by A J Gala
“Mother’s.”
His chest was tight. The very mirror he stood upon, the real thing, was so physically close to him. In Tizzy’s room, on the second story. She had never deserved it.
“It should have gone to me. Why wouldn’t Adeska have given it to me?”
He stared down into the angry, tired face that was him. A foggy shape took form behind him in the reflection. A vague shape, a person for sure, short and slender. No, he corrected himself—sickly. A ghostly arm pointed at the mirror and a crack began to form.
“Let me out, my darling.”
The muffled, feminine, otherworldly voice sent a shiver down his spine. The cracks hissed as kaleidoscopic steam poured out. Inky black daemonlings crawled out—the size of children, the shape of cats, the movement of squid—and they crawled out by the hundreds, blanketing him, consuming him—
Rhett woke, gasping, covered in sweat. His head throbbed with pain that squeezed at his temples. Nausea rippled through him. He sat up and grabbed the bars to steady himself. The air in the cells was hot. Sickeningly hot.
“Peyrs?”
There was no answer. Was it just his cell burning up? He could barely breathe. He forced deep breaths and looked up, down the hallway.
The ghostly visage was back, an entourage of daemonlings crawling behind her. Suddenly, the wall behind him cracked and crumbled. The walls of the corridor cracked and crumbled. The floor beneath him cracked and crumbled. Kaleidoscopic energy burst forth from every fissure.
“Let me out, darling.”
Rhett woke, gasping. Again. He gripped the bars tightly, holding himself upright, and forced himself awake through the night.
15
The Messenger
Vayven 19, 1144
“Davrkton,” Meeka said as Centa hacked down a ropy tree limb hanging in front of them. “We should go to Davrkton.”
“You’re insane,” Phio told her. “Why should we go to Davrkton? There’s a clear road going all the way up to Vandroya, where we can get passage on Death Pass Sea to the Siopenne Mainland!”
Centa shrugged. “As much as I hate the idea too, Phio, she may have it right.” He ignored her gloating little grin. “You remember how flooded that road was when we tried to take it from Kamdoria to Suradia. I doubt it’s much better than a mud pit right now. Plus, it’s probably teeming with Hunters.”
“Oh, Davrkton is teeming with Hunters too,” Meeka said. “It’s kind of a hub for any of them sent out on the Protégé mission.”
The trio was in the thick of the Bogwood, trying to decide where to go, dawdling through the rays of cool sunlight that beamed down through the trees. The forest was showing signs of recovery from the earlier storms, flaunting a blanket of shoots and saplings sprouting up from its floor. Wood beetles skittered across logs and fallen branches that had started to rot and sink back into the earth. New spiderwebs glittered in the wet, misty air. But the sky promised rain. Again.
“But if you can ignore all the Hunters, there’s lots of places to stay. And thanks to the change of clothes I got courtesy of my stay in the queen’s dungeon, I don’t look much like a Hunter anymore. Unless they’ve got my face on wanted posters all over the place, I’ll blend right in.”
Phio rolled his eyes. “Like we’ve ever been that lucky.”
“Let’s do it. Let’s go to Davrkton and head north from there,” Centa said. “Harder route, sure, but once we cross the Sheerspine River, I don’t think we’ll be seen by anyone. We’ll just have to keep an eye out for greenkind.”
Meeka wanted to ask so many questions as they hiked northeast. Even though they’d been stuck together since Barton Hovel, she didn’t know much about either man and had really only been with them for about half a month. They were essentially strangers, and she couldn’t seem to force out the kinds of prying conversation that would tell her more about them.
The brilliant red trees swayed in the breeze. Leaves rustled, strong trunks creaked. Twigs snapped underfoot, and Centa continued clearing a path. All three of them knew they were not alone in the forest. They stayed quiet, anticipating an ambush, keeping a keen eye to the woods.
Then, Meeka saw it. A pale blur between the trees. She was sure Centa and Phio had seen it too because their pace slowed. But there was no confrontation. Whoever the unknown traveler was, they did not come any closer and kept moving in the opposite direction.
