travel and much to do. We’ve given you what time we are able, and now you must go.”
“How did you die?”
“Above all, you must remember who you are, and you must not lose heart. Forbid discouragement, nurture empathy and compassion.”
“I don’t want a heart anymore, Toru. It hurts too much. Everyone I love—everyone I like—dies because of me.”
“Arrogant as always,” Fazare’s voice drifted to him. “But you’re right. He does actually glow, doesn’t he?”
“Strength of heart and mind are the greatest of the keys you have been given.”
“What glow? What keys? Why does everyone keep talking about keys, but they won’t tell me what they are or what they’re for?”
“You are not listening,” Fazare reprimanded. “You must listen to your heart, Sherakai.”
His jaw worked. “I can’t. How did you die, Toru?” he repeated.
“We can walk with you,” Imitoru offered, rising, floating upward from his seat.
“Hurry,” Fazare urged, and moved down the path.
Sherakai shrugged into his jack of plate without bothering to fasten it. The armor was easier to wear than to carry. He fetched his pack and sword belt, slinging them both over his shoulder. “Where are we going? Is Tasan coming? Or Papa?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“They are not.”
“That’s no answer. What of Mama and the girls?”
Imitoru said nothing, and the speed they set made conversation difficult. While he had no trouble keeping up with Bairith’s troops, nor even the mounted scouts, these two left him breathless.
“There is a place where the aro lies thick and heavy. You must pass through it.” Imitoru pointed east.
“The Stitch?”
“You know it.”
“Of course I do.” He’d been past it a score or more times. Common soldiers avoided it, claiming that it was haunted, and campgrounds had been planned for a safe distance. He didn’t need more trouble with spirits, so he’d never felt inclined to explore. Rumors supplied him with tales of headless creatures and wrong-colored scenery, foreign stars and lost minds. “That will send me miles out of my way. I’ve got to get to the coast, Toru. I’m going straight to the sea.” He pulled out his flask. It dawned on him that the pain in his leg had eased considerably. He wished he could stop to tend it, but his brothers’ sense of urgency spurred him on. “How long did I sleep?”
They took no notice of either comment or question. “From the pool of magic you can travel safely if you are swift,” Imitoru said.
He rubbed his forehead. “Are all spirits so single-minded and so vague?”
“The Watchmen join the hunt. The magic of the pool will confuse your path.”
The word ‘watchmen’ bounced around in his head like a pebble down a well. He couldn’t recall why, but he thought he must avoid them. Evidently, his brothers did, too.
“This way.” Ahead of them, Fazare turned aside.
Sherakai stopped and the pebble that would tell him about the watchmen disappeared. He’d intended to skirt the edge of the Choke, then turn northeast. Fazare hastened straight east; Imitoru followed him. It would add days to his journey at the least; at worst, it would expose him to harassment by the Romuri. “The people of this land are not fond of me. Not fond of any Alshani.”
“Avoid them.”
This way… This way… Spirits whispered and scampered all around him, stirring leaves and dried grass.
“Of course.” Hand on his hip, he studied his surroundings. His brothers did not wait for him. Vexation at their lack of communication and the change of the direction needled him, but it came down to a single question: did he trust them or not? “Can I trust you?” he called.
Fazare, still in the lead, called back to him. “Can you?”
“Only you can decide that,” Imitoru said, more patiently.
He drank from his flask and followed. “What’s it like being—you know.” Dead.
“Busy.”
“Doing what?”
“What is needed.”
“Is it a secret?”
They set off across a wide valley. Sherakai’s neck prickled as if a dozen pairs of eyes observed their progress. Could anyone else see his companions? “Will the spirits tell mages or watchmen where I’ve gone?”
Neither brother replied.
“Hey!” He trotted to catch up to the increasingly insubstantial Imitoru. “Why are you ignoring my questions? Are you forbidden to answer them?”
“We must make haste.”
“Why?” He glanced back the way they’d come. Their path led them down out of the mountains, where clouds had begun to gather. When he caught a flicker of movement on his back trail, he paused to scrutinize the shrubs and the shadows. Rocky hills undulated across the landscape. Again he saw a smudge of motion in his peripheral vision. “We’re being followed.”
They kept moving, so he did, too.
It wasn’t long before they approached a low defile. The walls were only as high as his head and nearly vertical. Only a few moments in, and a trio of spirits joined him—one to either side and one behind. They didn’t look at him or speak. His brothers seemed not to notice them at all. “Go away,” he muttered under his breath.
They ignored him.
