by P. T. Hylton
Lily was suddenly aware of their precarious situation. They were badly outnumbered. If Ewrkind decided it might be a good idea to take Prince Christopher as a hostage, what could she do about it?
Sure, she could fight, but she doubted her ability to take down Ewrkind, let alone him and his followers.
Ewrkind continued before the prince responded to his thinly veiled threat. “It is no small thing that you ask. To fight on the behalf of the nation that put my people in chains.”
Prince Christopher’s voice was almost gentle when he spoke, a tone Lily had never heard from him before. “I know you can’t see it from in here, but this king is a friend to your people. Since he took the throne, he’s increased the budget for infrastructure in the ghettos. You have to admit, the roads, the public buildings, they are all much better than they were in my father’s time.”
Ewrkind’s face didn’t soften. “You ask me to love my captor because he gives me roads? A slave owner who beats his slave less often than his peers is still a slave owner. Tell me, this king who is such a friend to our people, why has he not freed us?”
The prince shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “It’s not that simple.”
“Is he not the king?” Ewrkind asked, his voice getting louder, his anger clearly building. “Is his word not law? It’s as simple as putting pen to paper.” He turned toward Lily, his glare burning into her though she didn’t meet his eyes. “And you. You said you’ve been in the king’s court for over a year. How many times have you petitioned for our freedom? How many times have you even broached the topic with His Royal Majesty? Did you even think of us when you began to build the magical devices that have the power to make my people grow sick and die if they touch elvish magic?”
Lily felt herself wither under his glare. She had no response to his line of questioning. In truth, she’d never once considered asking the king about the elves. They lived in the ghettos. That was the way it had been her whole life. She’d never even imagined it being different until she’d come up with this plan to release some in exchange for their help in battle.
Ewrkind turned back to the prince. “I will provide three hundred elvish warriors. As Lily told you, we are immune to your thorns magic, so we can fight on the front lines. We have nothing to fear from the Craggish or Taveller abditus. I will personally lead them.”
The prince nodded slowly, as if at a loss for words at this unexpected turnaround.
“Some of these elves will die,” Ewrkind continued. “Perhaps all of them will. And I will not sell their lives cheaply.” He looked at the prince, and his gaze wasn’t that of a prisoner looking at his captor. It wasn’t even the gaze of a subject looking at his prince. It was the look of a king gazing at someone below him, someone to whom he was obligated to be polite. “In return, after the war is won, you will release every elf from behind the Blue Wall. Release all of us to the woods of the north. Not just the ones who fight.”
Prince Christopher’s face grew red. This demand was clearly beyond anything he’d expected. “You presume too much, elf.”
Ewrkind’s face hardened at the tone of the prince’s voice as he said the word elf.
Lily looked from Prince Christopher to Ewrkind. This talk was on the verge of breaking down. The king had told her in no uncertain terms he expected them to return from this trip with an army. She was technically here on behalf of the king, just as the prince was, but perhaps she could serve as a sort of mediator.
“My Prince,” she said, “notice that he specified the elves should be released to the northern woods when the war is won. I assume that was an intentional statement?”
Ewrkind nodded sharply, his furious gaze never leaving the prince.
“Imagine the motivation that will provide the elves,” Lily said. “They will literally be fighting for their freedom and for freedom for their families.”
Prince Christopher scoffed. “A lot of good that will do an untrained group of elves against the Craggish who, may I remind you, have been training since they were five years old.”
A noise like a growl escaped from Ewrkind’s throat. “Trust me when I say my people are not untrained, any more than their grandparents were when they cut through thousands of your grandparents while sustaining barely one hundred casualties.”
Lily cringed. The last thing either side needed right now was bravado.
But then Prince Christopher surprised her.
“Ewrkind, you are a strong negotiator, and I appreciate that. I can see the logic in your proposal. If you can provide five hundred troops rather than three hundred, I will, on behalf of the Royal Crown, accept your proposal.”
Ewrkind glanced at Gabel, and the elf gave him the slightest of nods.
