All those new buildings, thought Abeke. All those fresh trees.
A cry went up overhead, and she craned her neck to see a bird perched atop the mast. At first she thought it was Essix, but then lightning lit the sky and she saw the parrot’s colorful plumes. Relis!
Abeke was about to call up to the captain’s bird when she heard the creak of racing steps, too late. Essix screeched in warning and a shout went up—Rollan’s—from the other side of the ship, and then something lunged at Abeke, tackling her from behind.
She went down hard on the rain-streaked deck, her head hitting the wood and her vision crackling with light. And then it cleared, and she saw that the thing on top of her wasn’t a thing at all, but a dark-skinned woman with short black hair. Her cloak—once green—was stained by smoke and dirt and someone’s blood.
“Nisha,” gasped Abeke as the woman wrapped her clawlike fingers around Abeke’s throat. “Nisha!”
But it wasn’t Nisha, not anymore.
Her dark eyes were empty, and the spiral twitched on her forehead with her pulse. A guttural sound escaped the woman’s throat, but nothing more. None of the captain’s orders. None of the cheerful banter. Only a hollow rasp. The parrot circled, and cried, unwilling to abandon her fallen captain, unwilling to attack in her stead.
On the deck, Abeke tried to fight Nisha off, but she had no strength left. Her head was pounding from the blow, and she couldn’t breathe, let alone scream as a parasite crawled down Nisha’s arm toward the hands wrapped around Abeke’s throat.
A growl tore free, but it didn’t come from her or the infected captain.
Uraza loped across the deck and fell on Nisha, tearing the woman backward by the hood of her cloak. The leopard held fast, shaking her from side to side before throwing her back into the ship’s rail, where she lost her balance and went over. Nisha clawed at the air, but it was too late. She plunged down into the churning water, came up, choking and growling, and then went under.
Abeke gasped for air, got to her feet, and found Rollan struggling with another infected, one she recognized with sick despair. Arac. Arac, who had stayed on the ship with his captain, his wife, and fallen alongside her. The black spiral pulsed on his forehead above empty eyes.
“A little help!” choked Rollan as he fought to hold the man back. Tasha came stumbling forward—the swaying ship doing nothing to improve her balance—a bundle of coarse rope gathered in her arms. She tossed the net over the man. He thrashed like a fish, knotted up in the cords, and Rollan shoved him away. The ship rocked and Arac went rolling backward, a tangle of limbs that plunged over the edge and into the churning black water.
For a second, no one moved, every one of them coiled, braced for another attack. But neither Nisha nor Arac climbed back aboard.
At last, Rollan’s legs buckled, and he sat down hard on the deck.
Essix landed on the wet boards, missing several feathers.
Tasha stood shivering, her back against a crate.
Abeke leaned hard against Uraza’s damp fur.
She scoured the storm-black skies for the parrot, but he was gone.
No one spoke.
They were alive. They had escaped. But it could not be called a victory.
The rain was falling hard now, dousing the many fires, but it wasn’t enough to stop the damage or save the people who had fallen. Abeke turned back and watched Stetriol shrink in the distance until nothing was left but smoke and sea.
THE TELLUN’s PRIDE II LOOKED LIKE A GHOST SHIP, DRIFTING through the mist-laced morning.
A vessel fit for a crew of thirty Greencloaks, it now held only three.
Rollan sat on the ship’s deck, his back against the wheel, his head bobbing with fatigue. Essix perched on a bundle of rope beside him, preening her wet feathers. Abeke and Tasha were curled up on a tarp nearby. Rollan had found a spare green cloak and wrapped it around Tasha’s trembling shoulders, and the two girls had collapsed as soon as the city was out of sight.
Uraza had retreated into her passive state after only an hour at sea, when the sloshing of the ocean and the persistent rain became too much for the leopard, leaving the three humans and Essix drifting toward home. Whether it was the fear of another attack, or the memory of Nisha and Arac and the rest of the crew left in Stetriol, none of them had been willing to go belowdecks. Instead they’d stayed above, braving the last of the weather. They shivered, but not from cold, and even though it went unspoken, Rollan thought they all needed the rain to wash away what had happened that night.
