Right?
Gerard.
Her voice shattered through his mind, at once terrifying and soothing.
I’m here, he replied.
Yes. Come. I need your help, friend.
Where? He stood, looked about at the crowds milling by.
Come outside the city. I will meet you. Our destination lies elsewhere.
He broke from the wall, leaving it behind. And somehow, it didn’t spark fear to have his back exposed to the city. He was so excited he almost forgot the sack. Turning, he raced back to grab it, and then tore for the front gates, feet pounding the cobblestones.
***
Branson de’Gaius
Branson looked at the parchment in his hand, smoothed and folded. He handed it to the Birdmaster, who took it from him.
“Where to?” the Master asked, voice gruff, face rough with a black beard.
“The Lord Predence’s estates.”
The Master grunted, shaking his head. “There are no birds from that roost. The closest are from the village near there.”
“That will do. Have a rider sent with the message to the estates once the bird reaches the town.”
Great. Stalled, again.
“It will cost –”
Branson waved a hand and reached into his coin pouch to retrieve more than enough compensation. The Birdmaster’s eyes lit up, and Branson turned on his heel and left before the man could say anything. Maybe Graissa had a point. Everything was about money. It was time for change, time for Polbine Voltaire to turn the Lands upside down.
He mounted his horse and turned toward the city gates. A beggar ran by, as if the Liar himself was on his heels. He reigned the horse up before he trampled the man.
Odd. Why would a beggar be racing through the city like that?
He pushed it out of his mind, instead focusing on his next mission. A mission that, Creator willing, would end up better than the conversation with Graissa. Her sad, angry eyes filled his mind. Was it really over? Did she really hate him? Could he live with himself, turning his back on her, on his country?
But he knew the answer. He spurred the horse faster as he cleared the city walls. The eyes of the guards watched him, and he couldn’t help but notice the flurry of activity outside the walls themselves. They were preparing for an assault, no doubt. Men were already busy digging trenches.
The Council worked fast.
Vale faded away behind him, but instead of turning west, Branson continued heading south on the road. It forked, turning east. The de’Gaius holdings weren’t far. As he passed through onto his own land, Branson’s heart hammered faster. The familiarity was at once comforting and nostalgic. It had been many months since he had been home. Would his family accept him? The Council had already questioned Father. What would he think about the stance Branson had taken? Would he understand?
It was late afternoon as he rode through the front gates. The soldiers were gone; no doubt, Father had sent them to the city. He would have received word, close as the estate was to Vale. The stable boy raced out to grab the halter of the mount. Branson swung a leg over and handed off the horse. The stable boy stared at him. Had he changed that much?
It must be the colors he wore. He tore off the patch over his breast, drew the cloak from his back and folded it. There was no hiding the forest green of his trousers and tunic, but that couldn’t be helped.
“Branson?”
He raised his eyes to the front porch. His father stood tall and serene at the front door. He had gained a few pounds. But the white and blonde hair was the same, as were the steel blue eyes, bright as a glacier lake in winter. Branson resembled him, except for the shape of their faces.
“Father,” he said, holding the folded cloak awkwardly in his hands. Why had he taken it off, after all? Was he ashamed, in his heart of hearts? Or was it respect for Father’s house?
“What are you doing here, son?” Bruil de’Gaius descended the porch steps, eyes never leaving Branson’s face. “Is what the Council said true? You’re aligning yourself with Polbine Voltaire?”
Branson waited, still. Father strode forth and gripped his shoulder, emotion racing across his face. “I can explain, Father.” Branson cleared his throat, but before he could say anything else, Bruil recoiled, hand dropping to his side.
“It’s true.” Red creeped up his father’s neck. “I can tell by the look on your face, tell by the colors you wear. What in the Liar’s teeth are you thinking? Where did this all come from? Why did you run off, following Graissa? Losing your mind over a pretty face?”
