Seeker

  His answer is uttered with a trace of frustration.

  “You spared his life because you found him interesting?”

  “I saved his life. He was sick when he first came through. He needed care for weeks. He never blamed me during that time. He never complained about his situation. Rather, he made the best of it. I thought him a fool at first. Simple. Ignorant. This was how I used to think. Then, one day, I realized he’d become indispensable to me. At a time when I’d lost everything, he cheered me.”

  My mind shoots to Shadow—she was the same for me. Thinking of her, of how far away from me she is, makes my heart race. Much too fast. I feel a panic attack coming on. My lungs start to shut down like a city power grid. I can’t breathe fast enough to get the air I need.

  The world tilts. I walk into the wall like a drunk. Cling to it like it’s the edge of a cliff.

  “Daryn, are you all right?” Samrael rushes forward. “Can I help?”

  I shake my head. “Just need … a moment.”

  “Take as long as you need.” Samrael leans against the wall and watches me, his brow furrowed in concern. I focus on breathing. Relaxing and breathing and convincing my body that everything is okay.

  When the panic finally leaves me, I straighten.

  “I wondered when it would hit you,” Samrael says. “I am sorry for your pain.”

  “He’s not dead!” I snap. “Don’t make it sound like he’s gone!” I exhale a shaky breath, hating that he saw me in such a pathetic moment. “And why do you care? Why would you be sorry? You hate him.”

  He shakes his head. “I didn’t mean to imply that. And I don’t hate him, either. He thought me evil, which was true. If there is any feeling in me, it’s envy. Gideon never yielded to Ra’om as I did. I’ll always have to live with my own cowardice.” As I listen, I search for false notes in his voice. Search for lies hidden in his green eyes.

  He surprises me by smiling.

  “What?”

  “This is new for me,” he says. “I’ve never done anything like this—bared my weaknesses. But I want to be honest with you to prove to you I’ve changed. I suppose I’ll wind up telling you all of them before this is over.”

  “I won’t live that long.”

  He laughs, taking my comment as a joke, instead of an insult like I meant it. I’m about to correct him—but I don’t.

  “Shall we keep on?” he asks. “This isn’t the most welcoming part of Gray Fort.”

  We continue down the corridor. Then up the corridor as the ground slopes higher. We take several more turns. I try to remember them—it seems important that I should be able to retrace my steps—but our path seems too random and my composure is a tenuous thing, requiring my total concentration.

  Finally, we reach wooden steps. Beside them are casks of wine, I think, judging by the pungent smell, and sacks of potatoes or grain. Samrael climbs the steps and pushes a hatch in the ceiling up with his shoulders. It slams open, detonating clouds of dust.

  “Sorry,” he says, frowning. “I should’ve warned you, it’s dusty.”

  Yes. Because dust in my hair is a major concern for me right now.

  We climb into a dim storeroom—a pantry. The door at the end is ajar, and the light spilling through illuminates the shelves against the walls stacked with ceramic bowls, wicker baskets, and thick glass jars. Smells invade my nose. Thyme, basil, and garlic. Other herbs and spices that remind me of home-cooked meals and holidays, which jars me. Nothing about this is comforting.

  We enter an old-fashioned kitchen with an open cooking hearth, a long heavy wood table at the center and several more along the walls, all lit by candlelight.

  “I thought there were other people?” All I want to see is a search party, gathered and ready to go.

  “Asleep at the moment. You’ll meet them in the morning. We’ll organize then.”

  A cast-iron pot hangs over glowing embers of the cooking hearth. My traitorous mouth waters as its smell wafts over. Some kind of savory stew or soup. The loaf of bread on the table doesn’t help. There’s also a haphazard pile of fruits and vegetables scattered across the wood surface, like someone tucked the best of the day’s yield into their shirt and poured it out.

  “Are you hungry?” he asks.

  “No.”

  He knows I’m lying.

  “I don’t want to eat.”

  “Tomorrow, perhaps.” He hands me a candleholder, takes one for himself, and then leads me out into a foyer with sweeping dual stairs. Details glimmer from the darkness—chandeliers and crystal sconces. Ornate chairs, and fabric walls swirling with gold thread making elaborate designs. This place must have been grand once, but its glory has faded.