Now, every muscle in his body hurt. Even the ones he didn’t know he had. He bore a split lip and more bruises than he could count. He hoped that, wherever Meilin was, she was having an easier time.
He kept a list in his head of all the things he’d tell Meilin when he saw her again. He spent the long hours of the stormy night trying to decide how he would recount Stetriol, not just the battle, but the changes he’d seen in this land at the edge of Erdas: the little girl in the street, the laughter in the air, the mysterious fighters with their red cloaks and their animal masks. He was sure she’d have her own tales to tell.
Rollan yawned. The storm had passed before dawn, leaving only streaks of clouds in its wake, and as the sun finally rose, it turned the sky a bruised purple, then red, before finally showing the first signs of blue. A new day. His muscles begged for sleep, but his mind wouldn’t let him rest. Every time he closed his eyes, Rollan saw Stetriol, its shape now lost from sight. He played it all back in his mind—the festival, the bond’s strain, the attack—trying to figure out what was wrong.
Because something was wrong. About the night. About the battle.
It had been nagging at him for hours, a question, a name.
Zerif.
Where had the man been during the attack on the city? They’d faced his infected army in Stetriol, but not its leader, and while Rollan shuddered to think about what would have happened to them all if they’d had to face Zerif, too, with his stolen Great Beasts, it just didn’t make sense.
Proud Zerif with his broad shoulders and his trimmed beard, his imperious voice and his cruel smile. Zerif was always at the center of his fights, taunting his opponents, calling out orders, relishing his victories.
But he hadn’t been in Stetriol, and that made Rollan nervous, because if he wasn’t in Stetriol, then where was he?
The bundle of green cloaks shifted on the deck beside him, and Tasha sat up, her white-blond hair, once neatly braided, now a messy, rain-curled nest around her head.
“Morning,” said Rollan, trying and failing to keep the exhaustion from his voice.
“Where are we?” she asked, looking around. He realized that this girl had probably never seen the edges of her own city, let alone anything beyond.
“Well,” said Rollan with a yawn, “we’re somewhere between Stetriol and Greenhaven. I did pay some attention to Nisha when she was at the wheel. We don’t have the whales, and the wind’s not as strong, but I think I can get us home.”
Home. The wrong word to use; he could see it in the pain that flickered across Tasha’s face. Abeke stirred beside her, uncurling like a cat.
“What’s it like?” asked Tasha, drawing her knees to her chest. “This Greenhaven?”
“It’s a castle,” said Rollan, “kind of like the one in Stetriol, only not as fancy.” He tipped his head back against the crate. “It’s more like a well-worn coat. Old stones and lots of green, but full of good people. You’ll get to meet them all. And hopefully,” he said, voice tightening, “hopefully our friends will be back by the time we arrive. Conor and Meilin. You would like them. But Olvan, he’s the guy in charge, and he’ll be there to welcome you … ”
He couldn’t tell if Tasha was still listening. Her gaze had drifted out to sea. She wasn’t looking ahead, toward Greenhaven, but back, toward Stetriol.
“Did this all happen because of me?” she whispered.
“No,” said Rollan firmly. “This happened because of Zer
if.”
Abeke wrapped her arm around Tasha’s shoulders. “It will be okay,” she said, and they all knew the words weren’t enough. But they had to be said. Something had to be said.
Rollan chewed his cheek and then sat forward. “I studied the plans for Stetriol’s castle,” he offered. “Back in Olvan’s rooms, before we left Greenhaven.” Tasha looked up at this, but still said nothing. “There are hidden doors,” he went on, “pathways in and out of the castle. Ones that lead away from the city, some to the docks, and some farther inland. I’m sure that some people in the east and west wings knew about those doors.”
“How can you know?” asked Tasha.
“I can’t,” he said. “But I can hope.”