Centa stopped. He turned and stared in the direction the unknown person was headed. Meeka saw the look of panic on Phio’s face as he shook his friend’s shoulder.
“Come on,” Phio said. “Let’s keep moving, Centa. It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing.” Centa shoved his hand away and took off, pursuing the unknown person, darkness in his eyes.
“Shit.” Phio followed him, leaving Meeka with no other option than to do the same.
“What’s going on?” she asked. “Do you guys know who that was?”
Phio shook his head in disbelief. “I think so. This is going to be bad, Meeka.”
“With you two, everything is always bad.”
Centa tore through the forest. The pale body moved faster, but it wouldn’t be fast enough. When Centa had a clear view of who it was, he yelled.
“Cato!”
The man froze. Escape was futile. The rage in Centa’s voice made that clear.
“Turn around,” Centa said. “Turn around!”
Cato did as he was told, but did not look up at him. “Hey. Didn’t think I’d see you around here.” His voice shook.
“You’re headed to Suradia.” Centa narrowed his eyes and closed the distance. “What the hell are you going to Suradia for?”
Cato kept staring at the ground and considered the truth for a moment. But the story surrounding the very brief message carved into his arm was hardly believable. It would not help him escape what was coming. He wondered if it could even make it worse.
“Work,” he decided to say. “That’s all.”
“You’re lying through your teeth.”
Finally, Cato looked up. His jaw clenched with an angry frown. “I’m not! What’s the matter with you? It’s the first time I’ve seen you in years, and this is what you’ve got to say to me?”
Centa grabbed the man by the collar of his tunic and shoved him into a tree.
“She told me everything.”
Cato’s pale eyes were wide. “Wh-what?”
“I know what happened. I know Mariette is yours.”
“Centa, it didn’t happen the way you think it did. It didn’t, I swear—”
He shoved Cato against the tree, knocking Cato’s head against the trunk.
“But it happened.” He dropped him and pulled him to his feet. “You’d been pining after her for years. I know, we all knew. We could see how you treated her. Adeska swore it was harmless, but look where we are now.”
“I’m sorry.” Cato steadied himself, but he had nowhere to run. “She wanted to keep it a secret because she knew how much it would hurt you, but I knew I should have said something when it happened. You were my best friend, Centa. I never—”
Centa swung his fist into Cato’s cheek, and the smaller man stumbled.
“You slept with my wife. You were never my friend.”
He hit him again. Blood spilled out of Cato’s mouth and dribbled down his chin. He looked up at Centa, blinked his daze away, and coughed.
“I’m sorry. I regret it, I do. But your daughter—”
Centa hit him in the gut, and Cato cried out and doubled over.
“You mean your daughter. She looks just fucking like you. I should have known. Everyone else did, I’m sure. What do you think they thought of me? Everyone must have looked at me and taken me for a fool. An absolute fucking fool.”
Centa hit him in the stomach again and steadied him against the tree. Meeka stared at Phio, horror across her face as Centa continued his assault.
“He’s going to kill that man!” she whispered.
Phio r
ubbed his face at first, then pulled his hair. The grunts and cries of pain continued in the background. Finally, Phio ran his hands to the back of his neck and let out a shaky sigh.
“I know,” he said to Meeka. “I don’t think I can stop him on my own, not without looking like Cato at the end. When he sees red like this Meeka, it never ends well. Or easily.”
Meeka turned her stare back to the bloodshed. Cato wasn’t even fighting back. “He knows it’s pointless too, then? Like you?”
“We’ve both witnessed this scene play out on other people often enough to realize it. Fighting back will just make Centa angrier. Best to just let it play out and hope you survive.”
“Screw that!” Meeka picked up a heavy tree branch. “This whole thing is stupid! Help me stop, him or I’ll do it myself!”
“Fine.”
