Threading the Needle

by Joshua Palmatier

  Morrell glanced around at everyone else. Their expressions ranged from awe to fear.

  Morrell dropped her head and stood abruptly. “I just healed him. That’s all.” Then she backed up, stumbling slightly, and fled.

  “Morrell.” Janis reached for her arm as she swept by, but Morrell evaded the grasp and rushed outside. She paused in the sunlight, blinking at its harshness, but ducked and cut right. Her eyes burned with unshed tears and her chest ached with a liquid amalgam of uncertainty, fear, and anger.

  She burst through the door to her father’s cottage—her cottage—and slammed the door behind her, leaning up against it as the tears broke. She stayed there, sobbing, head lowered, until the ache in her chest faded, then pushed away and made her way to the table, where a heap of small potatoes had been left, the peeling knife discarded to one side. Janis must have been working on them when the warning bell sounded.

  Morrell sat down and began methodically slicing the skins off, tossing them into the slop bucket and setting the raw potatoes aside. She had thought the incident with Claye could be forgotten, that if she simply left well enough alone that it would fade.

  That wouldn’t happen now. The actions of those wounded in the fighting told her that it wouldn’t have faded away even without Harper injuring himself.

  A short time later, Janis opened the door and stepped inside. She hesitated on the threshold, eyeing Morrell at the table, before entering and moving toward the small hearth to set up a fire. She gathered a few chunks of wood from the stack close by, then straightened.

  “How are you feeling?”

  Morrell stopped her peeling. She felt numb inside. Lost. She didn’t know who she was anymore. “They won’t stop looking at me like that ever, will they?”

  “Like what, Morrell?”

  “Like I’m different. Like I’m dangerous. Or like I’m special, like one of the Wielders.”

  “No. Not now that they know for certain you can do these things.”

  “I didn’t think so.” Morrell picked the knife back up and began peeling again.

  Janis hesitated again, then moved to the fire, lighting the dried moss beneath it until the flames caught.

  She grabbed a pitcher and poured water into a pot. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Morrell. Yes, there will be some like Paul who will hate you for it. He doesn’t trust anything that he can’t do himself. Others will revere you, even if you don’t think you deserve it. But most of the people here in the Hollow and elsewhere will fall somewhere in between.”

  She hung the pot of water on the iron arm beside the fire, then swung it out over the flames, coming to the table to grab up the potatoes that were already peeled. “Just remember that you can do these things, and be careful how you use the power. Like the Wielders. And like your father.”

  Morrell gave a start that Janis didn’t see as she turned to plop the potatoes into the warming water. She’d forgotten about her father and what he could do, because here in the Hollow there were no distortions and little ley to affect. He’d saved Kara and the others after the distortion quickened in Erenthrall.

  And yet no one in the Hollow mentioned it. They’d accepted him after he’d fled here.

  Perhaps they’d accept her too.

  Baron Aurek watched the approaching group on horseback through the spyglass. At his side, the lookout who had spotted them earlier shifted nervously. The man had probably already noticed what had set Aurek on edge and was fearful of how his liege lord would react.

  Lowering the spyglass, Aurek handed it back to the watcher. “Keep an eye on them, and the woods beyond. Make certain no one follows them.”

  The lookout nodded. Aurek turned and walked back into the central part of his camp.

  His men were already well situated, their routines settled. Smoke rose from a dozen fires, meat roasting on some of them. A group was butchering a bison to one side, downwind of the camp, three other hides already stretched out for tanning. A trench had been dug for the offal and as a latrine.

  In the camp proper, over twenty tents had been raised, with Aurek’s near the center, three times as large as any other. He wove through the guy wires, nodding to those who greeted him, but his focus was on his second in command, Devin Baldurs.

  Devin saw his approach and stood. “What word?”

  Aurek motioned him toward his own tent, away from the ears of the others scattered about. They passed between the two guards outside and ducked beneath the tent flap. “Verrent is returning, with less than half of his men.”