  I wonder at its origin. The Smith Cabin is somewhere behind me, in the depths of the forest. It came from me—my life. Is this house Samrael’s? From some ancient corner of his life?

  “There are plenty of spare rooms on the second floor,” Samrael says, stopping at the base of the stairs. “Mine is the first on the left. You can have your pick of the rest. With Sebastian gone, we’ll be the only ones here.”

  “It’s just us?” I don’t like this arrangement. It’s a huge house—it should be alive with other people.

  “Sorry to disappoint.”

  “It’s fine. Which room was Bastian’s?”

  “Turn right at the top. Then it’s at the far end on the right.”

  I don’t know what to say to him—Good night? Thanks for letting me stay in your creepy house? So I climb the steps without a word, conscious of his attention on me.

  I slip into the room at the far end on the right. Inside, I turn the lock. Test the knob. Repeat both steps. Then I look at my new room, which was Bastian’s for so many months.

  The decor is like the rest of the house. Ornate but tired. Furniture spiraled and claw-footed, as though it could spontaneously animate like everything else in the Rift.

  I thought that maybe by taking this room it would feel warmer or more known somehow, but it doesn’t.

  I’m not sure what I expected. It’s not like Bas was able to bring photos from home to personalize this space. There is a guitar in the corner that I’m sure he used while he lived here, but it’s an odd-looking one, the body round instead of curved. When I pluck one of the strings, the tinny sound it makes sends a shiver down my spine.

  I find a connected bathroom with rudimentary exposed plumbing. A claw-foot tub, of course. But I can’t imagine bathing here. Or sleeping here. Or spending another minute here.

  There’s a mirror—and I scare myself with my own reflection. I look savage. Feral. Determined. And wounded.

  Back in the bedroom, I push the heavy curtain aside, revealing a window full of night and indistinct shapes. A wall below, I think.

  Nothing to see. Not that it’s a great mystery.

  I know what’s out there.

  Trees. Harrows. Hauntings.

  Gideon.

  The orb, stashed in a tree. Far away from here.

  I hid it so I wouldn’t be tempted to open the portal and run away from this—from here. I need to honor my promise to Bas. I will honor it.

  And if Bas is wrong and Samrael is still evil to the bone, he won’t be able to force me to open the portal. No orb, no exit. He won’t leave here unless I’m positive.

  The room has a chill, so I move to the fireplace and light the kindling beneath the woodpile. Invest myself in tending to the flames. Bringing them to life.

  When it’s crackling, I sit on the bed. I remove my jacket and drape it over the chair by the desk. I pull my boots off.

  I think I’ve done all I can—at least for now. For today. For this moment. I slide under the heavy covers and cry as silently as I can.

  CHAPTER 34

  GIDEON

  I’ve been thrown into a dungeon.

  It’s almost funny.

  Actually, no. It’s not.

  A few hours ago, the Harrows pulled Riot out of the pond. They hoisted me onto another ho
rse, tying me to the saddle. Then they led us both through the woods to a cave that turned into underground tunnels—stone-paved, stone-walled. Tunnels that wove and turned and brought me to this place—an alcove with only one open side, sealed off by corroded iron bars.

  I have a mattress made of straw wrapped with worn linen. A bucket for water. Another to function as my bathroom. My hands are manacled in front of me. Even my useless prosthetic, which is kind of hilarious.

  Actually, no. Not hilarious.

  The only source of light is an oil lamp hanging beside a stone staircase that turns up into the darkness.

  I’ve got a feeling I know who’s up there.

  My eyes move to the cell across from mine. The Harrows brought Riot here with me. He could barely fit through the corridors. Weak as he was, he kept roaring and trying to smash Harrows against the walls.

  “Horse scared,” Cotton had said. “Gideon scared.”

  “No. Horse not scared. Gideon not scared, either,” I told him. “Horse and Gideon planning violent actions.”

  He’d smiled with his razor-sharp teeth. “Cotton like.”