Cato could no longer see the rage on Centa’s face—his right eye was blinded with blood, and his left eye swollen shut. He could barely breathe as hot blood gushed down his nose. He felt the bark scrape against his back as Centa wrapped his hands around his throat and raised him high.
“Centa, stop this!” Phio yelled. Centa did not respond. “I said, stop! I know you’re angry, but you can’t kill him!”
Centa’s mouth twitched. “Why not?”
“Because I said so! Like it or not, Cato is still one of us, and he always will be! Everything that we have been through as raiders, we all did it together. I’m not asking you to forgive him, but let him live!”
Cato was red in the face, coughing and choking and grasping at Centa’s hands. Phio shoved Centa, and the man pushed him back with his elbow.
“Gods dammit Centa, don’t make me do this!” He rolled up his sleeves, but just as he was about to make another attempt, Meeka came barreling into Centa’s other side.
The impact made him drop Cato. He was hot with all-consuming rage as he turned on Meeka, but Phio grabbed his shoulder. Meeka joined him, and together, they brought him to the ground.
“Snap out of it!” Phio shouted. “You told me this shit was going to stop happening!”
“This is different,” Centa growled. “It’s him, he—”
“It’s not different!” Phio’s fists trembled. “Get a fucking grip on yourself!”
Centa was quiet and still. His breathing was heavy but slowed. He glanced at Cato, who tried his hardest to breathe while choking on blood. Centa was still full of fire, still yearning to finish the job with his bare hands, to hear grunts and cries of pain that couldn’t be contained as he drove his fist into his former friend’s face again and again.
But Meeka was terrified, and he could see it. She forced herself to stay close, but she leaned far back like she’d run off any second. Her big eyes were full of fear and disappointment. Or disgust. He couldn’t tell.
Phio went to Cato, checked the man’s wounds, then came back and jerked Centa to his feet.
“If I could trust you, I’d say we have to take him with us,” Phio said. “But I can’t. He’s probably dead whether we try to take him to Davrkton or leave him here. Because you’re a monster. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Good. He’s alive for now. That’ll have to be good enough. Let’s go.”
“Please, Allanis. Let me do it.” Rori grabbed the queen’s dainty hand. “You can depend on me, I promise. I won’t do anything stupid.”
Allanis gazed up at her with a tight-lipped frown as Athen and Madame Blanche hustled around the kitchen behind her.
“Madame Blanche is doing a fine job of it,” she said.
“Yes, but she’s busy right now, and no one has gone into the cells with food and water since morning.”
“Why are you so eager to do it, anyway?” Allanis snatched her hand away and put it on her hip. “Seems a little suspicious.”
Rori supposed she had a point. “I think I deserve to say something really smug to him. After everything he’s made me think about myself, he should see the shape I’m in now. I want to rub it in his face. You and Lazarus got to!”
“We weren’t down there rubbing it in his face!”
“Missed opportunity!” Athen sneered.
Allanis was slightly troubled by Athen’s growing hostility toward Rhett but couldn’t exactly blame him. She waved her hand in the air. “Alright, alright. Just be careful! Don’t let Rhett or Peyrs out for anything, got it? I don’t have trustworthy personnel enough for additional security, so I’m depending on you not to make any mistakes.”
“Of course! I’d never—”
“I know you wouldn’t.” Allanis headed for the door and out into the hallway. “But I let Phio convince me of that earlier, and that ended badly.”
“I won’t let you down, Allanis.”
Rori took two tin cups of water down to the cells but no food. Rhett was being punished, after all, not staying at a luxury inn. But she needed to see his face. She needed to see him behind the bars, fighting for his pride, refusing to adopt a shred of humility. She needed proof that he wasn’t going to change.
She was tired of holding out hope that things could be different. That they could be better.
Titha was on watch guarding the entrance to the cells, gazing expressionlessly like a statue. She barely shifted at all when Rori made the descent into the corridor.
It was early in the evening. The lantern lighting the cells was dimming. The wick would be replaced once more that night, and it’d burn out around midnight. It would remain dark until someone came down the next morning to repeat the process.