Rollan looked up, past the sails at the brightening sky, and frowned at the sight of a bird soaring toward them. It wasn’t his falcon—Essix was still perched beside him—or one of the gulls he’d seen closer to land, but a raven. Essix saw it, too, head swiveling, and then she was airborne, winging swiftly toward it. Rollan got to his feet, squinting as the bird drew near, and then Essix’s screech tore through the air as she charged it, cutting off the raven’s path, sharp talons forward. They struggled in midair, a tangle of wing and beak, before Essix sank her talons into the raven’s wing.
“Essix!” he cried as the light caught the ribbon on the raven’s dark ankle. “It’s one of ours!” But it didn’t make sense. Olvan used pigeons for messages. Why would he send a raven?
The falcon dove and deposited the raven rather roughly on the ship’s deck before swooping to the rail and perching to watch.
The air caught in Rollan’s throat.
It wasn’t an ordinary raven.
It was Wikerus. His mother’s spirit animal. But why would Olvan have used Wikerus? Was his mother at Greenhaven?
The raven struggled upright, fluttering his feathers indignantly as Rollan scooped him up, mumbled an apology, and freed the note from his foot.
Rollan’s chest tightened.
The note wasn’t from Olvan at all. It wasn’t from Greenhaven.
The paper was bound with a yellow ribbon, and yellow meant Lenori at the Evertree. Rollan’s chest ached at the thought of news, hope warring with fear. Had something happened? Why wasn’t the message coming from Olvan himself? Why was his mother’s bird so far from home? Had she gone to the tree? Or had Lenori borrowed the raven to send word? Rollan’s fingers shook. Abeke was on her feet and beside him, one hand on his sleeve as he unrolled the slip to reveal the healer’s small cursive.
Rollan’s heart lurched as he read the words.
There was no mention of Conor, or Takoda, or Meilin.
Only three short lines.
Greenhaven has fallen.
Find Cabaro in Nilo.
Do not return.
THE GREAT HALL AT GREENHAVEN WAS THICK WITH FEAR and smoke.
The first poured from the people, and the second poured from the hearth, where someone had cast a sack of powder into the fire, hoping to slow the intruders down. It had not worked, of course, and now the Greencloaks stood gathered in the center of the smoke-filled hall, corralled like cattle.
The long wooden table that once ran the length of the hall had been shoved against one wall, clearing the great stone space. Zerif stood atop it, his chest bare beneath his dark cloak, watching as his men, his hands—for that is how he thought of those marked by the seal, an extension of his body, his will—surrounded the men and women of Greenhaven, blocking them in.
Not cattle, he thought.
Mice.
He could smell their defiance, mingled with their fear, and he could not wait to strip them of it. The Wyrm’s mark—the raised spiral on his forehead—pulsed faintly, writhing under his skin. With its rhythmic beat, the whispers wound their course through his head, guiding him, not the way they guided his hands, for he was not a mindless slave. No, these whispers were like those of a king to his trusted knight. And soon, Zerif would be much more than that.
Zerif spread his arms wide.
“Greencloaks,” he mused aloud. “The protectors of Erdas. The protectors of the Evertree. The protectors of the sacred bond between a human and a spirit animal. Greencloaks.” He sounded out the word. “Always so eager to be in control. No wonder you fear the loss of it so very much.”
He nodded at two of his hands, and the men dragged a Greencloak forward, one of his eyes swollen shut and blood running from his nose.
It was time to set an example.
Zerif let his arms fall back to his side.
“You all believe there is strength in being chosen,” he continued, stepping down from the table. “But I believe there is strength in choosing. In taking.” With a flick of his wrist, he produced a glass vial. Inside, two parasites squirmed, waiting for their hosts. “Summoning a spirit animal is not the only way to claim one.” His eyes fell on the Greencloak. His collar had been torn open, revealing the tattoo of a bear across his chest.
“Summon your spirit animal,” instructed Zerif.
The Greencloak spit on the hall floor between them. “No.”
Zerif considered the man, the spit, the vial. “Start breaking bones,” he said.
One of Zerif’s hands wrenched the captive’s arm behind his back, and the beginnings of his scream were cut off by Zerif’s command.
“No,” he said. “Not his bones.” He scanned the gathering of Greencloaks, then pointed to another one of their ranks. “Hers.”
