Fighting against fatigue and pain, he hitched his way up the rope to an outcropping surrounded by bushes where he hoped he might find concealment from anyone who came searching for him. And he was pretty sure someone would. Even if they believed he was dead, the enemy would take no chances. Their white-cloaked leader would send searchers. He saw the man again in his mind, a faceless vision, so cold and remote, cutting down Ruis Quince where he knelt helpless and unarmed. Dar didn’t expect for one minute that he would be spared if the other man found him.
Larger shards of the broken airship began to fall past him, some coming too close for comfort, and he struggled farther back onto the rock shelf and let go of the rope. Pressing himself hard against the cliff face, he watched as what remained of the airship fell past him, the rope going with it.
For a few moments he wondered if perhaps the invaders had missed seeing him go over the side of his doomed vessel, but it was too risky to make such an assumption. He was alive when he should be dead, and there was no point in advertising his presence when they came looking. He was sitting right out in the open, if you discounted the clumps of brush beneath which he had wriggled. All that kept anyone from seeing him were those and the remnants of the mist Zia had conjured during the battle.
Zia. He felt a catch in his throat and a sinking feeling. Almost certainly dead. Along with Chutin and the crew. All of them lost.
He forced himself to quit thinking about it. He would join them quickly enough if his situation didn’t improve. He had to try to get out of there. A quick glance around revealed a number of splits and indentations in the rock, but nothing big enough that he could hide in it. He judged himself to be about two hundred feet up from the canyon floor with no quick or easy way to climb down. He thought there might be a place about fifty feet off to the left where he could make a start, but from his current angle of view it was impossible to tell.
“Shades!” he muttered.
He knew he had to try something. And he had to try it soon.
He was still sitting in his brush shelter, thinking about what he should do, when a flit flew out of the mists and pulled up right in front of him, hovering in midair. He stared at the shark fin shape of the bow and the line of embedded flash rips, their muzzles directed at him.
As if determined to make this personal, the white-cloaked enemy leader stood in the pilot box, looking at him. He was close enough that it was possible to see his fingers hovering over the firing triggers, and Dar felt a momentary sense of inevitability. Pieces of debris were raining down behind the enemy flit, some coming much closer than was safe, but the white-cloaked leader never even glanced at them.
Dar waited, knowing there was no escape. He thought briefly about reaching back for his sword, but discarded the idea. He would be dead before he could bring it to bear. The winds had picked up and were surging through the canyon, whipping at him with such force that he was in danger of being dislodged from his perch. He pressed his back firmly against the cliff face and tried to look at his enemy and not the muzzles of those weapons.
The flit dropped a notch and edged a bit closer. The pilot was a skilled flier. He was almost on top of Dar, all but pressing up against him, yet holding steady with no apparent effort. Dar’s adversary was studying him, looking at him from out of his featureless helmet, apparently trying to see something in him that was hidden from view.
Or perhaps to make up his mind if there was something to see.
No words were spoken and no gestures offered, and yet in that instant Dar became certain the white-cloaked enemy leader was making a decision.
Abruptly the nose of the flit dropped just enough that they were suddenly eye to eye. While the expression of astonishment on Dar’s face must have been apparent, the enemy pilot’s own expression remained hidden. Another long moment, and the pilot took the flash rip muzzles off Dar’s chest, tilted the nose of the flit upward, wheeled it about, and flew into the haze without a backward glance.
Dar stared in disbelief as the flit disappeared, trying to understand what had just happened.
SEVENTEEN
The morning was a clouded, rainy, gloomy shroud, all darkness and shadows and the hint of an unpleasant chill. It was understandable how such a day could affect your disposition—especially if you were one of those people, like Tavo Kaynin, who were susceptible to mood changes and reacted strongly to light and darkness. One minute you could be perfectly fine, the day bright and cheerful and you bright and cheerful with it. Another, and you could find the weather and yourself as unpleasant as anything you could have imagined.
And then you began to think of all the things that troubled you and all the people who had misled and betrayed you. Then the rage would come, strong and knowable and certain, a kind of stiffening of the body and mind, as if a fire burned through your body and you inhaled its power.