  “Less than half? What happened?”

  “I’d say he found someone.”

  “The group we’re looking for?”

  Aurek settled into one of the seats around the portable table in the center of the room. The tent gusted around him, the canvas wuffling as if inhaling and exhaling with the breeze from the plains. “We won’t know until Verrent reports, but if he’s lost half his men, then whoever he ran into must have fighters and be of significant size. Larger than any of the groups of wanderers we’ve hit so far.”

  “And if they’ve survived this long, they must have food and supplies.”

  “Even if they aren’t these White Cloaks, we can take what they have and find out what they know. But Verrent was a good half hour away. Tell me what our scouts have found elsewhere while we wait.”

  Devin straightened and began in a more formal tone. “The scouts have ranged as far as the escarpment at the base of the Reaches to the north, this side of the Tiana. They report scattered enclaves in some of the towns and villages between here and there, mostly bands of survivors. They’re struggling because some of the supplies they’re used to getting from the cities have run out, and they haven’t gotten organized enough yet to start trading with each other.”

  “Perhaps those from Haven can help with that.”

  “They also report three of the burning lights above the Steppe and the Reaches, one each above the cities of Dunmara, Severen, and Ikanth, which would make sense given what happened in Erenthrall, Tumbor, and Farrade. The locals call them the Three Sisters. The auroral lights that occasionally appear on the plains were seen all over the Reaches. There’s some kind of dark cloud cover over the mountains that the scouts report is unnatural.”

  “Unnatural? In what way?”

  Devin fidgeted. “The scouts say that it rarely breaks, so the mountains beneath are nearly always in shadow, broken only by blue-white and purple lightning. What sunlight does get through shows a landscape that’s distorted. And—”

  Aurek met Devin’s eye balefully. “What?”

  “They claim there are monsters in the mountains. The locals avoid the higher reaches, what with the auroral lights, the cloud cover, and the strange noises. A few of the scouts entered the forest to investigate, but only one of them returned. He claimed he was attacked by a creature at least twice the size of a bear, and he had claw marks across his back to prove it.”

  Aurek had leaned forward as Devin delivered the report, but now he settled back, the chair creaking beneath him. Once, before the Shattering, when he’d been nothing but a minor lord with a small area of land surrounding Haven—land titled to his father before him for service to the Baron of Erenthrall—he would have dismissed such accounts out of hand as nonsense and superstition.

  But since the Shattering, the world had changed. He’d seen the Wolves in Erenthrall himself, after venturing there to determine what had happened and whether the Baron or any of the lords above him remained. He’d seen the destruction, the city laid waste, the towers shattered, the heart of the city caught in the center of the massive distortion.

  It was then he realized the opportunity he’d been given, the chance to become more than a petty lord groveling at the Baron’s feet. The plains were in turmoil, without direction, without a leader. His father had been content with the lands of Haven, but he need
ed more. He could be the next Baron.

  And he wouldn’t base his power on something as obviously volatile and fragile as the ley.

  Outside, shouts and sudden activity heralded the arrival of Verrent and the others.

  “Given what we saw in Erenthrall, I find it hard to dismiss the possibility of monsters in the forests of the Reaches.”

  “Yes, sir, although this sounds worse.”

  “And it’s all the damned Primes’ fault.” Outside, the commotion approached their tent. “Anything else to report?”

  “We haven’t heard recently from the scouts that headed east, beyond the Urate toward Temerite lands. But they have farther to travel since we’ve moved west.”

  “We won’t hear from them for at least another week.” Aurek reached for a decanter of wine set to one side, poured himself a glass, then motioned for Devin to shift behind him, his mood darkening. Devin positioned himself clear of the table and rested one hand on the pommel of his blade, the gesture casual, but Aurek noted with approval that the sword’s ties were already loosened, the blade ready to be drawn.

  His men were not yet as trained, nor as vicious, as Baron Arent’s Dogs before the Shattering, but they were getting there.

