by Matthew Wolf
Sithel quaked with anger. “You dare to speak Citadel politics in front of these heathens?”
“I do what I must. You will not take this boy or any other boy back to her.”
“Stand down,” Sithel hissed. It was whispered, but it couldn’t have been harsher if he had bellowed it.
Both Devari unsheathed their blades.
The crowds gasped.
The quiet Devari leapt.
Sithel’s dark eyes flashed dangerously as he nodded. The man fell to a pile of ash. The first Devari, Zane’s defender, cried out and lunged for Sithel. The Reaver at Sithel’s side waved a hand, smirking. The Devari suddenly gasped as flames sprung from his clothes. He tore his tunic and shirt from his burning body with one hand, still running. With his other hand, he tossed a dagger. It flew, lodging itself in the three-stripe Reaver’s throat. The man gurgled blood and fell from his horse, dead. Abruptly, a roaring ball of fire seared the air to collide with the charging warrior. The Devari cried out as the fire consumed, eating away at the screams. Zane watched, unable to look away, feeling sick. At last, Sithel waved his hand. The fire vanquished. In its place was a body blackened like burnt meat, his smoldering clothes clung to his charred flesh. Zane gagged as the awful smell hit him.
Silence, like the pall of death, hung in the air. It had all happened so quickly. Zane slowly backed away, knowing that if there was a time to run and honor the Devari’s sacrifice, it was now or never.
Sithel sniffed the air like a rat as his head swiveled, turning to Zane. “Where do you think you’re going?”
The Reaver at his side snapped his fingers and nerves pinched in the back of Zane’s legs, wincing in pain as he collapsed to the ground. He knew they were controlling them by threading the element of flesh. He snarled in rebellion, but there was nothing he could do.
“Really now,” Sithel said, pulling back his hood to expose his features to the light of day, and Zane balked. With black eyes, sunken cheeks, and sallow skin, the man looked as if he’d been born in a dark pit, more creature of night than human. His long ebony hair sucked in the light and seemed to move about his face like writhing snakes. By contrast, it made his pale skin appear almost translucent. He picked his filed teeth with a long, black fingernail and spoke again. “We’ve made far more of a spectacle out of this than necessary. Now I’ll ask only once. Come with us quietly, won’t you?”
Zane seethed, his blood rising again. “You mean do I care to die quietly?” He was no longer afraid. Instead, seeing the Devari die had filled him with a mounting rage.
Sithel shrugged. “Choose what words you will.”
He made a gesture, and men moved forward to grab Zane. His fear spiked.
“I…” Zane thought of the most outrageous lie he could. “I’m not an orphan.”
Raising his hairless brow, Sithel laughed. “Is that so?” He sounded amused and doubtful, yet the large, approaching men hesitated, if only for a moment. “Well, where is your precious family then?”
“My family…”
“Lad!” A voice called, sounding over his thudding heart, coming from the crowds. All turned to the sound, including Sithel and the other Reavers. The throng parted, revealing an old man with gray hair, a beak nose, drooping cheeks like soggy bread, and a hunched back. He leaned heavily on what looked like the gnarled root of a Sansa tree made into a staff. “Boy, light and flesh, there you are! I should have known if I let you wander off on your own, you’d have the whole Citadel crashing down on your head!”
“Who are you, old man?” Sithel questioned.
The old man hobbled to Zane’s side, seemingly oblivious to the danger. The crowds seemed equally perplexed. “Who am I? Isn’t it obvious? I’m his father!”
Zane’s mouth parted.
Sithel looked to him, and he swiftly wiped the look from his face and nodded as confidently as he could. “This… is your son?” Sithel asked, looking suspicious but not entirely disbelieving.
“Are you hard of hearing, young man?” the old man questioned and chuckled to himself, eyeing Zane. “Well, I suppose the resemblance isn’t easy to see. He’s got his mother’s looks mostly, and her knack for finding trouble. But that nose, sure as sugar, is mine!” Zane eyed the man’s large nose and realized it was much like his own bold nose—in fact, it looked almost identical, albeit bigger. Old men’s noses always did seem to grow with age. Coincidence, he told himself… And yet… Could the old man really be my father? Zane shook his head. No, it couldn’t be. But the man was saving his hide. Zane realized he’d better fall in line and quick.
