Garden thought about it. “Your hands?” He leaned close, voice low in Jerad’s ear. “You take me for a fool?”
Jerad shook his head. “I take you for a careful man. And a smart one.” He cleared his throat. “Every day, I have one or two chances to escape. A brief window of opportunity. I could do it, with or without my hands free.”
“Then why don’t you?”
“Because . . .” Jerad hesitated. But if the man couldn’t read Jerad yet, he was a fool for letting him track. To get something, he had to give something. “Because I saw what you did to Letti.”
A knowing smile stretched over Garden’s face. It was enough to turn Jerad’s stomach, but he held his ground.
“Alright, Feddel,” Garden said. “I will. But you owe me results. Two days! If you don’t find me a trail in two days, I’ll hurt one of them. Clear?”
Maker’s breath. If Jerad was stupid enough to admit his motivations, then Garden was going to squeeze.
Jerad hesitated. “Three.”
“This is no negotiation, boyo. Two days, or you get one.”
“Alright, two.”
Garden sawed the rope free.
It was a costly relief. Jerad had to move fast if he was going to meet Garden’s demands. So he did. He ran. He became animal-like in his intensity, crouching to inspect a mark before bursting into a run, eyes scanning the dirt, back and forth, desperate for a sign, a clue, anything, stopping again, bent double, sometimes running at a crouch, using hands and feet to propel himself up and down river banks, over rocks, along bush edges, inspecting every leaf and twig.
The day ended with nothing but a few more blows. And this time, Garden didn’t stop them from having a bit of fun. One of the slavers yanked Jerad’s shirt up and knotted it above his head so he couldn’t see. Then they took turns prodding him with sticks from the fire, laughing when he was too slow to dodge. The wood hissed and sizzled against his skin. Jerad yelped at an especially painful jab. They laughed all the harder, jeering his pitiful attempts to defend himself.
And then it hit him. Struggling, panicking, waiting for the next searing touch, he saw Balduin Na-es. He saw him shrink as a stone struck him, and another, and another, leaving little welts of blood. He saw him cry out and fall. He saw him running in fear. Witch’s bastard!
And Jerad had stood by.
The next hissing stab knocked Jerad to his knees, but he said nothing, made no move to defend himself, taking each blow without protest, until they tired of him.
Finally huddled on the ground, too pained to move, too humiliated, Jerad buried his face and wept.
The next day, he woke to a dozen welts on his chest and back, a few on his arms. They stung horribly. But it no longer seemed an injustice.
As if a dam were slowly cracking, the memories came trickling in all that long and fruitless day, first slowly, then faster and faster.
Jerad crawled through the muck, and he remembered trapping Balduin in a muddy crevice. He remembered the boy calling for help, and instead Mylar and the others had dropped rats on him and mocked his whimpering.
And Jerad had stood by.
He endured Garden’s abuses, and he remembered the names they had called Balduin. Freak. Witch. Bastard.
He got pushed and struck, and he remembered how Mylar would ambush Balduin, shoving him down a slope when his bucket was full, or tripping him when his arms were laden with firewood.
And Jerad had been with them.
On a hunt once, someone had slipped Balduin a powerful medicinal drug in his water, so he was falling all over himself. Didn’t know why. Ended up left behind under some bush, confused and panicking. Kenan Elduna had been furious, but no one found out who it really was.
Jerad knew. And he had stood by and done nothing.
And on. And on.
After a wretched eternity, and all too soon, the light began to fade. Jerad found himself running along a dusk-lit slope, desperate for a sign. He had to find something today, he had to, or one of the slaves would bear the consequences. He mopped sweat from his brow. He stopped to investigate a track. Deer again. He kept going.
“Alright, Feddel,” Garden chimed. “That’s your chance. Back to camp.”
“I can still see, let me keep going.”
“Sorry, boyo. You’re done.”
Jerad was done. He was exhausted. He could hardly see straight, and everything swam when he tried to focus. He blinked heavily. But the Imo’ani were counting on him. He couldn’t go back empty-handed tonight. He couldn’t.