“Like I said, I can explain –”
“You aren’t going to explain anything.” The words, clipped and formal, sank Branson’s heart. “As long as you wear those colors, you are no son of mine.”
If only he knew. The son he once loved was not the one that stood before him. Branson had chosen his fate, and as soon as he had walked from the garden and left the Mistress Blaine to the clutches of Blackship, the old Branson had died.
Father walked away, head down. Climbing the steps, he paused, turning back to gaze at Branson. “Leave these Estates. I disinherit you.” Then he stepped through the door and was gone.
Branson stood still, clenching his hands into fists. That was it, then. No chance to even try to explain his side. No chance to bid his father to cast his lot in with Voltaire. No chance to tell his father he was a warlock.
The racing of his heart, once with excitement, turned to rage. Coldly, deliberately, Branson donned the cloak, put the patch back on his breast, and turned to stride for the stables to retrieve his mount.
Chapter Fifteen
Brate Hightower
“It’s worth a try. At this rate, the war will be over before we even make it to the web.” Garron gazed unblinking eyes at Brate. “Do you think you can?”
How should Brate know? The last time he tried something that great, he killed almost a hundred men.
“What do you think, Malok?” Brate asked, turning to the Seer. The last two days of travel Malok had grinned like a fool and gazed at the sky with new eyes. All the while, the Rift had pulsed in Brate’s chest like a foreign object lodged in his soul. It writhed like an ever-present call of power. Just waiting, prowling, ready to strike. Ready to be called forth like the Deep. Every time he looked at Malok, Brate was reminded of what he had done.
Was it worth it? Saving the Seer’s sanity only to embrace something so evil? Otherspherely? The Deep was still there, on the edge of his mind, swirling. Calming. A tide of endless waters. But the Rift was in Brate’s being. And he could feel the difference. If the Deep was a clear water, the Rift was a vat of burning oil. But the thickness was almost stronger than the call of the Deep. And how could he access it? And if he did, how could he control it?
Voltaire had the answers. But seeking them from him was out of the question.
“I think you should do what you are comfortable doing. But, it does stand to reason you could just will us to the web.” Malok shrugged a shoulder and scratched at his ear.
“Have you ever heard of a Bender being able to do that?” Brate pressed. “Surely in your studies you came across a book or scroll mentioning it.”
“Yes, I suppose I would have. But if I did, I don’t remember.” Malok turned to look at Brate, a smile tugging at his lips. “Besides, traveling with you, and Garron, and Myra, is delightful. I feel like a new man.”
“You are a new man,” Garron responded, grinning at Brate in much the same way Malok was. They were two peas in a pod, those Jin’tai. “Brate healed you.”
As if they all didn’t know that. Brate shoved down his surly mood and tried to focus. “I doubt I could will my way there. I’ve never been to the web, wouldn’t know what place to summon in my mind to project my will.”
“Where’s the closest location to the web you have traveled?” Myra asked, her calm features and graceful movements reminding him somewhat of Anyia. Maybe it was just the general bearing of a witch.
&n
bsp; “Where we now stand.” Brate pulled his coat tighter around his shoulders as the wind picked up, sending swirls of leaves across their path. The shedding trees prepared for winter and the bleakness soon descending. His hair tossed to and fro, obscuring his eyes. He flicked it away as his three traveling companions appraised him. Malok’s grin didn’t falter, but Garron eyed him inquisitively.
“Perhaps we could explain to you what it looks like?” Garron frowned. “But you would also have to take us with you.”
“It’s too dangerous,” Brate responded, shaking his head and urging his horse faster. It trotted ahead, only to slow to a walk. Stubborn beast. At this rate, the King would be sitting on the Stone Throne before they even had a chance to speak with the Brotherhood, let alone destroy the web. “There is no guarantee I won’t just kill us. What, will our bodies just disappear, and then reappear where I want them to? Surely it doesn’t work that way.”
