Heartland

by Lucy Hounsom

  Gareth started to drift towards them. Before her nerve failed, Brégenne hooked a leg over the ship’s rail and used one of the trailing ropes to swing to earth. Yara screamed her name and she hoped the ship wouldn’t just cast off without her. She couldn’t spare a look, too frightened to break eye contact with Gareth.

  His face was almost as skeletal as the skulls surrounding them, covered by a bare scrap of flesh, but she had to believe she could reach him; if she failed, she would die. He extended his gauntleted hand towards her, slowly splaying his fingers. Brégenne looked at that hand and she shuddered, knowing what it was capable of.

  Then she seized hold of it.

  The Lunar pouring into her spasmed in protest. She struggled to maintain the connection, to pull energy down from the sky to fill the space inside her. Brégenne gritted her teeth, fighting harder, dimly aware that her skin was mottling black where it touched Gareth’s. Those soulless eyes widened as she stared into them, as she forced the energy down her arm and into the wasted hand she held.

  Gareth let out a shriek, a high, cold wail that no human throat could make. Though it chilled Brégenne, she didn’t let go, but forced more Lunar energy into him, feeling it battling with the power of the gauntlet. Slowly, slowly, the silver spread and the shadows that wrapped Gareth withdrew, shrinking from his body, curling down into the gauntlet on his arm. While his face was again familiar, it was still a death mask.

  As the power that held him aloft relinquished its grip, Gareth’s feet touched earth and immediately his legs crumpled, pulling Brégenne down too. She stopped the flow of Lunar energy, but she couldn’t let him go, not yet, not until she was sure she had him back. His eyes were closed as she leaned over him, ear to his chest, listening hard, looking for signs of life.

  There were none. Gareth was dead.

  31

  Calmaracia, Acre

  Kyndra

  ‘You’re holding it wrong.’

  ‘I’m holding it like you showed me.’

  ‘No, you’re not. It’s a stick not a sword – no sharp edges. You look like you’re planning to run me through with it and, believe me, the most I’d get is a nasty bruise.’

  Kyndra scowled, adjusting her grip on the kali stick. ‘Better?’

  ‘Not really,’ Char told her. ‘You need to angle it across your body like this.’ He demonstrated with the other stick, holding it at a diagonal in front of him, left end pointing up.

  Kyndra copied him.

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Now loosen your wrist. You’ve got it in a death grip.’

  She tried to hold it less tightly.

  ‘I can still see the tension in your hand. You need suppleness in order to move fluidly from form to form.’

  ‘If I loosen my grip any more, I’ll drop it,’ she snapped.

  ‘It’s about finding the balance. If you hold it too tightly –’ he swung his own kali stick, it struck hers hard and sent it flying from her hand – ‘your wrist locks and you can’t block in time.’ He poked her in the stomach with the end of his stick. ‘Dead.’

  She suppressed a growl. ‘You didn’t give me any warning.’

  ‘And you think an enemy will?’

  Kyndra struggled to master her frustration as she collected her dropped kali stick. Why had she ever asked Char to teach her in the first place? He was a terrible teacher.

  Or you’re a terrible learner.

  She grudgingly acknowledged the truth of that. Perhaps she just wasn’t warrior material. I didn’t exactly grow up in a place that encouraged weapons training, she thought, picturing sleepy Brenwym. She felt a fleeting urge to laugh: wine was her specialist knowledge, along with ale and beer and convincing people they wanted to buy it. She’d not be fighting battles wielding that.

  Ma sat beneath a tree, watching them. Her face was closed; they were a week out of Cymenza and still Kyndra couldn’t decide what to make of her, or of her relationship with Char. She claimed he was like a son, but treated him much as she did everyone else – with quiet words and distance.

  It also felt strange to be on the road again without Medavle. The Yadin could be as reticent as Ma, but Kyndra realized they’d unconsciously looked to him to guide. She might be the Starborn who’d led them into Acre, but it was Medavle’s presence that had kept them from feeling they were moving blindly. She remembered Ma’s unveiled threat on the night he’d been taken and shivered; Medavle couldn’t know what the Khronostians were planning to do with him, surely he couldn’t.