A wide smile spread across Ewrkind’s face. “That can be arranged. I will bring you five hundred elves. We will fight for you, and, by God, they will write songs about our battles. After the war is won, my people will be free.”
He held out his hand. After only a moment’s pause, the prince shook it.
Lily felt a strange combination of giddiness and dread. For the first time in more than a generation, the elves were going to war.
CHAPTER THREE
Zane let go of the wall and dropped the last five feet, landing softly in the grass below. He crouched down for a moment listening for any sounds of movement, any sign he’d been spotted. He heard nothing, and he couldn’t see much in the dim moonlight. Usually, that would be a comfort—if he couldn’t see them, they couldn’t see him, after all. Tonight it was more unsettling. He knew from experience that the Oasis had an elf, and elves could see in the dark.
He’d taken a detour on his way to the southern city of Harken and stopped at the Oasis near Barnes. It was as close as he dared venture to his old city. It would have been nice to retrieve his fortune, but he couldn’t risk it. The Pruits would certainly have his home watched, though he doubted they expected him to actually show up there.
Zane had been in the Oasis, a permanent retreat for elderly abditus, only once before. He had discovered its existence while trying to locate the famed abditus Irving Farns. No, he suddenly remembered, that wasn’t right. It had been Lily who’d learned about this place. It had been her first real success in getting information from a source. She’d been so awkward in social situations back then. The memory made him smile. While interrogating Farns’ former partner here, Zane had made another discovery: Rebecca Waters, his old abditus mentor and the woman whose mind Jacob Von Ridden had wiped of all memories, was also residing here. Zane had visited her briefly, but he hadn’t been able to bring himself to do much more than say hello. She hadn’t recognized him, of course, and it was too painful to see the once precise and intelligent woman in her current state, a state he’d played a part in causing.
But now, even though time was of the essence, he felt he had to see her again. Perhaps it was selfish, an act designed only to make himself feel better. She wouldn’t know he was there, after all. And so what if it was selfish? He had no illusions about what was going to happen in Harken. He was walking into a trap set for him by Caleb Longstrain. Between Caleb and the Pruits, Zane knew there was very little chance he would survive. But he also believed Caleb truly cared for Lily, in his own twisted way, and that she very likely was in danger. Zane had to go, he had to do anything he could to help her, and so what if he wanted to perform this one selfish act on the route to his death?
He crept through the grass, staying close to the wall. He remembered the layout of this place. He had a mental image of the route he needed to take, and he was confident he’d be able to find Rebecca Waters’ quarters.
He reached the door marked 117 and took a deep breath. He was surprised to find it unlocked. He slipped inside and another surprise hit him: someone was softly singing.
For a moment, he thought it was Rebecca, but the voice was coming from a rocking chair in the corner next to a small lamp. There was enough light to see someone in the bed on the other side of the room, m
ost likely Rebecca. He briefly considered aborting the mission because of this mysterious third party, but he’d come too far to do that.
The woman in the chair apparently hadn’t noticed him enter. She was still singing softly as she rocked back and forth, eyes closed. Zane said in a low but confident voice, “Don’t move and don’t scream and I will not hurt you.”
The woman in the chair drew in a sharp breath, but she didn’t scream.
“Who are you and what are you doing in Miss Waters’ room?” Zane asked.
“My name’s Phyllis Graze,” the woman said. “Rebecca gets out of sorts some nights. I sit with her. The singing seems to calm her.”
Graze. Zane had once had a client named Albert Graze. He wondered if this woman was Albert’s mother. Since she was here, she must have been an abditus, like her son and husband.
A soft voice came from the bed. “Lane. Stain. Main. Plain.”
“Shh,” Phyllis said in a soothing voice. “It’s all right, dear.”
The lamp cast enough light for Zane to see his way around the room, but not enough that he could be confident the old abditus woman wasn’t holding a thorn. He’d have to risk it. He went to the side of the bed and looked down at his old mentor.