Two more of his hands reached for the second Greencloak, a lean older woman. She twisted and fought, her colleagues trying to shield her, but Zerif’s men managed to wrest her from the pack.
“You won’t succeed,” she growled as the infected forced her to her knees. “You never will.”
Zerif ignored her. “Start with her fingers and toes,” he instructed.
“Please,” begged the man.
“Once you run out of bones,” Zerif went on, “kill her.”
“Stop!” said the man.
Zerif turned toward the man again, as if he’d forgotten he was there.
“If you want to spare her,” he said simply, tipping one of the parasites from the vial onto his dagger, the wormy darkness squirming on the blade, “then summon your spirit animal.”
“Don’t, Alon,” demanded the older woman. “It won’t stop him.”
“I said, start breaking bones.”
“Wait!” shouted the man, Alon. A sob escaped his throat, but in a flash of light, the bear was there before him. It reared furiously, teeth bared, but before it could attack, Zerif plunged the dagger with its parasite into the bear’s hide. Not a killing blow, of course; that would be a waste of such a splendid beast. The bear tore backward with a shudder and let out a single, strangled roar before coming down onto all four paws, the spiral pulsing in its forehead.
The man was still sobbing when Zerif took him by the jaw and tipped the second parasite into his mouth. The Greencloak struggled, but Zerif forced his hand over the man’s lips. He felt the man fight the parasite’s hold, watched the darkness creep like a vein up the man’s cheek, around his eyes, before drawing its mark on his forehead.
When Zerif’s hand fell away, the Greencloak knelt calmly, waiting for his orders.
One down.
Dozens to go. He turned back toward the woman, wondering who in the crowd she might care about. How tedious, to have to bend them one will at a time. Surely there was a better way.
He could feel the rising panic of the gathered Greencloaks, the murmurs of those desperate to fight back, and the soft protests of the others, terrified of what would happen if they tried.
“Listen close,” he said, gesturing with his dagger. “You have a choice. Your future is your own to decide. You can die now by my hand, or you can serve at my side. And before you answer, remember that death is a very permanent decision. And you choose not only for yourself, but for your spirit animals. Your friends. Your family. Your Greencloaks. From this moment forward, if any of
you refuse my offer, I will kill everyone.”
Silence fell in the hall.
Zerif had learned in his many years that people were always willing to fight for their cause, and often willing to die for it, but rarely willing to condemn others to death.
“Now,” he said with a cold smile, “who’s next?”
They all knelt, in the end.
Most of them no doubt harbored some secret hope that they would be free again one day and seek revenge. Let them dream. Zerif didn’t care why they kneeled, or what they thought of as they surrendered, only that they did, swelling his ranks and cutting off the children’s allies. By the time he was done, there would be nowhere to run and no one to run to.
And soon his hands would return from Stetriol bearing three more Great Beasts, and he would be one step closer. The whispers in his head grew louder in agreement, the hush of praise and pride washing over him, urging him on.
The Greencloaks of Greenhaven had all bowed to his will.
All except one.
A woman appeared at his shoulder, the spiral throbbing in her forehead.
“Have you found their leader?” he asked.
The woman tipped her head and pointed at the stairs to the northern turret. Holed up in his own chamber, then. Fear made such cowards of the weak.
As he crossed the courtyard, Zerif saw the bird taking wing from Olvan’s chamber. A messenger.
One of Zerif’s men nocked an arrow, but he held out a hand.
“Let it fly,” he said with a menacing smile as he continued on. Let the old man spread the word while he still could. Greenhaven had fallen, and Zerif was winning.
Tethered in the corner of the courtyard was a moose. Olvan’s spirit animal. An incredible beast. Zerif was planning to keep that one for himself, add it to his personal collection, if there was room. He drew a hand absently over his chest as he reached the tower, tracing the patterns of his collected army. Gerathon. Rumfuss. Halawir. Suka. Arax. Dinesh. Tellun.
He recited the names like an incantation as he climbed the stairs.
Gerathon. Rumfuss. Halawir. Suka. Arax. Dinesh. Tellun.