by Ember Lane
“She’d look quite the Petreyen,” Marista agreed.
“Petreyen?” I asked, for some reason, that place piqued my interest.
“Oh yes, Petreyens are a very colorful folk, and their women are, for the most part, the hunters and the warriors. You look a bit Petreyen as well—you’ve got their bone structure. You know, Star, that may well be a grand idea. We’ll disguise our Alexa as a Petreyen. It will explain her colorful garb, and we can work on a past for her. Plus, it’ll save just introducing her as Alexa Drey of…nowhere. That in itself is enough to raise eyebrows.”
“Shall I start?” Star asked, and Marista said "yes." Before I knew it, I was stripped of my new cloak and my tunic. Marista had emptied a waterskin into a bowl, and a very enthusiastic Star was attacking my hair with a rather sharp knife.
“Now, while she sets to work,” Marista continued, “let me tell you about the Petreyens.” Marista settled herself down, though looked a good way away from comfortable on the wooden bench. “They are a unique race.” I saw her eyes now held a faraway look, her mouth betraying both happiness and sorrow. “Once ruled by nine princes, the whole of Petreyen society was wiped out by betrayal. There was once a man named Canelo James, and Canelo James was the first prince of Petreyer to die.”
“What happened?”
“Treachery,” Marista said emphatically. “Remember, nine princes each with a land bigger than any man should rule, could rule, because Petreyer, while stunning, beautiful, is a land of vast grasslands, mountains that just spring out of nowhere, and forests used to grow there, so thick you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face. It was a land teeming with wildlife, where no one needed to go hungry.” She paused, and then her voice became ominous. “Yet each prince coveted another’s land, and so, instead of rejoicing in what they already had, they built armies.”
Marista cuffed her eyes. I swear she wiped away a tear.
“Now Canelo James’s principality was the area around Lordslaner, and that was his capital. Unlike all the other princes, Canelo worked free trade with Irydia, The Five Isles, Tharameer and beyond. And he was strong, very strong, both in the military sense and the mind.”
Star nicked my scalp with the knife, and I gasped, ripped from Marista’s tale. I felt Star’s finger press on the cut, warmth seeping from her fingertips, into the bleed, and it slowed immediately. I sensed it had healed instantly. I looked up, and saw she was looking down at me, squaring up my head, her fingers pulling my hair into place.
“By now,” Marista continued, “the Petreyens had split into three factions; four princes to the north, four to the south, and Canelo James. The north and south squared up to each other on the plains around the central town of Partic Fair.”
“Was Canelo James there?” I asked.
“Canelo James rode right into the middle of both armies. His goal was to bang the heads of his brothers together and bring peace to the land.”
“What happened?”
“The northern army, and the south, well, they both fell on the army from Lordslaner and Canelo James was no more. The other eight princes celebrated that night in Partic Fair and agreed to divide up Canelo’s land evenly between the north and the south to use as a trade route to Irydia, Shyantium and Atremeny. Unfortunately, one prince wasn’t finished yet.”
“Which one?”
Marista took a slurp on her waterskin. “To understand that, you have to understand the land. Like Irydia, Petreyer is a long land, a peninsula, and its westernmost tip extends toward the land of Sharreff—remember, this was all before the mists fell and cut the lands off from the world.”
“Are the Sharreff bad people?” I asked.
“Not at all.” She laughed at that. “But you can buy anything, and I mean anything in Sharreff, and the prince that held the land at the very tip of Petreyer was Canelo’s distant cousin Brasted Cheel, and he bartered all his gold in the markets of Sharreff and brought himself a mutant army from the land of The Variant.”
“A mutant army?”
“The Variant is a very dank place,” Marista said, by way of explanation. “So, Brasted Cheel let loose his mutants on the armies gathered in Partic Fair, and that was the end of him, and the end of Petreyer as we know it.”
“Eh?” I said—it was getting to be my go-to phrase.
“Mutants, Alexa, only answer to their creator. Brasted Cheel was probably the first to die. Anyhow, now the mutants thrive above ground, and the surviving Petreyens live underground where the mutant herds never roam.”