She’d been a beautiful woman when Zane had known her nearly twenty years ago, and remnants of that beauty still clung to her face. But she wore those twenty years hard. That didn’t surprise Zane. Twenty years spent in this place, confused and alone, couldn’t have been easy.
Rebecca looked up at him, a light smile on her face. “Rain. Drain. The pain…” She trailed off for a moment, then her smile widened. “Zane. Zane the pain.”
Zane nearly gasped. “Yes! That’s right. I’m Zane. It’s so good to see you, Rebecca.”
She looked away. “Rug. Dug. Smug. Drug. Plug.”
Zane turned to the woman in the chair. “She remembered me. How is that possible? She was hit with a Walling’s Razor.”
“Yes, she was,” the woman said. “Common misconception about Walling’s Razors. They don’t wipe out your memory. It’s still in there somewhere. It just makes your thoughts slippery, so you can’t hold onto them for more than a moment. You can see it in her eyes sometimes. Every once in a while, she remembers who she was, what her life was like before she was hit with that thorn, and her eyes fill with horror. It’s not the forgetting that’s the difficult thing for her. It’s the occasional remembering.”
Zane’s blood went cold. He’d often thought about Rebecca and about what it must be like for her to be in constant confusion, but he’d never considered the other side of it, the terrible moments of lucidity.
He reached toward her.
“Careful!” Phyllis said.
“I was just going to hold her hand.”
“Best make sure she’s doesn’t have anything. She loves making little sharp objects out of anything at hand—quills, bits of wood, whatever—and hiding them where people are sure to get stuck by them. She forgets where she hid them, probably forgets she ever made them, but how she laughs every time someone gets stuck. The more they bleed, the louder she cackles. I believe this one has a good heart, but there’s no denying she’s got a mean streak, too.”
“Indeed,” Zane said. He had felt her mean streak in the form of the backside of her hand or the slap of her belt plenty of times. He’d been old enough that he could have stopped her, but that would have ended his apprenticeship and he’d badly wanted to be an abditus in those days.
“I wish I knew what she’d like been before all this,” Phyllis said. “I’ll bet she was a thornswoman.”
“Aye,” Zane said. “She was. And a good one, too.”
He carefully took Rebecca’s hand, doing it slowly and making sure the hand was empty. It was, and it felt warm and small. She giggled and squeezed his hand.
“I don’t know how much of this you can understand,” Zane said, “but I’m going to say it anyway. You always did your best for me, even though you were harsh at times. I don’t fault you for that. That was your way, and probably the way of your own mentor before you. You did your best to prepare me and protect me.” He took a deep breath. “I wanted to say, I’m sorry. I should have protected you. I should have protected myself. I shouldn’t have gotten caught up in Jacob’s scheme.”
She giggled again. “Jacob…Jacob is kiddin’. Jacob gone skiddin’. Jacob things hidden.” Her face suddenly became serious. “Jacob Von Ridden.”
Zane squeezed her hand. “Yes.”
“Poor thing loves to rhyme,” Phyllis said. “I think it’s her way of organizing her thoughts. Most of it’s nonsense, but I get the feeling the more she rhymes, the harder she’s trying to hold onto her thoughts.”
“My lung,” Rebecca said. She was talking faster now. “Red tongue. Old dung. So young when he met with them. Mire. Fire. He went to the spire to conspire. He raised my ire, the dirty liar! The Crags! The slags! Old bags! Dressed in rags! He swore to thee, but never to me! He refused to flee!”
She gripped Zane’s hand hard and stared at him, her eyes alive and her gaze fierce. “He said he’d try. They made him lie. Now all will die. The war is nigh.”
Suddenly Phyllis put a calming hand on Rebecca’s shoulder. Zane hadn’t seen her get up. He’d been too focused on Rebecca and her ranting. “Hush, dear. It’s all right. Old Phyllis is here.”
Rebecca turned toward Phyllis and her expression changed. A haze once again entered her eyes, and she giggled. “Old lady. Must be eighty. Blood and bones in a sack of skin. That’s where you end and begin.” She cackled wildly at that.