  “Cotton like Gideon or violent actions?”

  “Yes,” he’d said. “Cotton like.”

  Now, my horse is lying on his side, breathing in short huffing breaths. He’s in bad shape, but better than he was in the pond.

  We’ll heal—both of us. My throat’s coming back to normal. I can swallow now without much pain even though my voice is still hoarse. And my leg already feels more bearable. We just need a few days. Four or five and I should be healthy again, if I’m not killed before then.

  I shut my eyes and listen to Riot’s breathing. Willing strength back into him. Feeling him doing the same for me.

  I wonder about Daryn.

  What she’s doing. If she’s okay. Whether she’s thinking about me.

  Whether she’ll fall for Samrael’s lies.

  CHAPTER 35

  DARYN

  Today, I’m taking charge.

  I’m going to deal with Samrael fairly. If it’s right for him to leave, I’ll let him out. But he’s not getting out until I find Gideon.

  He knows these woods. He can help me scour every inch of them. If he’s truly found any form of compassion, goodness, or altruism, he’ll step up.

  With a plan in mind, I pull on my boots and jacket, and leave in search of him.

  I find him in the kitchen with two people.

  People, not Harrows. Not vacuous impostors from hauntings. A man and a woman, both about fifty years old, with friendly faces that settle on me in warm curiosity.

  “Thought you might sleep all day,” says the woman. “I’m Rayna, and this is Torin. We do most of the cooking round here. If there’s anything you like to eat or don’t like, let us know and we’ll take care of it for you.”

  “Don’t make grand promises you can’t keep, Rayna,” says Torin.

  “Course not,” she says, sending him a little annoyed glance. “We’ll aim to satisfy you, within our limitations. Doubt we’ll prepare food like you’ll be used to, where you’ve come from. We’re simpler, I’m guessing. But we’ll do our best.”

  She continues, informing me of other people around the house who handle washing and cleaning, everyone playing a role in keeping the compound running, with Torin interjecting often to correct or elaborate.

  As they give me the lay of the land, two gangly young men pass the kitchen carrying bundles of firewood. They’re introduced. I say hello and speak when I’m spoken to, and try to listen when I should, but this situation is so unreal.

  How did these people get in here? Like Bas, did they get sucked into the Rift?

  And why do they seem so … content with being here?

  Samrael is smiling at me. He’s obviously entertained by my apparent confusion—and that only distracts me more.

  “I think that’s enough for now, Rayna. Torin. Thank you,” he says.

  They excuse themselves, and suddenly I’m alone with Samrael. Silence settles thickly over us. He drums slender fingers on the wooden table.

  “Do you have any particular way you’d like to do this?”

  “No.” I shake my head. “Do you?”

  He lifts his shoulders. “I thought perhaps I’d show you around, then we can eat outside. We can talk along the way about how we’ll search for Gideon and … any other items we might want to cover. How does that sound?”

  Even though he helped me yesterday, my initial reaction is distrust. Borderline revulsion.

  You already made the decision, Daryn. Give him a chance. I need to find Gideon. And … I need food. My empty stomach is begging to be filled. Food needs to happen. “That sounds fine.”

  Samrael smiles. “Great.” He lifts a linen bag off the table and slings it over his shoulder.

  We leave the kitchen, exiting through a side door that passes through a neatly kept garden outside, with rows of planters overflowing with vegetables, lettuce, and herbs. I’m modestly cheered by it; it’s a much brighter place than the inside of the house.

  As we follow the path, I gain enough distance to get my first look at the structure where I slept the night. It’s a gray stone mass, solid and squat, with deeply recessed beveled windows with diamond panes. Gray Fort is well named, more a fort than a home. The roofline is crenellated and I half expect archers to peer over.

  Archery reminds me of Jode, which reminds me of Marcus, Bas, Gideon—and I realize I’m grimacing when Samrael smiles, looking from me to the house.

  “Not much to look at, is it? It was the height of fashion once.” He squints at the dark clouds. “We may get rained on. Do you want to stay here? We could try again later.”