And then, if you were the brother of a wicked, deceitful girl like Tarsha, you thought about how you would punish her once you found her.
Tavo Kaynin had been walking for three days—a slog through dark moods and darker silences in which demons surfaced and screamed at him incessantly, awake and in dreams, their voices shrill and demanding.
Do what you must! Hunt her down! Did she not hurt you? You must now hurt her!
The words, piercing and unrelenting, fueled his rage. He welcomed them as old friends, as reminders of what he was about as he traipsed across the Westland toward the Tirfing. They showed him visions of her, revealing the depth of her deceit, suggesting the things he could do to her once she was in his power.
His sister. His nemesis.
Sometimes, she walked with him. She was there at his side when he allowed her to be—never entirely visible, but more of a phantom that he could only glimpse, drifting and surreal. She was there to remind him how she had betrayed him.
Other times, she hid within the trees of the forest, a presence more than an image. In those moments, she would whisper to him—words of succor and reassurance that he knew to be false but wished so badly were not. She was in the shadows and in the rush of the wind. She was in the movement of the clouds overhead. She was even in the flitting of small birds and the scrambling of tiny mice. But she was there, and he saw her.
And sometimes, every now and then, she reminded him of how much she had comforted him during their early years, when she was the only friend he had. She reminded him of how hard she had tried to protect him, even though she was five years younger and so much smaller. He would remember the closeness they had shared, the love she had engendered in him, the sense of peace she was able to bring to him in times so dark he was certain he must go mad. He would remember how she tried to help him with the magic—to control it, to keep it at bay, to not let it rule his life. In those moments, all the bitterness and anger would fall away, the gloom would dissipate, and he would be left with a deep sense of sadness and regret, wondering if there was perhaps a way to reclaim that closeness they had shared.
Then Fluken would appear, and those feelings would vanish once more. Fluken did not like Tarsha. He hated Tarsha worse than Tavo did.
The rain increased, and even his cloak was not enough to keep him dry. He tightened it about him, but the damp and the chill wormed their way into his body and deep into his bones. He wanted a fire. He wanted a bed. He wanted someone to talk to so he could tell his story.
But there was almost no one on the road. He passed the occasional solitary traveler, but only infrequently—traders and trappers, and men and women on their own pilgrimages—all of whom, in all likelihood, journeyed with their own ghosts. He tried making contact, but most simply ignored him and moved on. He let them go because he knew they were right to do so, that no one would want to be with someone like him, someone with blood on his hands. No one wanted to be with someone who saw the dead and wished to send so many of the living to join them.
Now and then, the man and woman who claimed to be his parents traveled with him, wraiths in the gloom. Now and then his u
ncle was there as well, although he kept his distance. When they appeared, they walked with their heads bowed, returned somehow to the way they had been before he had ended their lives. They said nothing and paid him no mind but simply kept pace. He shouted out at them now and then, demanding they go away and leave him alone. Once or twice he tamped down his rage long enough to tell them he was sorry for what he had done. But mostly the anger and the frustration ruled him. And his rage over Tarsha’s betrayal continued unabated. There burned within him a need for revenge that was always present—sometimes a tiny flame, sometimes a fiery conflagration that threatened to engulf him entirely.
It needed tending to. It needed quenching.
Squit Malk was there sometimes, too—a huge ragged thing almost entirely unrecognizable save for his size and bulk. He lumbered out of the shadows now and then, forlorn and lost, a creature with no purpose other than to wander the world of the living in search of his lost life. Tavo did not regret taking that life. After all, Malk had attempted to take his. If he had left well enough alone when they parted on the road and not attempted to kill Tavo in his sleep, he would be alive right now. In fact, it could be said Tavo had done the world a favor, ridding it of such a vile human being, cleaning up one of nature’s discards.
Three days, and he had covered so little ground. It would take him forever to find his sister. It might be more than he could manage. Tarsha was strong and clever and willful, and she would likely do what she could to avoid being found. Thus he was given no choice but to hunt her. No choice at all.
On the night of the third day, he slept in a barn with a farmer’s animals and found them good company. The lights of the house showed the shadows of the man and woman as they crossed in front of the curtained windows. He thought about asking to be let inside where it was warm and dry, but he knew they would not allow it. He would be driven off and made to feel even worse about himself than he already did.