I shivered at the thought. “Hang on—weren’t you dining with a man called Carter Green—some sumptuous banquet?”
“They may be a odd bunch of folk, but Petreyens aren’t stupid. Like I said, it is a strange land, and one thing it has is an abundance of caves, underground rivers and networks of tunnels. These were already inhabited by smugglers and brigands who paid no taxes to the princes. The mutants didn’t or couldn’t venture underground, and so Petreyer survived, but underground and the age of The Carters started; Carter Green being one of the most powerful.”
“So,” I said, choosing my words carefully. “I’m a Petreyen and I live underground, near Lordslaner, with a man named Carter Green.”
“A Salatay, that is what they’re called—the underground cities. And you can make up much of what you want. You’ll not encounter anyone who’s been to Petreyer, the land is far too dangerous for even a bold adventurer to attempt. It’s only connected to one other land, and that is Irydia, at it’s northernmost point. The Irydians soon built a wall to keep the mutants at bay.”
Marista reached over and patted my knee.
“But, to embellish your lies, the Petreyens love anything colorful, and horses—they love their horses. That’s one of the things that still survive the mutants—horses—big, bold chargers. And glowspheres, they love glowspheres, for obvious reasons.”
“There,” said Star. “Were done. Now, what are we going to use for dye?”
Marista jerked back, ripped from her stories. “I have something in my chest.” She sidled up to the wagon and opened the top. Bringing out a clay pot, she eased the top off and fished out a jaspur leaf. “Hold still, Alexa. Star, lay this where you think. If my inkling is right, each leaf will do what you want it to—or rather what Alexa wills it.”
One by one, she passed the leaves to Star, and one by one, Star laid them on my head. When done, she bound my head in a cloth and she sat back.
“Shall I do her ears? I have a spike somewhere?”
“No!” I shouted on instinct. “Let me get used to the hair first.”
We stopped soon after they both decided my hair was truly done, released from the towel and loosed on the world, I dressed and jumped out of the wagon to some drop-jawed expressions. Apparently, I really did look badass.
After a meal of salty meat and tough bread, we made ready to move out. Flip intercepted me and told me it was time for my training. Petroo was ranging ahead, scouting the way and had assured all that it was safe. Cronis took my place in the wagon, hitching his horse to its backrail.
We were traveling through foothills, the mountains behind us, though what lay ahead, I couldn’t see. The land was mostly grass and interspersed with clumps of trees and scattered, gray-and-black rocks. Blue sky overhead seemed to suck the warmth out of me—especially the shaved side of my head. I kept fiddling with my long fringe that now draped right on my eyebrows.
“What are you supposed to be?” Flip asked.
“Petreyen,” I said, taking his hand and letting him pull me up onto his horse.
“I can see that,” he said, and he cantered off.
I’d decided that I trusted Flip. He was an open book, and I felt comfortable with him. There was no doubt in my mind that he was a rogue, his whole manner in the inn the previous evening pointed in that direction, but that somehow made him even safer. He steered the horse to the brow of the largest foothill, a stone cairn on top of it.
“Must have been
a great man,” he muttered, looking at the pile of stones.
“You mean there’s someone buried in there?”
“That’s the point of them, stops the wolves tearing the body apart.”
“Do we have to…? Why train here, right next to a dead body?”
Flip shrugged. “It gives us somewhere to rest. Here.” He cupped his hands together. “Hop up on top. You can see a bit of the land.”
“On…”
“Come on, you’re supposed to be a badass now.”
I jumped up, and clambered onto the top of the cairn. Standing, I looked around. To one side, the land rolled down, all the shades of green, until it faded to gray and joined the sky. In front of me, emerging from the horizon, a wedge of blue advanced forward, but appeared much lower than the green land, and to the other side, a burnished, brown and ruddy land led away. I suddenly noticed Flip had jumped up and was now by my side.
“The green land is Irydia, the blue sea—the Ethmiall Carafore, and the scorched land is Northern Tharameer, and now you can see why they’re called the Lowlands—Irydia eventually tapers down to meet the sea, but not before Mystral Port.”