  As soon as he heard the men outside challenge Verrent and the man’s gruff response, he stood, fingers pitched lightly on the table. He schooled his expression as one of the guards pushed back the flap and entered, followed by Verrent and another, both of them looking coarse and unkempt compared to Aurek, Devin, and even the guard. But that was to be expected. Verrent and his unit were merely soldiers. Their makeshift armor was dirty and nicked, their clothing matted and stained with blood. Their faces were unshaven and gritty. Aurek could smell their sweat and fear as soon as they entered the tent.

  This was what he had to work with. He had not found any surviving Dogs to lead his forces, had been stuck with those in Haven who had not immediately run in fear or killed themselves in despair. His own house guard had been minimally trained, coming mostly from the city watch. They’d begun training whoever remained as soon as he’d returned from his journey to Erenthrall. They were rough and wild, but they were slowly learning discipline.

  Verrent’s gaze flicked toward Devin, then back to Aurek, before he stepped into the room and knelt. “Baron Aurek.”

  Belatedly, the man who accompanied him followed suit, head bowed.

  “Report.”

  Verrent rose. “We scouted the western hills as you requested. The first few days, we found nothing. But on the fourth day we captured a tracker. He was headed southwest of our position when we took him. He revealed that he came from a village hidden in the hills. We thought to catch them by surprise, so I gathered the group and we stole up on the village that night.”

  “Let me guess. They were waiting for you.”

  “He said there were only fifty in the village!”

  “And it never crossed your mind that this prisoner would lie to you?”

  Verrent didn’t answer.

  “Go on.”

  “They took us on the ridge, cut us down like grain. Some of them were villagers, but not all. I’d swear there were Dogs fighting us. And there were more than fifty.”

  Aurek’s eyebrows rose. “Dogs?”

  “Yes, Lord Baron. At least, they fought like Dogs.”

  “How do you know there were more than fifty? Did you see the village?”

  Verrent’s teeth ground together. “No. It was dark and it was raining.”

  Aurek shifted around the table until he was standing directly in front of Verrent. The would-be guardsman’s nostrils flared, but he didn’t step back.

  “Are you telling me that you attacked a location you hadn’t scouted out, at night, in the rain, based on the word of a prisoner you’d captured and, I assume, tortured for information?”

  “Yes, Lord Baron. We thought it was what you’d want.”

  Aurek pressed forward, Verrent unconsciously leaning farther back. “You thought—”

  “We brought you the prisoner, my lord. He’s outside. He’s still alive. His name is Joss.”

  Aurek hesitated, then backed off. “Perhaps something can be salvaged from this mess then. Dismissed.”

  Verrent shoved his second out of the tent before him in his haste to retreat. Aurek watched him go, then waved the guard back outside.

  As soon as they departed, Aurek turned to Devin. “Interrogate the prisoner. Break him. We’ll get nothing more of substance from Verrent or his men. They will have seen nothing, attacking at night and in such weather. Find out who this group is, how many of them there are, and what they might be hiding.”

  “Is it the White Cloaks?”

  Aurek rapped one hand against the table in thought. “I don’t think so, but make certain. We don’t want to attack them blindly, as Verrent did. We need information. And they may have something of use to us.”

  Devin moved toward the door. Aurek waited until he had reached for the tent flap before saying, “And Devin? Make certain Verrent realizes his mistake. His many mistakes.”

  “Yes, Lord Baron.”

  Light flared through the door into the cell where Kara had been thrown as someone thrust it open a crack. Kara blinked into the harshness of the torch, raising one hand to shield her face. Her eyes were gritty with lack of sleep, her entire body coated with a tacky sheen of sweat and blood and grime. Her clothes scraped against her body with every movement, every cut and bruise inflicted by Richten and the Rats the night before aching or itching. Or was it two nights before? She couldn’t tell. She’d managed not to scratch herself and make things worse by curling up into a huddle against one wall, arms around her knees, eyes wide in the pitch black of the cell. It had once been a closet or storage room deep in the heart of the building, no more than her body length on each side. Now, the floor was covered in patchy, softened straw that reeked of piss and offal and a strong undercurrent of mold.

