by Kaylin Lee
Chapter 38
The room I woke to was dim, but grayish-white light trickled in through the single, small window. I stirred on a hard surface and groaned at the way my limbs tingled.
I’d passed out on the floor by the fire as soon as we’d arrived at their shelter, which turned out to be a shack a few steps from where I had met the strangers.
“Awake.” A thickly-accented voice spoke. The young man from the night before helped me sit up and pressed a hot, steaming mug of broth mixed with herbs into my hands. “Good.”
I sipped, straining not to grimace as the bitter taste and burning heat stung my tongue.
The hut contained two narrow cots and a low table. By the door, three shelves overflowed with odds and ends reminiscent of the gear I’d originally carried in my pack into the Badlands.
“It’s morning?” I’d spent the night with complete strangers. I rubbed my eyes as I set the mug of bitter broth aside. Not just strangers. Foreigners. Westerners.
“Yes.”
I eyed the boy’s shock of red hair. He was about thirteen, with a square jaw, gangly limbs, and hands and feet that seemed far too big for his body.
Voices rumbled outside. A moment later, a thickly-bundled figure stepped into the hut alone. He shut the door quickly, but not fast enough to stop a puff of snow from blowing into the dwelling.
The man removed his hat and hung it on a hook by the door. He was elderly, perhaps Professor Kristof’s age, but he practically vibrated with healthy, exuberant energy. He kept up a steady stream of foreign chatter directed at the boy. It was good-natured chatter, I supposed from the way his eyes crinkled kindly as he spoke, but the boy’s sullen expression and reluctant, grumbled replies made me wonder what he was saying.
When the older man finally fell silent, I touched my own hair then pointed at the boy’s. “You are both Western, like me?”
The man spoke as though responding to my question, but once again, I didn’t understand.
The boy replied to the man in their tongue, but he kept his narrow-eyed gaze on me.
The man chortled and launched into a long, jumbled rant. Then he clapped me on the shoulder and squeezed, making me flinch.
The boy grimaced and gestured for him to remove his hand, which the old man did, grinning unapologetically.
“Silvio,” he said, tapping his own chest. Then he pointed to the boy. “Tavar.”
“Ruby,” I managed, forcing myself to smile, though I was so rattled I could barely finish the word. “Thank you for sheltering me last night.”
Tavar rolled his eyes and crossed his arms, finally bringing his focus back to me. “We are not Western,” he said in his oddly-accented words. “You are not Western either.” He shook his head. “Western,” he repeated, spitting the word out like a curse. “You Therosians, always hiding behind your city walls. You know nothing.”
I glanced between him and Silvio, a strange, weightless feeling in my stomach. “I don’t understand.”
Tavar grunted. “The West is not a … a place.” He paused, his eyes searching the ceiling as though the correct words lurked in the cobwebby rafters of their shack. “West…” He gestured to the side in a jerky, frustrated movement, “is a direction.”
I crossed my arms. “I know that. But we have the same hair and skin, and I know my great-grandfather came from the West. You and I share the same people.”
“The West,” he said again, sounding frustrated. “You don’t listen. In the West were many lands. Many lands, greater than yours, with riches and wonders and peoples more than you could ever imagine. Now, there is nothing but plague.” His lips pressed into a thin line. “We are from Formos.” He gestured to himself and Silvio then to me, as though begrudgingly including me in their people. “You, too. Probably.”
A strange chill went up my arms at his words. “Formos.” The word didn’t sound familiar. “I’ve never heard of it. And there are other lands in the West, like Formos?”
The boy scoffed. “You think you study our lands. But you have only small pieces. You know nothing,” he repeated. “Nothing.”
He said something to Silvio in their tongue, and the old man grinned widely. He hauled me up by the arm and pushed me toward the door.
Tavar shoved my hat back on my head as Silvio opened the door and pulled me into the blinding white morning.