“Sorry, da’. I know you told me to get a new bridle for Jess, but this procession was in the way, and the only way through was… well, straight through.”
The old man, his back turned to the others, flashed Zane a wink of approval. Then he turned back to let Sithel see his disappointment as he wagged an admonishing finger. “See? How many times have I told you? You have a good head on you, if only you’d actually use it. Now, apologize to this man quickly, and we’ll be on our way.”
“I’m afraid not,” Sithel sighed. “This is Citadel business now, old man, and your boy is caught up in it. He is coming with us.”
The old man rubbed his chin. Again, he wondered who the old man was… Didn’t he know whom he was talking? “Oh, really? Taking my own boy from me in front of all these people? Is that truly the will of the Patriarch? Is that what the mighty Citadel has come to now? Noble Reavers stealing boys from the street and killing their own Devari?”
“Silence!” a Reaver with two stripes shouted with a snarl. Zane saw the old man’s words sink beneath their skin, and he hid a grin. He plays a dangerous game. It reminded him of Terus, a street game where one lived or died by the flip of a dagger. “You stand before Reavers, men and women who can peel the skin from your bones. Show some respect!” The ground rumbled, and the lecarta’s red drapes wavered.
In that moment, Zane saw something behind the drapes—a brilliant flash of blue. It was so bright and mesmerizing that he took a step towards it, wanting to touch the miniature, azure sun. A chill flashed through him. He took another step, passing the old man pretending to be his father. His blood felt on fire and yet frozen all at the same time. Zane reached out just as the drapes settled but, at once, the image was gone. Shaking his head, he wondered: What was that?
“Mighty powerful words…” the old man said softly, and a dangerous note entered his voice. “Powerful and foolish, seeing as the word Reaver means ‘protector of the people’, but I suppose you’ve forgotten that…”
The Reaver who spoke bristled, then raised a hand as if to thread.
“Enough!” Sithel spat. “You forget your place, Calid.”
Why did the man stop? But as Zane looked around, he saw all the crowds wore vigilant looks and realized it was clear Sithel and his minion were treading too far. Taking a boy from his own father before a crowd of witnesses was something that Zane suspected even the Patriarch would hear of. The Citadel, while growing darker, still heeded to the voice of the citizens.
Calid’s mouth worked soundlessly. At last, the two-stripe Reaver lowered his head. “Apologies, my lord.”
Sithel turned his horse and spoke over his shoulder. “Take your son and go, but, if we meet again, know my mercy has its limits.”
With that, he rode off, back to the head of the procession.
The old man ushered Zane towards the crowd. But Zane stopped for a moment. He eyed the ash pile that was once a Devari then the broken, burnt body of the blue-eyed Devari. Several muscled men grabbed him, putting him on their shoulders and carrying him away. Is he dead? Zane wondered. The man had saved him, sacrificing himself. Why? I hadn’t asked it… He hated owing anyone anything, and now his life was indebted to a man who was likely dead. The old man tugged Zane’s arm, and he let himself be taken. Whispers sifted through the crowds, following them. Men and women, merchants, beggars, mothers, fathers, all stared at him as if he were a leper and a Reaver combined
—looks of fear and respect.
Behind them, music filled the air as musicians took up their instruments, and the procession carried on as if it had never been stopped.
He followed the old man through the thicket of people like he was pressing through a field of wheat. The old man hobbled, using his gnarled staff to gently push the crowds out of their way. Most parted for them easily though, trying to glimpse the one who had been at the center of it all. As they moved, Zane couldn’t help thinking about Hannah, about that strange man, about the guilt of the Devari and his death, but strangely, most of all about that blue orb.
At last, they broke through the last stand of people as if parting the clouds. Zane breathed a sigh of relief. He hadn’t realized how much he hated being around so many people.
He took in his surroundings.
The alley was bright but empty. They were in a nicer part of town, one closer to the Citadel. He could see those tall, black towers above the adobe walls that crowded them from either side.
He turned to his savior.