He frowned at the right hand spirit, which did nothing to impress it. Him, he decided, though its lack of substance made identity difficult. The more he concentrated on br
inging it into focus, the more indistinct it became. “Do I know you?” he asked at last.
It didn’t answer.
With a sigh of disgust, Sherakai turned back to the trail—only to find a man standing in his path. Legs straddled, and arms crossed, a forbidding glare folded his brow in two. He recognized him immediately as one of Bairith Mindar’s captains. “Gods!” he yelped, and should have plowed into the fellow. Instead, he blundered right through him.
Ice chased across his skin. The smell of sweat and leather and, unaccountably, roast lamb filled his senses. Though it defied logic, he heard the color yellow. Hackles raised, he spun around. The captain was gone, but the other three remained. They paid him no heed as they scanned the surroundings.
“Did you see him?” he asked. “Will you look at me!”
They didn’t, but he could still hear yellow and, alongside that, incessant whispering. From the corners of his eyes, he saw shapes, but they disappeared when he turned to them.
Hurry! It is close!
Let us through!
Can he open it?
Mama? Mama! Please don’t leave me here!
It’ll be well, my darling, it’s almost over…
The voices carried the weight of need and hope and brilliant expectation. For what, Sherakai knew not. Shoulders hunched, he hitched up his pack and continued. Juvenile trepidation urged him to keep his head down and hurry. Practical experience suggested he stay alert and wary. The canyon twisted this way and that, but the light flouted the rules of nature. The floor was well lit while the air overhead took on an opacity made more strange by its tendency to sparkle. The floor, in fact, sprouted luxurious green grass sprinkled with out-of-season flowers. His feet disappeared from view, though he could hear every footfall against the stone. The walls receded, though when he stretched out a cautious hand, his fingers met solid rock.
“Toru? Zar?” he called out, experiencing a little yearning of his own. He wanted out of this strange place or, barring that, he wanted the familiar presence of his brothers. Neither happened.
He fished his flask out of his pack, took a drink, then closed his eyes. “Just feel where you are,” he whispered to himself. After a moment, he glanced around. A sense of space agreed with what his eyes told him. The canyon boasted a meadow and a few scattered trees. It might have been high summer within the stone confines. The trees still had leaves, the grass held its color, and bright flowers stretched upward toward the sky. When he turned back, he saw only a gleaming pathway and no walls at all. The sky overhead darkened as if the sun were setting, though it did so gently and without fanfare.
This was not a place he wanted to be after darkness fell.
He walked for a long time, or maybe only an hour. As he did, the voices of the spirits grew in volume until they roared like a storm through the treetops. Their desires pounded at him, bowing his shoulders further and threatening to overwhelm him. As if they possessed physical fingers, they tugged at his hair and his clothes. Invisible touches caressed his skin. They pulled at his pack. Some of them had enough strength to push him.
“Stop it!” Sherakai growled, stumbling like a drunkard. “What do you want from me?”
Set us free.
Help us.
Open the way.
HELP USSSSS!
“I can’t! Leave me alone!” He ran.
They sped along the strange space with him, whirling, churning, demanding.
When the canyon walls loomed suddenly in the eery light, he hesitated. The spirits knotted close, overlapping and filling the space until it became thick and viscous.
“Imitoru!” he choked out, going down on one knee, flailing his arm. They did not respond like the kathraul’en did. His arm went right through them with no noticeable effect. They wound around him. Pressed tight against him. Begged him. Scolded him. Commanded him.
“I don’t know what you want!” He shoved himself upright, shouting useless imprecations.
Help us, help us, helpushelpus…
Anger and fear paved the way for the rakeshi. He pressed his hands over his ears, but he could not halt the sudden gleam of edges—rocks, trees, grass, even spirits. A noise came from his throat, half scream and half roar.
Then the spirits retreated. Astonished, yet still hungry for something he could not give them, they hovered nearby.
Backtracking, he searched for a way out of the canyon. He found it nearly hidden by a sprawling shrub a dozen yards away. The rakeshi’s uncanny vision revealed an opening, the center a jagged black pit against the glimmering border. Wary, he made his way to the gap.
The spirits moaned and wailed. Then, when he reached the threshold, they assailed him.
He threw himself into the passage at a dead run, chased by a wind full of hard, stinging dirt, pebbles, and the sharp blades of leaf and grass. Overhead, the sparkling sky lowered until it filled the entire space, blinding him. The rakeshi edged sideways until his hand met the wall. The screams of the spirits increased in volume, so loud it hurt. Head down and eyes protected by one arm, he pressed on.