“Then we must make haste.” Malok turned his face toward the road. “Tell me, Bender. Do you plan to sulk the entire way to the Scrape Lands? Leaving your lady love behind won’t kill you.”
Before Brate could protest, Malok laughed and kicked his horse to canter ahead. Groaning, Brate followed close behind.
“Why can’t you just See the future and let me know how we arrive?” Brate shouted to be heard over the pounding of the hooves on the road.
“Good question! What if I told you I saw a dozen future possibilities, all which blended so tightly together that I couldn’t unravel them, unless I wanted to face madness once again?”
“So you have Seen my future, then?” Brate asked, and something akin to irritation shot through him.
“No, not yet. But that is what would happen.”
Brate dropped the subject. There was no way he would risk that again. Better for Malok to keep his sanity.
***
They rode hard, stopping only after dark at a small village to the northwest. Hopefully they could escape notice, since word spread quickly throughout these parts. If somehow the King got news of their whereabouts, they would be hard-pressed to make it north without a skirmish or two. Brate preferred not to kill anyone again.
“We should avoid the tavern,” Myra suggested, dismounting in front of an inn called the Traveler’s Bain. Why someone would name an inn something so ominous was still to be determined. It looked friendly enough, with lights flickering through the windows and a lively performer singing and playing a havar. The music filtered through the door as a man left on shaking legs. Too much firedrink, Brate supposed.
“The inn looks busy,” Garron noted with a hint of worry in his tone. “We might not go unnoticed.”
“I will go in alone and secure a room. You can come in through the back and meet me,” Brate suggested, and when no one argued with his plan, he handed his horse off to the stable boy and entered the establishment. The banter and laughter that greeted him set him at ease. Most people seemed intent on their cups, food, or the card game taking place in the center room. The jolly atmosphere seemed almost out of place, somehow. It wasn’t until the harried innkeeper came toward him that Brate glimpsed the streamers and decorations. A man and a woman were seated toward the front where the performer sang. It was a wedding celebration.
“We are full, Master,” the innkeeper said. She was in disarray, hair falling out of place from the bun on the back of her head, face wreathed with sweat. “The wedding party has secured all the rooms.”
Odd. Most wedding celebrations were held on a farm or field, not an inn. Were things changing that fast?
“Secure me a room, at your convenience,” he said, trickling the Deep into his words and willing the innkeeper to acquiesce. It pulled at him, teasing, and he resisted the urge to pull more in.
“Yes, of course. Let me see what I can do.” She dashed away. A small measure of guilt almost made Brate call her back and change her mind, but the reality was they needed a safe place for the night. Too much was at stake.
The card game pulled at him as soon as he let go of the Deep. What harm would it do to win a few hands, secure more coin for their travels? It wasn’t like the witches had given them much to live by, and he had little desire to use his own fortune for this mission. He drifted over. It was a simple enough concept. Knaves were the trump suit, knives the weak suit. Called “Swan” in some places, “Gully” in others, the winning hand involved a total of thirteen knives, eleven of knaves, and eight forks or kings. He had seen the men play it in Meadow Grove.
“Join us, lad?” The leader, with a mountain of coins in front of him, eyed Brate with interest. “Only a copper for entry.”
The frills and fracs suddenly weighed heavy in his coin pouch. A copper entry was nothing. Brate nodded and sat down, pulling a frill and laying it on the table. The men raised eyebrows, some even grinned or laughed quietly, but no one said anything.
“That will get you quite a few hands, lad. I’ll deal you in.”
A quick touch of the Deep, and Brate willed the number he needed to win. This would be as easy as singing. Even easier, in fact.
By the third hand, the men were muttering about beginner’s luck. Brate kept his face smooth, merely nodding whenever he won as if he expected no less. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but eventually the innkeeper was at his shoulder telling him she had secured him a room. Two of the men left with muttered curses and were replaced by more.
The pile in front of Brate grew until the leader, with eyes of iron, looked up and said, “You are cheating, boy. No one is that lucky.”