He swayed unsteadily, on the edge of collapse. He didn’t even notice Garden was approaching until a hand landed on his shoulder, startling him.
“You’ve done your part, Feddel, to no good avail thus far. But there’s always tomorrow, seyah?”
“What will you do to them?” Jerad’s voice was hoarse. He felt sick. He felt like a failure.
Garden thought about it. “Tell you what, boyo. Nothing too terrible, this time around, seeing as you tried your damnedest. A taste of the switch for the old craf, I think.”
Jerad glanced at him through red-rimmed eyes. “One more day,” he said. “Please.”
But Garden was shaking his head. “We made a deal, Feddel. Don’t you recall? Fair’s fair.”
Jerad got no beating that night, but he was forced to watch with the others. Mirren took it with dignity. Stripped and strung up, she endured the whip without a sound. Her frail skin broke like parchment under the lash. Her back and chest cracked with blood. She never cried out. Not once.
Her face was blank when they finally deposited her back on the line. Jerad crawled up beside her, gripping her hand. It was trembling.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault.”
She gripped back. “Never.”
“I tried to stop him, I—”
“Don’t let them beat you down, Jerad Amanti.” Her voice cracked. “Promise me.”
“I can’t.” Tears edged his voice. “I can’t do it, Mirren. I can’t.”
“No one can,” she agreed. “Until they must.”
Chapter Thirteen
Tandra Yourk
THREE DAYS AGO
Tandra knew what she had to do. She watched as the sky blushed pink and scarlet, the clouds like tongues of fire, pulling darkness in their wake. She sighed. Mag would hate her for it. Maybe the rest of his life.
But she was here to protect him. And by all the gods of sea and stone, she would.
“I’m going to rest,” she announced at last, breaking their long silence.
Mag glanced at her. The sudden brightness in his eyes demanded an answer.
“I said I’ll sleep on it, Mag Yourk. Now you can take the reins, or you can rest too. Your choice.”
He didn’t rest.
Inside the cart, Tandra stretched onto her bunk, feeling the roll and sway of the cart as Tums followed Mag’s lead. But she didn’t sleep. Not for a long while.
She wanted to be furious, but that wouldn’t do any good. She wanted to curse her own bad luck, but that wouldn’t do any good either. She knew what she had to do, but gods be, she wished it weren’t so. She’d given up on her brother a long time ago. It was Mag she cared about, Mag who was the future of this family—if it had any.
He could have been something respectable: lawyer, trader, businessman of some repute. Instead, his father’s failures had fit him out for a spy. It was a fool’s game, but Mag had played it for all he was worth. Gods be, he was still playing it, and she was deathly afraid of the odds.
Yes, she would make sure he got out. Away from all this nonsense, somewhere the boy could finally put down roots, start a family, and do something respectable.
And as for this Contessa’s secret, this shiny stone, perhaps it’d be better for all concerned if it lay in the grass indefinitely, lost out on the prairies to become a curiosity for field mice and blackbirds.
She sighed and huffed and sighed again. The simple fact of the matter
was they might fall into Brit Garden’s hands if they turned around now—and that fate would be worse than anything Mag imagined in Marrentry, she could guarantee it.
It must have been late when she dozed off, but her mind was made. Her priority was to keep Mag safe, and as soon as she came to that decision, sleep found her swiftly.
It was even later when she awoke. The cart had stopped moving, which meant Mag had probably found a spot to sleep for the night, but it was something else that woke her. A sound that wasn’t normal. Something . . .
She could hear Tums moving around, which meant Mag had unhitched him for the night like he should. But her nephew wasn’t asleep. She could hear the rustling of grass outside, not rhythmic creaking from the wind, but the inconstant sound of footsteps. Mag was pacing.
She sighed, then thought she might as well tell him now. Better to get it over with and spare them the morning drama.