  “No.” Being stuck in a storm sounds more appealing than being stuck in that somber house. “I don’t mind rain. Let’s go.”

  Samrael leads the way, taking a trail that circles the crown of the hill where Gray Fort and its small keep perch. We pass stables. Animal pens. Gardens. Cottages and orchards.

  The feeling of the place is quaint, pastoral, but also slightly sad.

  It could be that my mood or the weather is affecting my perception. But I don’t think it is.

  Along the way, I meet several other people. A young couple with their son and daughter. Two elderly women, portly and kind-faced, mending a chicken coop with hammer and nail. A tall man driving a plow hitched to a dun-colored ox. The people are friendly, but faintly distant, too. A little mild, or muted, or faded—or all. An impression forms in my mind of simplicity, just like Rayna said. The only real objective seems to be the production of food.

  I think of Maia, who instantly gave me an impression of capability, toughness, and humor. Cordero, who was so pushy right off the bat. Low, singing his twangy country songs and smiling mischievously, like he was constantly pranking people in his mind. Ben, who always tripped all over himself in his rush to be helpful.

  It seems right that when you meet someone, you should feel something right away. Feel anything right away.

  I don’t for these curious Rifters. I feel nothing. Only curiosity because I feel nothing.

  “Care to share your thoughts?” Samrael asks.

  Surprisingly, I do care to. “The people we’ve seen—where did they come from?”

  “They’ve been here a very long time and every one of them has a different story, but I can tell you that none came willingly.”

  “So do they want to leave, too?”

  “Actually, no. Not a single one, in fact. They’ve abandoned their former selves. You could say they’ve given up—or accepted their new existence. If you’re here long enough, you become comfortable with this. Anything else would be overwhelming. This is what they’ve shared with me.”

  “You haven’t accepted this, though.”

  He looks at me. “No. As I told you, I have hope. I want to find the people I’ve hurt and make my apologies. It’s not in me to give in.”

  “About that…”

  “You think Gid
eon is still out there.”

  “Yes. And I need help. I need to keep searching for him. He’s out there. I know he is.”

  “Do you see this wall?” he says as we round a bend in the trail. A high fieldstone wall comes into view, topped with wicked iron barbs, long, rusted, and twisting in all directions. “That’s how we keep them out. That’s how we stay safe in here. It circles the entire settlement.”

  “Samrael, I realize—”

  “Please. Call me Rael. I prefer it. It’s what Bas called me. It reminds me of a new beginning.”

  Yeah, right. Like I’m calling him that. “Is that how you think of what you’re after? A new beginning?”

  “It is.”

  “We’ll see.”

  I see a flash of surprise on his face as he stops. He laughs softly. Then he catches up in a few strides. “Daryn, what you’re asking is extremely dangerous—I’m sure you know that. But I’ll help you find Gideon.”

  I’m the one who stops now. “You will?”

  “Yes. I’ve already started evaluating the resources we can spare toward the effort. Horses, weapons. People. I’ll have a search plan ready by this afternoon. I want to be helpful.”

  A pang of guilt hits me as I remember hiding the orb. Not trusting him. “Thank you,” I say. I mean it.

  The trail slopes downhill, but my mood begins to lift. My lungs feel open as I breathe the damp stormy air. With every step, stress and fear feel farther away and I feel better. I’ve found help. An ally. I’m on a path to finding Gideon.

  Hang on, I tell him, looking across the woods that seem to go on endlessly. I’m coming for you.

  We reach a creek that gradually broadens into a stream, crystalline water flowing over smooth stones. Following it, we arrive at a glade with a clear pool.

  At the far end, there’s open sky above the water, and I hear the rushing sound of a waterfall. On the opposite bank, patches of Mom’s begonias cluster together under the shade of the trees. Good sign. Right track.

  “Let’s stop here,” Samrael says. I’m surprised at how comfortable I’ve been in his company during our walk. “We’re at the edge of our protected land.” He tips his chin. “There’s a sheer drop not far ahead that provides a natural defense.” He drops the linen sack on the scrubby grass and sits. “We’ve been lucky. No rain yet.”