Phyllis looked at Zane with concern. “Step outside with me.”
Zane paused, then nodded.
When they were outside in the cool darkness, Phyllis said, “I’ve never seen her like that. She seemed to have clarity, but she was so upset. Apparently you’ve brought back some memories, none of them too pleasant. The way I understand it, she’ll have lost the memories by now, but the upset feelings will remain. What I’m saying is you aren’t doing her any favors by dredging up the past.”
Zane nodded. He understood, but he was still surprised by the way Rebecca had responded. “It seemed like she was trying to tell me something.”
Phyllis sighed. “One thing you have to know about her is she believes her fantasies and her occasional real memories with equal passion. We’ll never know what’s real and what’s only in her mind.”
“Perhaps if I could talk to her for another moment—”
“I won’t allow it,” Phyllis said. “You snuck your way in here, which means you’re a man who knows a bit about the clandestine. But hear me now. If you bother that poor woman again, I’ll raise the alarm, and you’ll have to kill me to stop me. If hearing the ranting of a delusional old abditus is worth my life, then so be it. Otherwise, I’ll ask you to leave.”
Zane considered that for only a moment. If Albert Graze had half the backbone this woman did, he might have never stooped to hiring Zane to kill his rival Irving Farns.
After a moment, Zane said, “I understand. Take good care of her.”
“I always do,” the woman said. She turned and went back inside, leaving Zane alone in the darkness.
Zane wasn’t sure if he’d gotten what he’d wanted to out of the encounter. He’d come here to apologize. He’d done that, but he didn’t feel especially relieved. He simply felt cold.
He made his way to the wall surrounding the Oasis and climbed to the top, being careful to avoid the tangles nestled in its surface. He stood up and turned to take one last look at the Oasis, the home to his old mentor. As he did, something whizzed past his cheek, and it landed on the stone path on top of the wall with a clang that spoke of metal.
Instantly, Zane dropped to his stomach, flattening against the ground. He silently cursed. He didn’t know where his assailant was located, so he could be making himself an easier target by lying motionless.
He took a deep breath and forced himself to consider the situation
. That was a throwing knife that had flown past him. A throwing knife was a short-ranged weapon, which meant his attacker was on this wall, to his left.
He crawled to his right, moving as quickly as he could while staying low. There was a small building up ahead, probably a guard station. Hopefully an unmanned one.
Or maybe not. No guard Zane had ever encountered used throwing knives. This was someone else. A sinking feeling crept into Zane’s stomach as he realized who it was.
He saw the dark shape near the edge of the wall just in time. He rolled quickly to his left and got his feet under him. He stayed in a crouch while drawing his sword.
It was smart, Zane had to give them that. One of them throwing knives from one direction, chasing him into the waiting blade of a swordsman. Or, in this case, swordswoman. The dark shape to Zane’s right had to be Julia Pruit. And that frightened Zane.
It was widely acknowledged that Kipling had been the finest swordsman in Opel, but Julia Pruit was the finest swordsperson. She’d beaten Kipling enough that even he, prideful man that he was, was forced to admit it. And now Zane would be facing off with her. In the dark. On top of a twenty-foot wall. While knives were being thrown at him from behind.
He sighed. Best to get it over with quickly, whatever the outcome.
He gripped his sword and lunged forward, thrusting as he leapt. His entire weight was behind his thrust, but Julia batted his attack aside with a casual flick of her wrist. Then she stabbed, and Zane felt the tip of her sword slice his neck. He’d turned just enough to avoid the sword running him through, but not enough to get out of the way completely. Hot blood ran down his neck and into his shirt.
He brought his sword up just in time, parrying her next blow, one that had been meant for his heart.
Julia Pruit wasn’t like any of the other great swordsmen he’d faced, Zane realized. She wasn’t out for sport like Faraday. She wasn’t out to prove she was better than him like Caleb Longstrain. Julia simply wanted to kill him so she could get on with her evening.