Tandra stuck on her boots and hauled herself to her feet. Her nephew had actually done a good job of tidying up. Even the spilled wine had been mopped. She pushed against the door. Nothing.
Had she missed the latch in the dark? Tandra fumbled for a moment, then gave the latch another pull. There was a slight give and a thunk as the door hit something.
She blinked. Krunyn’s eye—no.
The sound that had woken her wasn’t Mag pacing outside. It was the thud of the bar dropping outside the door, barricading her in. Magellan Yourk had played her like a fool.
“Mag!” She banged against the door. She could hear him moving around, taking his time. Tums was stomping and snorting, and if she put her eye to the crack between the boards, she saw the horse’s silhouette against a full moon.
“Mag, you daft fool!” she shouted. “You can’t ride Tums, he’s for pulling.”
Her nephew passed in front of the cart. All she could see was his outline.
“I’m sorry, Aunt Tan, I got to do this. I’ll be back as soon as I can, I promise.”
“Mag! Don’t—”
He turned away and, with surprising agility, leapt onto Tum’s back without a saddle.
“You can’t ride him, you fool! You’ll break your neck. Now get down from there and let me out.”
“I can do a lot of things you think I can’t.” Sure enough, he sat nicely, and though Tums shifted and shied, unused to riders, Mag balanced without a problem, leaning into the horse like he was born for it. It didn’t take long for Tums to calm down. He was a confident beast, and gentle, and once he realized Mag was there to stay he responded to the flick of the reins.
“Mag!” She rattled the door. “Damn it, Mag. You just gonna leave me here while you go and get yourself killed?” She grabbed her revolver and took a step back from the door.
“You’ll find a way out soon enough,” her nephew answered. “You always do. I’m sorry, Aunt Tan, but I have to.”
She cursed and aimed at a weak spot in the wood, two ticks to the right and down. Then let fly. The bullets punctured the door. There was a crack, some of the wood splintered. She slammed it with the heel of her boot. It groaned. She kicked again. And again. Then her boot when straight through the wood, punching a fist-sized hole in the wall. She almost toppled over, but grabbed one of the shelves, pulled her foot back, and reached through the new hole. A second later, she had the bar off and slammed the door open.
She made it out in time to see her horse cantering off down the trail of trampled grass.
“Mag!”
He didn’t look back. With a growl of frustration she raised her revolver, sighted him down. One bullet wouldn’t kill him, she thought. Just one. She swore. Gods be, what if she hit Tums? She almost pulled the trigger, but he was getting further and further away. Chances were high a bullet could catch him in the lungs, go through his skull, through his spine. Or she could shoot him and not even slow him down, then find him a few days later dying from his wounds. She was a good shot. She wasn’t that good.
“Damn it, you bleeding bastard fool!” she hollered. “Gods be, if the Contessa doesn’t skin you, I will! You hear me? I—”
She gave up and kicked the wheel of her useless cart, its shafts sticking out into thin air. She couldn’t go anywhere with it, but she couldn’t damn well stay here and do nothing.
After a few ticks of rummaging around in the dark, she grabbed all the supplies she thought she would need. She hurled everything else into the cart and bolted it shut. Then she muttered a few more curses, loaded her gun, and started a brisk trot after Mag.
Undying
The Desert
Year 456 after the fall of Kayr
The desert has become everything.
Driven by the Chorah’dyn’s task, we plunge into the fire of the world, seeking this “Avanir.” I feel it in my blood, the Lifewater, speaking to me, driving me on, leading me where I do not want to go.
The emptiness grows nearer, and with it, my own destruction. It opens like a pit before me.
My people clamour against us. They groan and beg us to turn back. They fear we are astray. First, they lost their hope, and now they lose faith, believing we lead them to their deaths.
Only Eshala’sal knows the truth.
Only she and I know the fate to which we journey is even worse.
- From the Chronicles of the Last Age and the Ending of Kayr, set down by Andari ab’Andala, named Al’kah, first of the Age of Exile: scroll 84, lines 1-7
Chapter Fourteen
Ishvandu ab’Admundi
“Vanya!”