The room quieted. An accusation of cheating? Brate could either meet it with fists and a brawl, or demand proof. If none was found, by rules of unspoken conduct, he could take the winnings of the one who made the accusation.
“Brate.” Malok stepped up and laid a hand on his arm. “I think we are done for the night.” Brate turned his head. Myra was behind Malok, face tight.
“Brate?” the leader said, eyes furrowing and face going dark. “Brate Hightower?” His eyes shifted to Malok, and back to Brate. “The Bender?”
A gasp echoed throughout the room. The atmosphere changed from light-hearted to tense in seconds.
The innkeeper moved beside Malok. “If you are Brate Hightower, I must ask you to leave.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “You are not welcome here.”
“Why not?” Brate asked, anger and resentment filling his mind. What, was he going to rescue them from the Rift for nothing? Where was the thanks and appreciation? He looked about the room, but there was only fear or worry etched on their faces.
“Lad, you should take your friends and leave this village.” The leader stood, face still red. “You have willed these hands, as is plainly written in the cards you were dealt. Creator knows why he supplied us with a dishonest Bender. Liar take you!” He spat, and turned to push his way through the crowd, slamming the inn door on his way out. Brate stood too, but words escaped him.
“Come,” Malok said, voice gentle yet hand firm on Brate’s arm. Brate stooped to gather his coins, but Malok laid another hand over Brate’s as he reached for them. “Do what is right,” Malok hissed in his ear. “Leave with what honor you can.”
Anger roared through Brate’s head. He shoved Malok away with a glare. “You take their side, do you?” Malok wasn’t being unreasonable, but Brate didn’t care. Who were they, these villagers who he didn’t even know, demanding he leave? The Bender? Really? Were they so thankless?
“Brate...” Myra said, tone carrying a hint of warning.
“I take the side of the one who is in the right.” Malok’s voice was even, calm. It infuriated Brate even more. He scooped his pile of coins and thrust them into his pouch, shouldering his way past Malok and Myra toward the back where Garron watched with wide eyes. He ignored him, shoving through the door and into the back yard, the wind accosting him with sudden savagery. He hunched against it, pulling the Deep in with a firm pull. It flooded him, not like the trickle he had used for the brick
ing card game. The wind felt like nothing, now. The power was all-encompassing, filling his being with wild, raw tides rushing through his body.
The Rift pulsed, begging him to embrace it. Brate stopped, the ache in his breast at the presence of the Rift like a leaden ball. It throbbed with such force he had to mentally stop himself from responding automatically and releasing it from the confines it had been placed in. Had Malok felt it like this?
But no. Instinctively, somehow he knew it was different. Where it had affected Malok with a psychological force, this was something wilder. Stronger. Dangerous. He turned to find his companions before he did something rash.
Garron was watching him from the back doorway with something close to fear written on his face. Behind him, Malok handed a pouch to the innkeeper and then strode toward them. He stepped around Garron, Myra on his heels. She hung back as Malok reached Brate.
“I have repaid your winnings, Bender.” Malok’s gaze was hard, unflinching. “When you are in your right mind, you may pay me back. Until then, we ride on and rest further away from this place. You are banned.”
“They cannot do that to me!” Brate retorted, but his anger was not as strong as it used to be. The Deep still flowed through him, dulling whatever rage lingered until it was swept away completely. Indifference was all that was left. The Rift melted away to the dull burn he was familiar with.
“It would appear word has spread from the Forest City,” Malok said. “The rumor is you want the throne for yourself, and that King Voltaire barely escaped your attack with his life. The people seem to believe you are only out for power.”
Malok stopped, face turning from cold accusation to something softer.
“You just proved them right. Come, we must go. It will not be long before the King hears of our whereabouts.”
Fine. He would do as Malok wanted, since he knew so much. Brate stalked to the stables, uncaring whether or not they followed.
The Last Steward Page 15