  She lifted her head from the floor as someone shuffled in. Backlit by the torch, the figure was nothing more than a shadow, reaching out to set a rounded tin on the floor two feet in front of Kara’s face.

  “Eat. Fletch will return tonight. You’ll need your strength.”

  “What will he do to us?” After Richten’s tortuous questioning last night, she was too angry to be afraid. He’d toyed with them, malicious and sadistic, but he hadn’t killed anyone else after Kent. The Dog had been a sacrifice to placate the rest of the Rats, although Kara had no doubts that Richten had enjoyed every minute of his death.

  “Eat.”

  Outside, someone barked, “Hurry up!”

  The figure flinched. As it retreated, Kara caught the profile of a young girl, long hair, maybe ten years old, although it was hard to tell. One of the ruffians from the roof caught the girl’s shoulder and shoved her behind him, glaring into the room before shutting the door. The scrape of a heavy object being pushed in front of the door followed. There was no latch. Kara had checked.

  She listened to the shuffling of feet out in the hall as the pinpricks of faint light seeping around the edges of the door faded. Farther away, muted laughter broke the silence. A dog barked excitedly. Someone cursed, the words too distant and muffled to make out, but the intention was clear. It was followed by a harsh slap, a cry, and then sobbing.

  Kara levered herself into a seated position, back against the wall, and reached for the tin of food. Her questing fingers found a ragged chunk of bread, obviously a day or two old, and a thick soup or stew. Her stomach knotted in hunger as she brought the tin close to her face and sniffed it. She couldn’t tell what it was, but as soon as she scooped some of the stew into her mouth with the bread it didn’t matter. The food vanished, the last of the bread stuffed into her mouth before she’d had a chance to taste any of it. She set the tin aside, leaning her head back against the wall behind her.


  “How did we get into this mess?”

  She closed her eyes, a vision of Kent rising unbidden, Richten’s blade jutting from his neck. She hadn’t known Kent well, but the shocking abruptness of his death, the cruelty of it—

  She shook herself, thrust the images from the rooftop aside, and winced as the various cuts and bruises were reawakened. She brought her fingers to her face, prodded the edges of where Richten had punched her, then touched the split in her lip. Swollen and raw, it had finally stopped bleeding.

  The cuts on her arms burned as she traced them, worrying about infection, then she barked out mocking laughter. The sound was loud in the confined space and she flinched. They were all going to be killed, like Kent. Infection should be the least of her worries.

  She let her hands fall into her lap and stared at the door. She’d gotten off lightly. Adder had received the worst of the treatment, to the point where Kara had been convinced they were going to kill him, too. They’d kicked him into unconsciousness, then turned their attentions to Jack, Gaven, and Dylan. Richten had wanted Kara to watch, nicking her when she’d turned away. One of the other Rats had wanted to start breaking fingers, but Richten had refused, threatening and then punching the Rat until he’d submitted. That was when Kara realized Richten was only toying with them. He didn’t dare mess with them much more than he already had, not until Fletch arrived.

  Shortly after that, as if Richten had realized he’d done everything he could, he’d ordered them brought below. They’d been separated almost instantly once below roof level and into the maze of corridors and rooms. Kara had lost all sense of direction and caught only glimpses of the Rats’ living conditions: rooms with cots and hammocks strung haphazardly everywhere, like a crew in the underbelly of a ship; Rats roughhousing in what looked like a banquet hall, half of the floor caved in; a kitchen area that was surprisingly clean and orderly, with an older girl overseeing those cutting up carcasses and vegetables. All of it lit with sporadic torches, the halls and rooms more shadowed than not, walls cracked, plaster pocked and smeared with more and more dirt and grime the deeper into the building they went. The stench grew thicker as well, cut only by the rising smell of dampness and river water.