When my eyes adjusted, I realized we were in a cluster of at least two-dozen huts. I must not have seen the other dwellings in the blizzard the night before. The huts were in a wide clearing in the now calm, snow-covered forest, with a steep, mountain slope on the other side of the clearing. Every chimney puffed happily, and the quiet sounds of laughter, conversation, and work filled the air.
Silvio led me down a thin path through the snow, and Tavar pushed me none too gently from behind.
The next thing I knew, we were in front of another shack slightly larger than the place we’d just left.
Silvio knocked and shouted a loud greeting.
A tall, dark-skinned woman opened the door. She smiled widely, her bright-blue eyes lighting up as she greeted them in their tongue, a lilting accent to her own foreign words. She was slender and beautiful, her face lined with age but her lips full and soft.
She pulled back into the shack and gestured for us to enter. I followed the man inside. She shut the door behind us, bustled around getting hot mugs of that bitter herb drink for everyone, and nudged me into a chair.
I sat beside Tavar, feeling like my legs had turned to liquid.
Something beneath the table poked me in the leg. I yelped and looked down.
Beneath the table, two small children with pretty, blue eyes and midnight skin watched me curiously.
The woman spoke several stern words, and they crawled out from under the table, never taking their eyes off me.
The woman and Silvio went back to talking happily, occasionally gesturing to me, while Tavar watched me warily, like he expected me to do something frightening at any moment. “Balei, also from …” He waved his hand. “Outside. Like us. Not just west. Everywhere.”
A strange, uncomfortable feeling pressed against my skin. Silvio and this new woman seemed so cheerful and friendly, but what were they doing out here in the middle of the Badlands? And why did I feel so odd?
There was a pained noise, like a man groaning. I turned in my seat. Then I shot to my feet, shoving the chair back as I stumbled away from the sight before me.
A man huddled on a rickety chair in the shack’s corner, his skin glowing with the aurae’s unmistakable, silver halo.
“Questus? Aurae?” I pressed a hand to my mouth. “What are you doing with that vile stuff?”
I stumbled away from the table, dodging back as Silvio tried to pat my shoulder again.
“Wait.” Tavar held out one hand as he exchanged several rapid-fire words with the two adults.
I edged toward the door, though I didn’t know what I would do if I left. It had never once occurred to me that Badlanders would welcome aurae like Asylians and Draicians. The shock made my head spin.
Tavar finally finished his conversation. “Sit. Sit! Do not go. We will talk.” He scowled when I didn’t come back to the table. “Please?”
You can do this, Ruby. If these Westerners were using aurae, I had to get the story, not run away. I sat slowly, my legs shaking like they wanted to flee without my permission.
Tavar gestured to the corner. “That man is Balei’s husband. He serves the Masters with his … spirit. His…heart?” Tavar looked confused, but shook his head abruptly, dismissing his own confusion. “Each family gives one person, one to serve.”
They choose aurae, and the curse takes hold. Balei’s husband wasn’t using aurae for pleasure. He was serving. “Who are your Masters?” I heard my words from far away. The question came reluctantly, as though deep down, I didn’t really want to know the answer.
Tavar frowned. “The land is theirs. We leave the plague.” He asked Silvio something and scowled at
the older man’s answer. “We come here. Protected land, walled cities. We think … no plague here. We seek shelter, but the cities do not open their gates. Always shut.”
“When?” My pulse raced.
He shrugged. “I was a baby. I …” He gestured to his head. “No memory.” He pressed his lips together, as though annoyed at the thought of his own babyhood.
“Why do you speak our tongue, but the others do not?”
“My ma and da.” His tone grew dark. “They love your tongue, your land. Theros. They bring us here. Then they must serve Masters. Serve then die. Every family must give one. Some give two.”
My hands were chilled, and I pressed them to the mug. “Serve …” I gestured to the glowing man with the placid expression. “Like him?”
The boy nodded.
“Why? What happened?” Why did they serve then die?
He shrugged. “Much bright light. Then … nothing left.”
