“The summoner’s taken a liking to me. She’s easily persuaded if you give her pretty things. I had to promise her something she wanted so she would let me into the Underkeep.”
“You broke the Gatherers’ hearts. You lied to Auralia’s face!”
“Here’s the trick, Merya—I borrowed Auralia’s gifts. I told the summoner I’d steal them for her. So I had to take them, or she wouldn’t believe me.”
“I can’t imagine why.”
“But I’m not going to deliver them to her. My instructions will lead her off down some crazy path. By the time she realizes that, you and I will already be out of reach, living it up in Bel Amica. We’ll eventually send a message to the Gatherers so they can find the hiding place. They’ll get every piece back.”
He began to crawl toward her. “When the sun rises, Merya, the summoner is going to smuggle me into the caves beneath the palace.”
“What if you’re caught robbing the Underkeep? Captain Ark-robin will kill you!”
“He won’t catch me. As far as he knows, the game is over, and he won.”
She shook her head. She had to get off this platform. She had to run…now. “You’re insane.”
“Here’s what I think is insane, Merya. Tryin’ to raise a child in the wilderness with a drunkard for a papa.”
Merya could not hide her astonishment, nor could she keep herself from pressing her hands to her belly. How could he know?
“Why do you think I’m inviting you to Bel Amica with me, Merya? Because that child needs a home. A good home. And Bel Amica’s the place. This is your chance. I’m giving it to you. What is Corvah doing to give you that chance?”
Far away, the Evening Verse rang down from Abascar’s wall. The voice was faint and distant, but it made the lateness of the hour clear. Merya looked toward the house. Her ears rang; her pulse rushed.
Radegan stood up, moved a hand behind her head, drew her face near to his. She closed her eyes, afraid. But he only whispered through clenched teeth. “In a few days, Merya, you’ll like me even better. You’ll know what I’m made of.” Before she could answer, he kissed her forcefully. And then again. And again, just enough to redden her cheeks, weaken her resolve, and take more that did not belong to him.
When they made their silent descent after moonrise, Merya found the shreds of her harvesting pouch at the foot of the tree. Fragments of wet eggshell, stark white and scattered, were all that remained of her day’s work. She looked around and saw a fox peering at her through brambles with berry-stains on his muzzle. She could have sworn he wore a gloating smile.
18
THE DREAMERS
C al-raven stood over a washbasin with a razor, scraping at his face. The golden beard that had grown during the days of his fever was gone.
“I don’t know you, woman,” he said, pretending to address his Promised. “And you don’t yet know me. But you’ve spread the word that you prefer a clean-shaven man, and I’m expected to bend to your will.”
“Ark-robin’s daughter has a lash to your back already, Cal-raven?” came the voice from the next room.
“A razor to my face anyway. I’ll remember this, many years from now, when I insist she shave her own beard.” He glanced at the trimmings in the washbasin. “I should collect these and send them to her. A token of my lack of affection.”
This contagion had knocked him flat for six days of coughing and fever. Back on his feet, he was eager to appear obedient, at least until he could find a way to escape this marriage plan. The news that his Promised had a preference for hairless chins made him wish his blond beard had grown down to his knees. But for now, he would do his best to play along.
He glanced briefly at the table in the adjoining chamber—his personal strategy room—where Irimus Rain, one of Captain Ark-robin’s assistants, gestured anxiously at an unfurled map.
The prince put down the razor and rubbed his chin. He felt more like himself. The beard had reminded him too much of how his father had looked before his mother left.
Irimus Rain could not hide the sneer inside his bristling mustache, but he was clearly trying. “Prince Cal-raven, you appear…much like your younger self.” He tugged at his own winding grey beard. “However, some would say a beard is a sign of maturity and wisdom.”
“I’m not so fond of being grown up. Not when I have to spend evenings bent over maps.” Cal-raven drew his grey and brown mantle over his shoulders. Irimus smirked in disgust. “Don’t,” the prince warned him. “You’re a strategist, not a tailor. Believe me, on the day I marry Stricia, you’ll see me dressed in funeral attire.” He sat down at the table and frowned at the elaborate map.