He jumped back down. “First things first—your sack—throw me that.”
I did, and then jumped down.
“Sacks, they work slightly differently here—the magical ones anyway. This is.” He peered in. “This one is a twenty-slot sack—so not so big. Right.” He threw the sack back. “Now, instead of reaching in and grabbing something. Try just thinking about what you’ve put in and if you want it, ask the sack.”
It sounded odd, but I was getting used to odd. Looking in, I knew it contained another pair of boots, pants and a tunic, plus the staff from Gromolor and the Katrox’s knife.
“So, what do you want to practice?” he asked.
I imagined the black knife in my mind, my hand hovered over the sack, and suddenly, it had jumped into my palm.
“Where did you get that?” Flip asked, his expression a mix of amazement and horror.
The wind picked up, swirling around the cairn. A chill suddenly invaded my body, right through to the bone, and I noticed the sky had clouded over.
“It was Aragnoor’s,” I said, but Flip was shaking his head.
“That is no dwarven knife. It is a blade from Ruse.”
“Is that bad?”
He took the knife from me, balancing it on his finger. “Perfect balance,” he muttered. “But cold, did you feel how cold it was?”
“Is it evil?” I asked again.
“It is an object, and I highly doubt Marista would have let you keep it if it was imbued with evil.”
“She doesn’t know I’ve got it,” I said. “At least, I haven’t told her. To be honest, I clean forgot about it, all the talk was of what happened, and I’d just picked it up. Neither Petroo or Greman mentioned it—so it couldn’t be that important.” I knew I was lying about the knife, but not why. Once more, it just plain confused me.
“So, are you going to teach me how to throw it?”
“Not that knife, no. Not until we understand it. Correct me if I’m wrong, when you used it, you spoke the Graveling’s curse.”
I nodded.
“Then put it back in the sack. We’ll use my knives.”
For the next few hours, we trained. Flip had his own sack, and it held a whole host of things. The most useful was an old coat which he stuffed full of other stuff, including what resembled a tent, and made it look like a body. One after the other, I had to throw different knives into it. He made me do it standing, sitting, rolling forward, leaping backward, jumping off the cairn, until I’d hit the dummy at least once. Then he put the heavy coat on and told me to attack him. I never came close, but I came closer the more I practiced. I never even leveled up the skill, blades, but assumed that was because I’d already gotten a head start.
By the end, it was my stamina that had gained a point, and Flip’s waterskin that was drained dry. He’d made me chew on some dry, salted beef, and strangely, it was quite nice—it also pushed my energy straight back to full. We’d play-fought too, at least that’s what he’d called it. At the time, I’d thought it pure hell. It was so tiring, so painful, and I felt my muscles ache for the first time since I’d been in the land. He was just so, so, slippery. It was like every lunge I tried was a good few seconds off. One minute he was in my sights, the next he was gone.
I got an extra vitality point too, but it felt a little backhanded, seeing as it was my lack of skill that added it. Just when I thought I couldn’t go on, he brought out his own staff, and bid me bring out mine. The skill, Staff-Fighting opened up three clouts later, and my knuckles understood a new type of pain. The skill had a high-level ceiling—sixty, and Flip seemed very pleased about that. It was to be my weapon of choice, he decided, and renewed his attack on my hands.
Weary, hungry, achy, my heart leapt when Flip called back his horse and said it was time to go. I held my hand up ready for him to pull me up, but he just grinned.
“One or two promises—I made one or two promises. I promised Marista I would teach you to defend yourself. I promised Shylan that I would teach you how to attack, and I promised Greman that I would treat you like a fragile carving fashioned by the bone carvers of Thisoplhe.” He leaned down from his horse. “I promised the apachalant that I would continue your running training. Now, you wouldn’t want me to break a promise, would you?” He flashed me a grin.
I nearly died on the spot. My whole body slumped. I took a deep breath, stared up at him defiantly, and started running in the direction we’d come from.
“Two things,” he shouted after me. I stopped but didn’t turn. “Firstly, you’re running in the wrong direction. You’re running back to where we were this morning. By now, they’ll be miles up the road.”