Silvio seemed to have guessed the subject of conversation, for he placed a gentle arm around the boy’s tight shoulders.
I nodded slowly. “Much bright light.” That must be related to the curse, but it didn’t tell me anything about the curse’s purpose. “The Masters own this land?”
“The Masters own everything,” he said bleakly. “Everywhere.”
The sick feeling in my stomach grew worse.
What would Grandmother want me to do? Get to Asylia to save her from the Wolves or follow this story to its end, like she’d always taught me?
Follow the lead.
Interview the victims.
Identify the criminals.
Tell their story.
“Where can I find the Masters?”
Chapter 39
The world was nothing but snow, ice, and snow-laden trees.
I stood at the edge of the small Western settlement, feeling numb from cold already as Silvio and Tavar helped me strap my satchel over Lucien’s oversized coat.
Silvio clapped me hard on the back, making me stumble in the snow. “Brave,” he said, loudly and slowly, glancing at Tavar as though checking his pronunciation.
Tavar nodded curtly, his jaw tight.
“Brave,” Silvio said again, nodding enthusiastically. Then he pointed into the thick forest on the upward slope. “Go.”
Tavar walked with me at first, explaining the route in his odd, accented words. “Climb this way,” he grumbled, gesturing uphill. “Go down to the valley.” Then I was to search for what I’d gathered was a frozen waterfall and climb another steep hill, which Tavar seemed to doubt I’d be able to do, and find the Masters in their dwelling at the top of the waterfall.
“What does their dwelling look like?”
Tavar shuddered and ignored the question. “Very brave, very stupid,” he said bluntly, avoiding my eyes as we picked our way around a cluster of trees too close together to pass through. “You will serve, too. Everyone must serve.”
Snow cascaded down onto my hat as we brushed the branches. I thought of Grandmother, alone and vulnerable in her apartment by the Herald’s offices, waiting unknowingly for Demetrius and his men to descend on her. If she knew of these Masters and this mysterious curse, she would do whatever she could to stop them. No matter how brave or how stupid.
“Not everyone,” I retorted under my breath.
The boy frowned.
I raised my voice slightly. “Some will always resist.” The words were out of my mouth before I realized I’d just echoed Demetrius.
Tavar stopped, his gaze hard. “Go up.” He pointed at the slope we’d been climbing. “Soon, you will see.”
Tavar’s warning echoed in my mind as he trudged back the way we’d come.
Then I faced the mountain alone and forced my legs to move forward.
By midday, I’d reached the slope’s crest. The valley Tavar had described was shaded in deep purple. The spacing of the trees hinted at water winding through the valley’s center, which meant I was hopefully near the frozen waterfall.
I began to descend.
Could the Masters see me, even now? Did they know of my approach?
And who were they, anyway, these mysterious people who owned everything, everywhere?
The Badlands held nothing but weak, cast-off mages and strange loners who chose the rough life of nomads and hermits over the comfort and community of the city. And at least one settlement of Westerners, I now knew.
Who else was hiding in these bleak, inhospitable lands between the walled cities?
It was late afternoon, by my estimates, when I entered the valley. My stomach grew more unsettled as I followed the icy river upstream. I sipped the water but didn’t eat any of the food they’d given me. The way my stomach was roiling with fear, I knew the food wouldn’t sit well.
No animals moved in the snow. No birds called out. The valley was eerily silent. I saw no hint of tracks along the river. It should have been a relief, but instead, I wondered what the animals knew that I didn’t.
It was twilight when I rounded a bend in the river and discovered the frozen waterfall just up ahead.
I stopped, dumbfounded, and shoved my hair out of my eyes. I’d found it.
At the top of the waterfall, on the other side of the river, stood a huge, beautiful wood structure.
The house—if I could call it that—was nearly as wide as Prince Estevan’s palace and several stories high, with windows that radiated bright, silvery light. The sky overhead was a soft, gray-blue haze that looked inviting behind the gorgeous wooden dwelling. As I stood, gaping, snowflakes began to fall, sparkling on their way down. Even snow was prettier here.