  ‘An opponent isn’t likely to wait for you to stop dreaming,’ came Char’s voice and Kyndra started. Night was coming down fast, concealing the lush valley where they had camped to await the arrival of Rogan’s promised backup. His agents were out there even now, watching for the hundred or so fighters who’d accompany them to Khronosta. She’d feel a lot better with a sizable force around her, Kyndra admitted.

  She raised her stick again, angling it as Char had shown her. He nodded in approval. When he swung his kali stick, she successfully blocked it, jumping back as it came swishing in again at a different height. ‘Unorthodox,’ he said at her leap. ‘You’re supposed to be practising blocking, not dodging.’

  ‘At least I didn’t get hit,’ she said and then gasped as he darted forward, swung his weapon and once again sent her stick spinning into the air.

  ‘You’re letting your guard down,’ he said reprovingly, as he bent to fetch the kali stick from the ground. ‘Few fights are finished in a single strike unless one of the participants is especially skilful.’

  ‘Well, you’re only letting me practise with a single weapon. Why can’t I try with both?’

  ‘Because you need to get your stance and your grip right first. Otherwise there’s no point.’

  Kyndra gave him a dark look and Char held up his hands, still clutching the kali sticks. ‘All right. Here –’ he thrust the sticks at her – ‘be my guest.’

  She took them, feeling how light and yet tough each one was. They’d once been polished, but were scuffed now through use. ‘What wood is this?’ she asked curiously.

  ‘It’s not wood. They’re made from a kind of vine.’

  ‘A vine?’

  ‘Rattan,’ Char clarified. ‘These are the basic type. Ma has a pair of ironwood ones – much more dangerous – so she used rattan for sparring with me.’

  Kyndra glanced at the woman beneath the tree and then turned the kali sticks over in her hands. ‘I can’t believe they’ll actually turn a blade.’

  ‘They don’t splinter like wood and they’re far lighter. They’re built for moving quickly.’

  She planted her feet in the defensive stance and raised the stick in her right hand, but she was unsure what to do with the left.

  ‘Like this,’ Char explained as he moved behind her, positioning her arms so that the right guarded her upper body, the left her lower. ‘Bend your knees a little more,’ he murmured in her ear and she couldn’t suppress a shiver at the feel of his breath on her neck, the touch of his hands on her bare forearms, his skin feverish hot as always. His hands lingered a little longer before letting her go. She tried to ignore how hard her heart was beating.

  She stole a glance at Char as he returned to stand in front of her and couldn’t help noticing the strength in his arms, the contrast his hair made against his dusky skin, the coiled way he held himself, as if he never dared relax.

  They stopped the practice when it grew too dark to see. What’s the point anyway, Kyndra thought despondently, going to check on her horse. She hadn’t shown much prowess at fighting and didn’t have the time to learn to wield the sticks as Char did. She knew the real reason behind her request was to avoid using her powers; frightened of losing herself to the unfeeling dominion of the stars. She feared Char knew it too.

  The black stallion snorted into her palm and she fed him one of the apples from her saddlebag. She’d finally decided on a name; he deserved one after what he’d been through. Alioth, she called him, which meant literal
ly ‘black horse’ in Acrean. It was a word she’d learned unwittingly from Kierik – not very imaginative, but she liked the sound of it.

  ‘Kyndra? Are you all right?’

  She realized she’d buried her face in her horse’s flank, trying to still the turbulence inside her. When she looked up, she saw Nediah, his green eyes serious. ‘We’ll get him back,’ the Wielder said.

  ‘It’s not just about Medavle,’ she said softly. ‘I … everything that’s happened. I feel like I’ve been blundering along, making mistake after mistake, and it’s only you and the others who’ve kept things from falling apart.’ When she saw him about to speak, she rushed on. ‘We couldn’t have gained Ségin’s trust without you healing Owen. The Defiant would be dead if Medavle and Irilin hadn’t helped clear that passage. You were the one who saw the truth about the Sartyans – I should have listened to you. I was so determined to avoid repeating the past.’

  Nediah frowned. ‘Where has all this come from?’

  ‘I just …’ Kyndra shook her head. ‘I don’t know why any of you ever looked to me to lead. Shika –’ her voice cracked – ‘is dead because of me, along with hundreds of soldiers who were only following orders. All because I don’t want to be a Starborn. I don’t want to be what I am.’