The old man appeared taller and less hunched. Zane shook his head. Was he seeing things? Suddenly, the air rippled like heat waves and he gawked. The old man faded as if just a mirage, and in his place was a tall, regal looking man with broad shoulders. He was still wizened in years, but his face was smoother, almost handsome. The drooping white brows became thick and dark. His eyes—those eyes… No longer were they dull and glazed with the film of age, but penetrating and brimming with great wisdom and mystery. This was no mere man, Zane knew. Authority and power resonated from him the way the sun radiated heat. He wanted to avert his gaze, but there was something kind and settling about the man’s face.
“That was closer than I intended. Far too close.” His voice too had changed, deeper and full of control—but still it bore the fearless undertone. “I had not thought this day would come so soon…”
Zane narrowed his gaze. “Who or what are you?”
The man smiled, giving a grandfatherly look. “You do not look like I was expecting. You’re taller, and blonde… but you have his eyes.” Zane shook his head. Is the man mad? Is that the danger I sensed? But he was curious too. The mysterious man spoke again, “We were lucky this time. In the future, you must avoid that man you just met and the one called Darkeye. Both are dangerous, more so than you could possibly imagine.”
Despite himself, Zane chuckled. “Is that so? I’m not sure if you know this, but I didn’t exactly intend on running into that man, and everyone knows to avoid Darkeye. I’m a fan of danger as much as any man, which is not at all.” As he said the words, they sounded like a lie. Stealing from Darkeye? Is that how I avoid danger?
“It will not be easy. You will be pulled towards Darkeye like a string drawn by a loom.”
The younger man put a hand to his head. “How do you know this? And who are you?”
“Someone you can trust,” his savior answered.
“No offense,” Zane remarked, “but I only trust two people in this world, and you aren’t one of them.”
“Beware that sentiment,” the man said. “For a heart does not open easily once it is closed.” The man’s eyes flashed in pain and anger, but then the image was gone, as if never there.
Whatever this man is, Zane realized, above all, he is dangerous. He shifted his stance, reassuring himself with the dagger at his hip and said, “Listen, thank you for saving me. I owe you, and you should know that I always repay my debts. But… Whatever it is you’re offering, I don’t want any part of it.”
The man sighed, looking distant, lost in memory. “I remember a look much like that from a young man very close to your age. It is sad when such mantles of power and duty are placed upon those so young.” What is he talking about? “For now, Zane, I simply come with words of caution and a gift. Take this, and don’t lose it.” He pressed something cold and metallic into Zane’s palm—a silver figurine of a squat man, a sword resting across his lap. Zane held it, puzzled. “One last thing: when the time comes, you can trust the man who speaks with the winds.”
Speaks with the winds…? The man talked in riddles. But before he could say anything, the mysterious old man turned and walked away. Beyond the alley, the flow of traffic returned to the city—the procession long passed. Zane called to him. “Wait! I don’t even know who you are! At the least, tell me your name…”
The man paused and looked over his shoulder. Backlit by the sun, Zane saw the wisp of a smile. “Ezrah,” he replied.
Dark Things
SILVER BUGS BOBBED IN THE NIGHT air like dancing lanterns. Their potent glow seemed like orbs of frost, and Gray dared not disturb them but flowed between them.
Dragon Finds the Roost.
Morrowil spun above Gray’s head then plunged, diving for an unseen foe’s heart. It was almost unnecessarily extravagant, and he would never do it in battle for the time it took, but it was powerful. Gray didn’t stop. With his eyes flashing open and closed, he moved through the forms—forms which he didn’t know until he began moving. They came to him like a dream, forming pictures in his mind. Beetle Skims the Water. He made short sprinting bursts, legs and arms straining with a series of fast thrusts.
Too open! he told himself.
Fluidly, he backpedaled into Crane Fans its Wings—like wind, Morrowil cut, parrying his imagined enemies in a figure-eight motion. Sweat beaded on Gray’s brow, concentration intensifying. I must go faster, his mind pressed. But his muscles burned. The mind is stronger than the body—a quote that wasn’t his. Devari. He shut the thoughts out and lost himself to the forms. Crane Fans its Wings met Darting Snake, which flowed awkwardly into Thief’s Reprisal. Every move was aggressive, hard, and unrelenting.