The ale boy entered with a tray. A goblet, a bowl, and a plate rattled against the silver as he stepped cautiously to the table. Cal-raven took the plate of bread and oil and the bowl of stew, then instructed the ale boy to place the goblet atop the scroll shelves beside his bed. He would not take his wine until he had survived this late meeting with the advisor. It was a lesson he had learned from observing his father—keep your senses sharp so as not to be persuaded into folly. He looked down at the map, where Irimus demonstrated that the dig from the Underkeep to the Throanscall was steering too far to the north.
“Irimus,” Cal-raven groaned, “I understand the dig has strayed from the prescribed course. But it will still reach the river as planned. If we insist they undo the last few days of work, just to correct their direction, it will add four days to the project. The diggers are exhausted. And they’re almost to the river. We can’t ruin their spirits again.”
“The current course, Cal-raven,” Irimus insisted, “will steer the tunnel too close to the Fraughtenwood. You know the Fraughtenwood. Wyrms prowl there. Do you want them swimming into our underground river?”
“If the problem is that severe, Irimus, why can’t the foreman make the change? Why bother bringing this to me? If I give the order, I’ll become the target of their complaints. And this will embolden the grudgers.”
“My lord, the foreman is nervous about making changes without royal consent. He specifically appealed for your support.”
So, Cal-raven thought, Blyn-dobed asked for this. He wants to correct their course, but he doesn’t want to become a target for his grumbling workers. He knows I feel guilty for offending him. He assumes I’ll willingly accept the burden.
Cal-raven had ordered that a battalion be sent to guard the diggers. A transitory tower—a portable fort with a watchtower—would give them some refuge if they were attacked. The tower was a leftover from the war days of King Har-baron, but it would not provide enough security to protect all the men. They were still vulnerable.
“By my honor stitches,” Irimus smirked, pointing to the carpet.
“Ale boy, your shoes,” the prince shouted. “You’re leaving a trail.”
The ale boy, who was looking about for a footstool, flinched. “Sorry, Prince Cal-raven. I was just called in from the Gatherer camps to serve you.”
“Of course. I spoke too harshly. But as you see, I have Irimus here for the sole purpose of pointing out matters that might bother me.”
Irimus drew back from the table, indignant. But Cal-raven knew the advisor would not dare to disagree with him. Not while his request was still on the table.
“Go on, Irimus. Redirect the dig. But only if they agree to certain conditions. The Fraughtenwood is a terrible place, but we have to stay on schedule. I’ve never known the beastmen to attack such an organized endeavor, but they have surprised me lately. We need to finish the project and get out of there. They will have to work day and night in shifts. Make sure they understand that I command this for their own protection.”
“Of course.”
“Also, tell the diggers I am making arrangements to work alongside them and to double their pay. That is how much I desire to see this through. And if the foreman and his workers apply themselves appropriately, I will personally commend them, one by one, before my father.”
Iri
mus needed no encouragement to leave.
Prince Cal-raven ker Cal-marcus collapsed, his forehead on the tabletop, his arms outstretched, and his hands flat against the map. He was too tired for any more strategy tonight.
These last several days he had been sprawled in his blankets with cold, wet towels wrapped around his head. His illness had postponed the hunters’ victory celebration, but he wished they would go ahead with their frivolity. He needed time alone beyond the walls where he could find some peace, think about his future, track the endeavors of beastmen, and practice stonemastery.
When he opened his eyes, the boy was still trying to place the goblet on the top of the scroll rack by stepping onto a low shelf.
“You say you were with the Gatherers, boy? Do you spend a lot of time outside the walls?”
The ale boy answered, “Yes, sir, I suppose I do.”
“Do you prefer working in the woods to working in the palace?”
“I…I like working in both places, sir. Inside and outside. But not one without the other.”
“What a clever answer. But aren’t you afraid of the Cent Regus beastmen?”