  ‘Shika’s death was not your fault, Kyndra.’ He lightly touched her shoulder. ‘And every decision you’ve made – I wouldn’t have supported them if I didn’t agree. It was an admirable goal, seeking a way to avoid war by allying with Sartya.’

  ‘Why did you come with me, Nediah?’ Kyndra asked him baldly. ‘You were under no obligation to. None of you were.’

  ‘I couldn’t have let you go alone into Acre.’

  ‘But you left Brégenne.’ She looked him in the eye, seeing the familiar hardening of his face whenever anyone spoke Brégenne’s name. ‘Don’t pretend you don’t care. I know what she means to you. We were all there when you healed her. And then you left her behind without a second glance.’

  Nediah looked away. ‘I know,’ he whispered. He turned to face the night, putting the camp at his back. ‘It was for the best, Kyndra. She doesn’t want me. She said so herself.’

  ‘That’s crazy,’ Kyndra said, anger stirring at how foolish they both were. ‘It’s quite obvious how she feels.’ She glanced back at the camp where the others sat. ‘Kait knows it. Why do you think she came with us instead of staying with the Nerian?’ ‘Kait –’ Nediah broke off, a flush in his cheeks. ‘If you’re implying she still cares for me, you’re wrong.’

  ‘Gods.’ It was a word she’d unwittingly picked up from Char. ‘Are you blind? You’re the only reason Kait stays. She hates Medavle because of what he did to Kierik. She hates me because Kierik would still be alive if I weren’t here. And I don’t imagine she cares a bit for Irilin.’ Kyndra wanted to shake him. ‘Why would she risk her life walking into the unknown if it weren’t for you?’

  Nediah stared at her and a flush rose to Kyndra’s cheeks too. His love life was none of her business – surely they all had bigger things to worry about. ‘Sorry,’ she muttered.

  ‘You’ve given me something to think about,’ Nediah said a little ruefully. ‘And I came to see whether you were all right.’

  ‘I’m glad you’re here, Nediah,’ Kyndra said after a moment. ‘Even though I meant what I said about Brégenne. I couldn’t have made it this far without you.’

  To her great surprise, he hugged her. ‘None of us would be here without you, Kyndra. You stopped the Breaking, saved the citadel from the Madness, and you were brave enough to walk into the unknown for the sake of a world and its people.’ He pulled back so that he could look down into her face. ‘I don’t know many eighteen-year-olds who could say the same.’

  ‘Aren’t you afraid of what I am?’ she said quietly. ‘Of what I could do?’

  Nediah smiled at her. ‘Do you want to know what Brégenne said to me the night we met in your inn? She’s always had a feeling for such things.’

  Kyndra remembered looking back at the two strangers, as they’d been at the time, as she left to fetch her Acrean book, seeing Brégenne whispering into Nediah’s ear. It seemed so long ago, as if it had happened to someone else. She nodded.

  ‘She said, “When we leave, the girl must come with us.”’ Nediah’s smile faded to seriousness. ‘“With the power she might one day wield, she could change the world. I’d like to be there when she does.”’

  His look spoke of respect between equals and it brought a lump to Kyndra’s throat.

  ‘Master Nediah, Mistress Kyndra,’ came a voice and they both turned. One of Rogan’s scouts melted out of the darkness. ‘Our people should be here in minutes.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Nediah said when Kyndra was silent. He offered her his arm and they walked back to the others. Kait gave Kyndra a glare that said she strongly suspected they’d been talking about her.

  Kyndra was looking north when the first torch appeared from behind a hill. The heart of Calmaracia cut a stark contrast to the dusty wastelands they’d encountered in Baior, full of little rivers and dales. Except for the golden vineyards, it made her think of the Valleys, of her home. She watched a bit nervously as the bobbing lights came closer. There were only a handful; just enough to see by. Clearly the Republic didn’t choose to court attention.

  Char got to his feet, easing the kali sticks in their scabbard. Kyndra guessed the years he’d spent in the desert had given him a healthy suspicion of anyone and everyone. Irilin came to stand beside her. ‘I don’t trust him,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Rogan?’

  ‘The slaver.’ Irilin stared at Char’s back with burning eyes.

  ‘He’s never given us reason not to.’