Rori slid a cup between the bars to Peyrs, who was trying to sleep with a grumpy scowl. She continued on till she was at the end, at Rhett’s cell, and slid the second cup in.
She expected him to be awake and waiting for his opportunity to hurl an insult. But all was quiet, and the air felt sticky and hot. And wrong. A terrible sense gurgled in her gut and crawled upward. The daemonic aura that usually clung to Rhett was heavy, just as it had been on the night Alor had returned to them.
“H-hey.” She wrapped her hands around the bars. “Hey, get up!”
He was curled up into a ball on the bedroll.
“Rhett, I’m talking to you! I said, get up!”
A groan escaped him, and immediately she knew something was wrong. He rolled over to look at her, and she saw his pale, sweat-slick face.
“Rori, is that you?” He squinted at something he thought he saw behind her.
“Are you sick? If this is some kind of trick, it won’t work!” she said. “I’m not letting you out of here!”
He tried to prop himself up, but his limbs quaked, and he lay back down, staring up at the ceiling. “Rori, there’s something down here.”
“Yes, I believe they call it a guilty conscience.”
“Can you do me a favor? Please, Rori.”
When he said ‘please,’ she took a step back. It couldn’t be a trick, she thought. He only said please when he was being sarcastic. Something was very wrong.
“I can make you something for that fever.”
“I’m not sick.” His eyes were fixed on something hovering over him that only he could see. “It’s Mother’s mirror, Rori. I need you to break Mother’s mirror.”
“You mean Tizzy’s mirror? Not a chance!” she yelled. “This is a trick. I know it is! What do you think you’re going to do? I bet I’m going to break that mirror for some kind of spell, and it’ll break the wards on your casting tool, and then—”
“Please, Rori. It wants me to break Mother’s mirror.”
She’d never heard him sound so afraid before.
“You would never want that.” She knelt down. “Rhett, you’re the last person who would want something to happen to that mirror. You sound crazy.”
“What if it’s her?” He turned and looked at her for only a moment. “Nothing’s impossible in this family. What if it’s her?”
Rori shook her head and stood up. “Rhett, she’s dead. You’re getting sick. I’m coming back w
ith a tincture.”
There was a knot in her chest as she walked back down the corridor and out of the cells. She left House Hallenar through the orchard door in the kitchen and raced to her shed.
Ashbel couldn’t remember the last time he had ever been east of Saunterton. In fact, the first time he’d traveled much of anywhere was when his sister had sent him to Suradia. Beyond that, he could only remember being confined to the walls of his city. And never without Titha.
He was surprised he had found the rendezvous spot without his handler’s help. It was only when he’d begun the horseback journey that he realized how stupid it was to have embarked alone to meet Anavelia. He was twelve. Alone on the road. Lost a few times. Staying at a roadside inn during the nights. A hundred—no, a thousand—terrible things could have happened to him.
But after four days, he had arrived unscathed without so much as an interesting tale to tell. He’d dressed in plain clothes with no crests or noteworthy colors, slapped a little dirt on his face, and had instantly become unimportant. Any person who had passed him by or given him a gaze at one of the roadside inns was soon uninterested. A grimy, lost boy would have no valuable possessions or information. A few sympathetic people had asked him if he needed help finding his parents or getting home, but he’d convinced them he was fine.
The journey had been terrifying, but success had him feeling invincible. He looked out over the Startlam family land feeling like the tallest twelve-year-old in the world.
The Startlams were a family hundreds of years old who had been sworn to the Lovell name for as long as anyone could remember, even before the Lovells had taken Saunterton into grandness. They were one of the few great families that had remained sworn to the Lovell name even after Venta Lovell was killed, leaving Anavelia—a foreigner—as its matriarch.
The Startlams called their home “Glenyard Castle,” but it wasn’t much of a castle at all. It was more of a large stone house surrounded by three modest guard towers. It sat up on a hill that overlooked the eastern Wistwilds and the small village of Gillamor.