The canyon ended with no warning.
Chapter 73
The ground went out from beneath him. He fell, struck hard, and rolled haphazardly down a sharp incline. A fallen tree stopped his precipitous descent. The impact forced a grunt from him, then the world stilled.
The abrupt change between the dim passageway and bright sky, between warmth and autumn chill, made his breath catch. Lightheaded from the effects of the aro-filled gulf, he waited for his hearing to return. The skin down his jaw and neck tickled. Blood stained exploring fingers. He wiped his nose. Blood there, too.
With a grimace, he sat up, twisting this way and that to check for bodily damage. Satisfied, he perched on the log until the sharp, glowing edges of the world faded. The expected headache gripped his skull. Time slid past, unrecognizable. The color of the sky overhead didn’t change. No breeze stirred the trees. No spirits whispered to him or plucked at his clothes and hair.
“Any more vague advice?” he asked the emptiness at last. “Hello?” Please don’t leave me here. Alone.
What kind of crazy thinking was that? The spirits mocked him and drove him mad. The Romuri tried to kill him. The watchmen hunted him. There wasn’t a single living soul he wanted to be with.
Someone, he argued with himself. Anyone.
Well, anyone without a sharp blade, magic, or an overwhelming need to murder him. Shaking his head, he dismissed his foolish wishful thinking.
Perched at the top of a long slope, he tried to place his location on a mental map. Which way to go? Turn northward and pick up his original route? Or did it matter? No plan at all would confuse his enemies, and whether he traveled north, south, or east, he’d eventually come to the sea. His direction only needed to be away from Chiro and Bairith Mindar. He still felt the demand to hurry like an itch in his veins.
“Far and fast,” he said, voice as rough as a rusty hinge. Heading down the incline through autumn-gold grass, his breath trailed him in streamers. Leaving the mountains would bring him down to warmer elevations. And civilization. And escape. Step by step, his pace quickened.
He ran.
The rakeshi ran.
The lines between them blurred. Sometimes he woke in strange places, and from time to time he had blood on his hands. Twice, he found dead Romuri nearby. He ran from that, and from all the fear and hatred that had been Bairith Mindar’s gift to him. A dozen times—a hundred—he was drawn back toward Chiro.
He fought the compulsion.
One day he stepped out of the woods at the crest of a steep hill and the view brought him up short. The sea stretched out at his feet, water for as far as he could see. The winter sun danced on its surface like a million too-bright stars. Astonished, he dropped to his knees.
His uncle’s stories fell far short in their description of its vastness. There was no way to appreciate the words until Sherakai saw with his own eyes. How could there be so much water? Facing east,
with the sun sliding into night, he couldn’t even pretend to make out a shore on the horizon.
It took him two days to begin to come to terms with this giant. Two days of staring and listening. Trying to imagine incomprehensible distance and volume. He suspected that floating across the surface on a tiny cork called a ‘ship’ would broaden his education in ways beyond his imagination. Two days were all he dared spare.
With no certainty of his location, he chose to travel south along the coastline. Sometimes he walked barefoot on the beach, picking up shells and listening to the unfamiliar cry of gulls. He rolled up his pants and waded out into the water. It was colder than he expected, salty beyond belief. The weight of it against him and the waves sucking the sand out from beneath his feet alarmed him, then challenged him. He liked the briny smell of the air. A curious creature with a hard shell and snapping pincers startled him once. Bubbles popping on the surface of the sand—and the wiggly motion that accompanied them—introduced him to clams in their native habitat. A flock of birds racing the waves up and down the shore made him smile for perhaps the first time in years.
When at last he came to a bustling port town, he found the entirely new experience of everything to do with ships and boats. Coin from the Twixt made folk curious, but in a place that saw precious metals from all across the continent, the origin didn’t stop the exchange of goods. He had not expected it to be so simple to purchase passage. But then, he had not expected anything about the seaport. Not the smell, not the sprawl of docks, not the considerable size of the ship on which he would sail. It was bigger than a house, and astonished him until he recalled the expanse of the sea it would cross.
Neither did he expect the way the deck moved like a live thing under his feet, or the eloquent jeers of sailors of every different race and tongue.
“You ever been on a ship?” asked a man with a broad accent.
Sherakai jerked his attention from the wide expanse of water. A grizzled sailor leaned on the rail nearby. “Isn’t it supposed to be blue?”
“That depends on the weather, don’t it?” He stuck a pipe between his teeth and took a puff. “Never seen the ocean before?”
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