  ‘Has he ever shown any remorse for what he is? Ever offered us an explanation? How can you trust someone like that?’

  Kyndra bit her lip. Char hadn’t talked about his life in the Beaches at all. She’d assumed it was because he wanted to forget it. ‘Perhaps he thinks it’s none of our business,’ she said.

  ‘We saved him from those Khronostians. It is our business.’

  Maybe she was right. But Irilin didn’t know what Kyndra did. She didn’t know about the rage Char struggled against, the violent force inside him desperate to claw free. And she didn’t feel what Kyndra felt whenever she looked at Char. They were alike, both outsiders, fighting a nature they wanted to deny. Their small campfire limned his silhouette in flame. She would have to give in one day; perhaps Char would too. Then, whatever he was, they’d both be changed irrevocably.

  Beside her, Irilin tensed, as the first of the newcomers reached the outskirts of their camp. She was a shade away from calling the Lunar and Kyndra placed a reassuring hand on her arm before moving forward to greet Rogan’s people. They were plainly armoured, nothing like the distinctive blood-red mail of the Sartyans. Most of the faces she saw were grim, some were scarred; there were men and women and others so young they could barely be called either. They all had one thing in common: each wore a cloak of black feathers that covered their shoulders and backs.

  A man emerged out of their midst, striding right up to Kyndra. ‘You must be the Starborn,’ he said. He ran a hand over his shorn scalp and then held it out briskly for her to shake. ‘Amon Taske. Apologies for the delay. We ran into trouble near Deliar. I’m a fool for underestimating Iresonté.’

  Kyndra frowned. ‘The captain of the stealth force?’

  ‘You know of her?’ Taske looked surprised. ‘She’s recently moved up in the world. That’s one promotion I hoped never to see.’

  ‘Promotion?’

  There was a stir in the feathered ranks, as people parted to let someone through. ‘Ah,’ Taske said, turning, ‘here’s the commander. He can tell you more.’

  ‘When did I say I’d take the job?’ came a familiar voice. Kyndra’s eyes widened and she exchanged a stunned glance with Irilin.

  ‘General Hagdon,’ the young woman said quietly as Hagdon walked up to them. The sa
me black feathers adorned his shoulders and beneath the cloak, he wore scuffed armour that had seen almost as much use as it could take. His beard was untrimmed, his dark eyes harried; he seemed to have aged since Kyndra had seen him last. She stared at him, utterly at a loss for words.

  ‘Well, shit,’ Char said behind her.

  32

  Calmaracia, Acre

  Hagdon

  Once Hagdon could have laughed at their shock, but Carn’s death and the death of his old life were still too raw. ‘Our paths seem fated to cross,’ he said to the Starborn, ‘Kyndra Vale.’ He looked at the young woman beside her. ‘Irilin.’

  Irilin blinked at hearing her name; perhaps she hadn’t expected him to recall it.

  ‘General Hagdon,’ Kyndra said with a faint nod.

  ‘Not general,’ he replied a little bitterly, ‘just James Hagdon. Our fortunes have somewhat reversed.’

  ‘How?’ Kyndra asked. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Apparently the emperor no longer desires my service,’ Hagdon said, clasping his hands behind his back. ‘He would rather have my head. I’ve yet to hear it from his lips, of course.’

  ‘General Iresonté’, Taske explained, ‘took it upon herself to speak for His Majesty.’

  Kyndra frowned. ‘You mean he doesn’t know?’

  ‘Oh, I suspect he knows,’ Hagdon said, ‘and did nothing to stop it. He excused Iresonté the first time she tried to kill me.’ He studied Kyndra; she looked a little different. A tattoo glowed on her cheek and he found himself staring at it. ‘You realize you were the root of the unrest. My officers demanded retribution for the deaths of so many men. Iresonté was particularly upset by the loss of her second.’

  A shadow passed across Kyndra’s face. ‘I am sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t intend for it to happen. If you’d only agreed to a truce, if Iresonté hadn’t planted Tava in the Defiant—’

  ‘The boy,’ Hagdon said, rolling his injured shoulder. ‘A good shot. A little more to the right and Iresonté wouldn’t have had to take matters into her own hands.’ He looked away. ‘Carn would not have died.’