I woke with a ragged cough. I felt sand between my teeth, stabbing the corners of my eyes, rasping my throat. The desert was everywhere. Even in my blasted lungs.
I sat up as Breta slapped open the tent and came inside. The water she handed me was warm and stale, barely coating my parched throat. I thanked her anyway.
“You were shouting,” she said. “About him.”
Impressions of a dream clung to me—Polityr slamming my head into the sand, screaming at me: The Chorah’dyn destroyed me! What have you done to avenge me? What have you done, you coward! And in the dream, water was trickling out beneath us, turning to blood, climbing higher and higher, and closing over me.
I swallowed. “Bad dreams,” I said.
Breta took back her water skin. “Vanya, when are we going to talk about this?”
“I don’t want to—”
“That’s what you said last time. And Mani pretends like nothing happened at all. But it did.” Her voice rose almost plaintively. “Didn’t it?”
“Breta, I don’t know what happened that day.”
“You do in your dreams.”
I said nothing.
She grabbed my arm. “Don’t be a coward, Vanya.” Her words slammed into my chest. Like Pol. “You know the truth, and so do I. Now forget what Mani said, the truth can’t stay with us. Someone else needs to know. Ab’Tanadu, or . . . or Jil. Someone. Anyone.”
I pried her hand off and rose. “What do you think we’re doing out here, Breta?”
“Looking for water.”
“Exactly.”
She blocked my way out of the tent. “I know what you’re trying to do. You think we can turn people away from the Avanir, but it’s not enough. Kaprash could end any day now. Then what? Will we allow the Choosing? Can we in good conscience, as Guardians? What if ab’Tanadu is Chosen, or that stupid kid, Benji? What if I am?”
There was real fear in her voice.
“Then don’t go up for the Choosing, Breta. We can’t expose this.” I lowered my voice. “Not yet.”
“So you do have a plan.”
“I have a well to dig.”
She stopped me, searching my face. “You believe it. You believe you saw Pol that day in the camel yard.” It wasn’t a question. “Tell me you have a plan or I’ll make my own, whether you like it or not.”
We heard a shout. It was coming from the well. Then another. Then, “Vanya? Where is he?”
Breta and I looked at each other. They soun
ded excited. They sounded . . .
A grin broke over Breta’s face.
I dove into the painful heat, stumbling ahead of her as I strapped on my keshu. The sheltered bowl was littered with holes—evidence of our many failed attempts—but it was around the furthest our Guardians were gathered. I hurried over. It was a small, narrow shaft, big enough for a single digger to chip away at.
“Is it water?” I cried. “Is it water? Is it?”
Ab’Tanadu stuck out an arm to keep me from launching myself into the hole.
“Steady, Ishvandu.”
I leaned forward to see Koryn crouched on the bottom. Jil and Benji hovered nearby, and Mani stood, arms crossed, face as impassive as always. Off to the side, I noticed Arkaya and Nolaan were frowning, waiting to be disappointed.
I was holding my breath.
Koryn straightened and glanced up. “It’s barely a trickle,” he grunted.
Barely a trickle . . .
My mouth parted as Koryn clambered out of the hole, a cup cradled in one hand like a sacred relic of the Old Lands. We all leaned forward. And there, pooled in the bottom of the cup, clear and wet, as bright as the Avanir’s spray, was water.
Koryn couldn’t help a twitch at the corner of his mouth. The others gasped, whispering, while Breta squealed and grabbed my elbow. Even Mani unfolded her arms.
“I’ll be,” ab’Tanadu whistled through his teeth.
“We did it!” Breta cried, bubbling with excitement.
I pulled away and reached for the cup, and everyone went silent. Looking at me. Waiting.
It had taken a day of riding to reach this point. We’d surveyed the whole area, but always came back to this point: a sheltered dip in the land, tucked against the northern slope of the Mountain’s Bones, dotted with shrubs and cacti, despite the film of dust over a cracked ground.
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