“Yes, sir. Nasty folk, Cent Regus. I’m careful to stay close to the duty officers.”
“I could have you reassigned, if you like.”
“Oh no, sir. I’d never want to be shut inside all the time. I’d miss too many things. The woods are beautiful.”
“You sound like my old teacher.” Cal-raven looked at his own shoes, polished, worn maybe once before, like all his shoes. He looked through a round window at the faint violet brushstrokes left in the sky. “Have you heard of the mage my father exiled…Scharr ben Fray?”
At Cal-raven’s question, the ale boy lost his balance and fell, dragging the goblet tray with him, which swiped across the shelf and knocked a menagerie of the prince’s belongings down to the floor with it. The boy landed amidst the tumbling debris.
Wine darkened the carpet.
The prince leapt to help him, shouting, “Of all the clumsy—” He snatched a towel from beside his washbasin and threw it across the spill.
The ale boy muttered, “Sorry, sir. You just startled me. I’ll clean it up.”
“Forgive me.” Cal-raven was laughing now. “I shouldn’t scold you for an accident. Once, when I was a child, I pulled a whole rack of scroll shelves down on top of myself. My mother was not very pleased.”
The ale boy was not listening. He sat staring in sudden amazement at the array of fallen objects scattered across the floor. Among them, he discovered tiny sculptures, figures carved from glassy blackstone.
Cal-raven picked up a tiny stone figurine. “These are just toys. Figures my teacher made, mostly. I made some of them too. Do you like them?”
“Sorry, sir. I’ve just…I’ve never seen anything like ’em before, sir.”
Cal-raven scooped up a handful of the small figures and held them out for the boy to see. The disparate pieces were no bigger than the prince’s thumb. A black bear, crouched to defend its territory. A stag, crowned with intricate antlers like a king of the forest. Warriors in combat poses. A woman in trailing robes, running, looking back over her shoulder. A giant king with a strange walking stick and gems for eyes.
“This one is Tammos Raak, the great leader who brought people down into the Expanse from the curse of Inius Throan…you know the old story?” The boy nodded. “And this one looks like a row of teeth, but hold it up to the light, and see? It casts a shadow that matches the jagged line of the Forbidding Wall.”
“Sir, the floor. Shouldn’t we finish sopping up the wine before it stains?”
“And these two, ravens. Wait, no, this one’s a silverhawk. This one’s a red-hawk. He can talk to them, you know—Scharr ben Fray. He’s a stonemaster, and he speaks with animals. These, I forget what they are called, beasts from the remote south. Can kill a vawn with one lash of their tails. Grounders, that’s it. Here, I’ll show you more.”
He reached beneath the heavy bed mats and withdrew a polished wooden box. “We made these together when he took me exploring in the Blackstone Caves, southeast of Abascar. The stones there are sharp as razors, but they shape beautifully if you have the gift.”
He withdrew a small, crude map, one he had probably drawn as a child, and opened it. He traced a line from the X that marked House Abascar down to a region southeast of the Cragavar forest. “Right there. You should see them, boy, the Blackstone Caves. A different world, a labyrinth. That’s where I first learned stonemastery. A whole houseful of people could live there.”
He lifted another handful of figures. They clattered together like shells. At the sight of these, the boy forgot about the wine.
“You like these? They’re my favorites. Things that aren’t real. Things Scharr ben Fray saw in his dreams and things he gathered from children’s stories. Dragons. The dreaded two-headed wolfsnake. Look, he even made some Northchildren.” Cal-raven set the figures in a line on the floor. They were lumps of grey clay—hooded people, tall and short, skinny and stout, bent as though haunted or running from something awful. The ale boy took the largest piece from Cal-raven’s open hand and held it up, wide eyed.
“Yes, you’ve found the very best. That one is extraordinary.” Cal-raven took it away quickly. “You know what it is, don’t you? So you know why I keep it hidden.”
The ale boy nodded and bit his lower lip.
“Don’t be afraid. You can speak freely here. This emerjade ring I made when I was a child, it has the very same outline.”