Find balance! his fighting side instructed.
He ignored it. He ducked, evading a pretend blade that would’ve taken his head and rolled smoothly across the ground. Mid roll, he grabbed a fistful of dirt. As he came to his feet, he flung the dirt in the imaginary opponent’s eyes and cut down. Morrowil sparked upon the bits of granite sand. It would never work against a Devari. Again, it was his own voice, his own doubt. Without slowing, he whipped the blade around his body, cutting down a charge, then dove, rolled and with a cry—
Too open! Kirin yelled.
That voice… His concentration shattered like a brittle sword. Morrowil slipped from his sweaty grip. He opened his eyes. The sword lay upon the ground, pulsing a brilliant silver as always, beating back the night’s gloom.
“Kirin?” he voiced aloud.
Silence, save for his heavy breathing and the subtle hum of the bugs.
“I know you’re there…” he said, fearful and curious.
There was a rustle of movement behind him. “Gray?” a voice said.
Gray turned.
Ayva’s blue shawl was wrapped around her slender frame, staving off the cool night air. She was back to pleated riding skirts and brown boots. Despite the darkness, and not for the first time, he noticed her subtle curves. He looked back to her eyes, glad of the darkness as his cheeks heated. She wore a look of innocent confusion.
“What’s going on?” Ayva asked.
Suddenly, as if upon seeing her, life and reality seemed to settle around him again. Gray panted, taking ragged lungfuls of strangely sweet air, for Farhaven’s magic permeated all things, and he felt it with every breath. They were in the desert, and had been for the past week. Though the map Karil had given them didn’t show distances, they’d estimated the journey would take a full moon’s cycle to reach Farbs. But Gray found it hard to trust the simple piece of paper, for the desert seemed endless, broken only by odd patches of forest, meadow, or stream. Once, they’d even seen a waterfall. How did such a thing occur in this arid landscape? Farhaven was strange and extraordinaire indeed, and he had a feeling they’d only brushed the surface.
He shook his head and smiled, rubbing a hand through his disheveled hair and feeling sweat run down his arm. It reminded him that he needed to bathe and cut his h
air—it nearly touched his shoulders now. “Just a little training,” he said, “nothing to worry about. What are you doing up? It’s still my watch, isn’t it?”
“It is,” she said, “but I can’t sleep…” She eyed the nearby darkness, then asked hesitantly, “A second ago, were you just talking to yourself?”
“Probably…” he admitted with a wince, feigning embarrassment to hide what he truly felt: pure and utter confusion. Kirin was supposed to be dead and gone… Killed when he thrust the sword into the stone. He was only Gray now, but it sounded too much like he was convincing himself. “It’s weird, I know, but I’ve done it for as long as I can remember.” He hated twisting the truth, but dealing with the idea of Kirin was something he didn’t know how to broach with her. Are you there? he thought again, probing his mind.
Ayva seemed to relax. “I talk to myself when I’m bored too, breaks the tedium of a long watch,” she admitted, her judging gaze turning away at last. Gray hid a shiver. Sometimes he felt as if they were waiting to see something inside of him.
They are looking to see Kail, Kirin whispered, amused.
You’re back…
Ayva smiled and raised an amused brow. “What are you talking about? I never left, Gray.”
“What?” he asked instinctually.
She neared and touched his bare arm. “Darius and I are with you. You know that.”
Gray grimaced, he hadn’t realized he’d said it aloud, and she took it… He must have sounded vulnerable. “I know,” he said confidently. “I couldn’t do this without you two, nor would I want to.” He meant it but changed the topic. “Yet how much longer do you think we’ll have to travel this cursed desert?”
“I’m not sure,” she answered. “Judging by the map, we’re probably a few days away from a town called Tormen that butts against a large river—which, by the way, looks huge. If the map is any indication, we could fit a hundred Sils within this Umai River.” As always, her voice became entranced, and Gray imagined being here, in Farhaven, was like a dream come true for her. He wondered, is that why she doesn’t sleep? As if Ayva was already dreaming, and to sleep was to wake from this adventure. She continued, “Then beyond the river, it becomes real desert all the way until we reach Farbs.”