How had they constructed such an enormous, elegant structure in the middle of nowhere? And why would they do such a thing?
The snow slowed then stopped when I was partway up the steep slope beside the waterfall. The clouds cleared, and the moon rose in the starlit sky as I reached the top.
I paused to catch my breath. I’d made it. A long bridge about two feet wide stretched across the frozen river. At its end, a grand staircase rose to a large set of doors, lit by elegant, carved lanterns on either side of the entrance.
I gripped the icy bridge’s rails, and trembled with my every step, no matter how carefully I walked.
Somehow, I reached the other side without slipping. I stood at the entrance for a moment, trying to make sense of my whirling emotions.
“This is no different than anything else you’ve done, Ruby,” I whispered, holding on to my satchel’s strap for dear life. “Like Dukas. Like everyone else. Get the facts and tell the story. It’s the right thing to do.”
I forced myself up the stairs, lifted my hand, and knocked three times.
A moment later, the door swung open, revealing a bright, tidy entryway. I swallowed. There was no one there, so how had the door opened?
“Hello?” I entered the house.
The door clicked shut behind me. I whirled around, but no one was there.
“My name is Ruby Contos,” I offered, my words deafeningly loud in the otherwise silent hallway. “I just want to talk.”
“Talk?” A high, hissing voice echoed through the hallway, making my ears hurt. The word was followed by a burst of sharp laughter.
A sudden rush of wind blew my hair back, and a woman appeared before me. I gasped.
She was tall, thin, and beautiful, with hair so blonde it was almost white. Her pale-blue eyes were large and cold. Her whitish-gray skin glowed as though lit from within. She wore a strange, old-fashioned violet robe draped elegantly over one shoulder, and it sparkled with silvery light.
“Yes.” She reached out and ran a hand over my hair, making me shiver. “We will indeed talk.” She nodded, her lips tilting up in a frighteningly empty smile. “Come.”
There was a loud snap. My vision went black. Pain rushed at me from every direction but disappeared the next moment.
My legs buckled. When my vision cleared, I was on my knees in an enormous ballroom full of sublimely gorg
eous men and women like the one who’d met me in the entryway.
I clutched my bruised chest. Whatever magic had transported me here had done so through sheer force.
What kind of magic felt like … pure violence?
My hostess appeared beside me. “She wants to talk to us.”
There had to be at least thirty of them, all clad in glittery, old-fashioned robes like hers. In unison, they fixed their attention on me. Their eyes glowed with silver light, and their expressions ranged from disinterest to disgust.
The ballroom’s ceiling was high and lit by a dozen silvery chandeliers. No one was eating or drinking, but every person held at least one crystal vial.
I tried to get to my feet, but the woman pointed a sharp finger at my head. A harsh wind forced me back to my knees, blew off my hat, and sent my hair into wild, chaotic spirals.
When the wind finally died, I was gasping for breath. I stayed on my knees, my mind reeling. She was obviously a mage, a powerful, expellant mage like Chloe. Were they cast-offs from Asylia or Draicia? But why would the Asylian government or the Draician clans let go of such a strong mage?
“You do not stand in our presence, creature.” The woman flicked her fingers again, and a punishing gust of wind lifted me and slammed me hard against the ground to prove her point.
I whimpered as pain shot through my knees. “Who are you?”
“What a question to ask!” She laughed, the sound a light, breathless tinkle. “We are your kings and queens, creature!” She gestured toward the crowd that faced us. One by one, they laughed as well. “We are your lords and your ladies, your princes and princesses.”
She flicked her fingers. “We are your Masters.” A heavy force shoved me forward, so that my upper body was pressed against the floor.
“We are your Masters,” the crowd repeated, the statement rippling through the room as each one echoed another.
I tried to push up from the floor, but the force pressed harder, until the very air was squeezed from my lungs.
There was a loud pop. The force disappeared.