“The king lets you wear the Keeper on your hand?” the boy whispered in disbelief. “But it’s forbidden to even talk about the Keeper.”
“And my father would like to throw this ring into the Underkeep’s abyss. Princes in Abascar have always been given royal rings of trust. Some say Tammos Raak gave rings to all his children and that Abascar is the only house that honors this tradition. Whoever wears the ring of royal trust is protected from harm. The king must show favor and mercy to anyone who wears it, and I am free to give it to anyone I please.”
He put the ring against his eye and stared through it. “They say that only children dream of the Keeper,” Cal-raven whispered. “But it’s not true. The Keeper’s in everybody’s dreams. And when we try to shake that memory, the dreams turn to nightmares. We’re meant to dream about it. I’m sure of this.”
Cal-raven saw recognition in the boy’s expression. “Whenever Scharr ben Fray talked about this common dream, he would become very serious and squint his eyes like he was looking into a bright light.” Cal-raven mimicked a deep, raspy voice, shook a finger at the ale boy and growled, “They are fools that deny their dreams.” He leaned forward. “I’ll tell you a secret, boy. I’ll tell you something I’ve told no one else. I have seen prints in the forest. Footprints that don’t match any known beast.”
“I know somebody,” blurted the ale boy. “Somebody who says that the Keeper saved her life.”
Cal-raven’s smile lingered a moment, then faded. “What?”
“A beastman tried to attack her, and she called for the Keeper’s help. It threw the beastman into the lake.”
“You know someone who says she saw the Keeper…outside her dreams?” He was skeptical. “The Gatherers eat a lot of mushrooms, don’t they?”
“No. Not a Gatherer. An orphan. Some say she’s a Northchild.”
The prince folded his fingers as though to hide the ring. “A Northchild?”
“Well, nobody knows. She’s not wicked or a thief. I don’t think she’s cold and cruel. Her name’s ’Ralia.” When he spoke the name, he suddenly turned away, as if realizing a mistake.
Cal-raven stood, eyes wide, then winced as his heel came down on one of the figures. “Rescued by the Keeper. Interesting.”
The Evening Verse, sung sharply and officiously, drew the prince’s attention to the window.
“It’s late, and I still have a great deal to accomplish.” His tone was again that of a prince addressing a serv
ant. “Thank you for the wine, boy. You are dismissed.”
The ale boy responded automatically, bowing as was proper. “Sir, I have yet to clean up the mess I’ve made. I’ll fetch some rags and water.”
“Good, but bring something else as well.”
“Sir?”
“Bring me an attendant’s cape. I must go out. In secret.”
The ale boy’s eyes widened, and he smiled at the privilege of the confidence.
“I am going to visit this friend of yours. There are some questions I suspect her interrogators overlooked. Is there any message you would like me to pass along?”
Cal-raven was quite unprepared for the torrent of messages, questions, and promises the ale boy produced.
Behind them, the wine sank indelibly into the floor.
19
THE RING OF TRUST
H er hands cupped beneath the shallows of the lake, Auralia drew out colors.
With a rush, the ale boy rose from the waters, a chalice in his hand. The cup was cast in resin the silverblue of evening water. Its stem rose from a base of tangled roots to shape a great and winding tree with four branches that held the cup’s bowl. And in the bowl—fire.
“The fire doesn’t harm me,” the ale boy said, offering the chalice. A question marked his face. The cup was cool against her hands, like water from the lake. She lifted it and drank.
The flames tasted like colors. They ran into her blood, poured out through her eyes as fiery tears.
The silhouette of the ale boy had been replaced by a young woman standing in the water. She laughed, reached forward, pulled the cup free, and threw it at Auralia’s feet. Flames engulfed her, but she did not feel pain.
A heavy hand touched Auralia’s shoulder. She turned, watched herself retrieve the chalice from the fire and give it to a tall shadow whose face she could not see. “Pass this on,” she said, and she kissed his hand, his ring. The colors staining her lips set the ring ablaze.
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