“What’s the second thing?” I called back.
“Well, I had to make two promises to Petroo. The first you know, that you had to run back. What do you think the second was?”
Defeated, I dropped to the ground and pulled my bonus boots off. “Damn bonus boots, how’d they remember about them?”
It took seven days to get to Zybond, seven hellish days, but great days nonetheless. With Flip’s help, I opened up new skills in Close-Quarter Fighting, Sword Fighting, and Archery. I leveled up my staff fighting, blades and running, and added more points to vitality and stamina. Sword fighting opened up the attribute, Strength, and I added points to it fairly quickly. Flip occupied all my time. At night, when all I wanted to do was curl up into an aching ball, he tutored me in concealment, though on more than one occasion, I fell asleep before he found me, either in mind or body.
I saw very little of Star. As soon as Flip was finished with me, he sought out her company. Petroo too was absent for several days, having business with the king of Irydia. Apparently, war drums were beating. Neither Marista, Greman nor Shylan discussed magic with me, and—not that I had the time—it meant those skills were static, until the last day.
That day, the land away from the road suddenly tapered in. I’d seen its edge a few times, but Flip had always made sure we were a good way away from it. Each day the ride away from the wagon had been shorter. On the last day it was less than an hour, and we’d trained within clear sight of the land’s end.
“Zybond,” he told me during a break, “is a castle teetering on the edge of the world. One slip of the Earth, and it will fall to the Lowlands, and yet it has stood since time began. They say Castle Zybond is invincible—from the outside, but most of its wars are fought underneath it. There are traps, fire pits, monsters chained and kept ravenous. It is rumored there is a perilous maze that no man has ever escaped from. Walls move without direction, and screams erupt from dungeons no one has ever found. Castle Zybond is the only castle capable of sustaining continuous assault—some say any who actually manage to breech its defenses go insane in its bowels.”
“So, is the king's army here?” I asked.
Flip shook his hea
d. “King Muscat—he’s not the greatest of kings. No, he sends no troops. Lord Zybandian relies on craft, luck, and the aid of those committed to defending Shyantium.”
“Why Shyantium?”
At that point, Flip ran his fingers through his hair and took that time to choose his words carefully.
“There is a reason that ShadowDancer throws his hoards after Zybond—there must be. There are plenty of easier ways to invade Irydia. We think he has no choice.”
“No choice?” I questioned.
“Zybond is the most direct route from Slaughtower to Shyantium. Shylan believes they are being drawn to some dark bane. A pilgrimage, if you will.”
I shivered at those words.
We hadn’t trained for long—no more than a few hours, when Flip decided it was time to finish. On the way back, he didn’t even insist I wear my other boots. As I ran alongside him, the edge of Irydia grew closer and closer. But Flip steered me inland and away, even letting me run the last few miles on the road.
We caught up with the wagon soon after, and entered a village that bordered the road. The rain had started lashing down, washing the road in black, leached from the piles of slag that lined it. Black scree, a pot-holed road, driving rain, and ramshackle dwellings were our welcome.
Though only late afternoon, Marista decided we wouldn’t attempt the last climb to the castle that day, and we stopped at a drab inn, its keeper soon stabled the horses and greeted us with open arms. It appeared takings were meager this close to the castle, and most of the village’s inhabitants had long ago given up the fight to eek out a living within the castle’s shadow.
“It’s the mines, the castle guard, or the gutter around here,” the barkeep told us, and as if to prove a point, a small line of dirty-faced miners filed into the barroom demanding ale. Zybond appeared truly a desperate place.
Our room was adequate though, and as the inn was fairly empty, everyone got a bed. We washed in ice-cold water, hung sodden clothes up to dry, and ventured downstairs. That was when Marista taught me a simple spell, and that was the spell of locks. She implanted the words straight into my mind, and made me practice it from the inside of our room. When she decided that my casting was subtle enough, we left the room. I mumbled words and made a feint hand movement and managed to lock the door. She nodded in approval, and we went downstairs.