So he settled for the barn and used the magic of his voice to soothe the animals—a soft singing of their own voices, a talent for reaching out to creatures that he had never quite managed with people. He sang to them and they became calm and quiet within their pens and stalls. His ghosts did not come into the barn with him; not for them the small comforts he relished so. They remained out in the cold and wet.
Even Fluken stayed away, although Tavo could sense his presence close by.
On the night of the fourth day—a day still dark with clouds and wrapped in a steady drizzle, though one less ferociously determined to unnerve him—he reached a village. It was actually more of a hamlet, he decided, on realizing how few buildings there were. The lights that burned through the growing dark were dim and few, but at least they encouraged him to believe there might be something besides trees and hills and bogs and farmland.
So he approached cautiously, realizing as he did so that he yearned for the voices of the living, that he required company, if only for one night. Fluken had been absent all day, and he was feeling lonely. He was a solitary person for the most part, having always been alone due to his dark nature and darker gift. He had always been marginalized or shunned. But even the most reclusive of humans needed the presence of other humans now and then, a reminder of how others could be if given a chance. Not all were infected with evil. Not all were malicious and deceitful and ready to crush your soul.
He found the largest of the buildings and believed it to be a trappers’ outpost for those who hunted this region, and he hoped he might find a room and a bed for the night. Just that much would give him strength to continue his search. Perhaps he would even manage to find a meal and conversation.
So he entered, a frail and damaged creature, come in out of the night and the rain. Heads turned upon his entry and conversations lowered or died out entirely. The room was thick with smoke and the smell of unwashed men. He paused at the door, closing it behind him and taking a moment to survey the room. He made out somewhere around twenty men scattered about the room, either sitting at heavy wooden tables or standing at a short serving bar. They were a hard-looking bunch, all bearded and weathered, their clothes of leather held fast by metal stays, their boots so scuffed they no longer possessed a recognizable color.
He nodded to a few as he made his way to the bar, but the eyes that met his stared back without warmth. By the time he had reached the back of the room, conversations had started up again, albeit lowered and guarded. He caught the glint of weapons, handles protruding from sheaths and beneath cloaks. A handful of blades leaned against tables or rested atop them. He knew at once he had made a mistake. This was no trappers’ and traders’ haven, no inn for travelers come off the road. This was a den for men who made their home in the darkest corners of the world—men whose occupation was not the hunting of game or goods for trade, but the hunting of men.
But it was too late to turn back. Even in his diminished state, he knew that much. To back away would be seen as a clear demonstration of fear, and showing that to men like these was like offering up his exposed throat.
He stood at the counter and waited for the man standing behind it to acknowledge his presence. When the man wandered over, he skipped any sort of greeting and simply said, “Ale.”
It was in front of him swiftly and the man gone. He leaned on the bar’s scarred surface, sipped at the heady liquid, and thought about his weariness. When he finished one tankard, he ordered a second and turned to face the room. A few eyes glanced up but none lingered. He saw that the man and woman who had claimed him as their child once were seated near the door with his uncle, and that Squit Malk had joined them. They were leaning close to one another, engaged in conversation, the sound of their voices too soft for him to catch. He thought about joining them, then decided better of it.
Where was Fluken?
A woman who was barely recognizable as such wandered out of a back room with plates of food for the men at a table close to him. The food was steaming, and he felt the emptiness of his own stomach as she set the plates on the table. When she glanced up and saw him, there was a startled look in her eyes. When she came over, her nervousness was apparent.
“Do you have business here?” she asked quietly, the words almost lost her voice was so low.
He shook his head. “Just food and a bed.”
Her voiced hardened. “This is no place for you. Get out of here.”
“Food and a bed,” he repeated.
Her face twisted unpleasantly, her eyes frightened as she studied him. “Your choice. I can bring you the former, but we don’t have rooms. Eat your food and drink your ale and leave. Go on to the next town. Five miles farther.”
She turned and left, moving away with a stiff determination that left him wondering at her purpose in warning him off. She seemed to sense his situation, even if she knew nothing of his journey. To her, he was just a misguided young man who had wandered into the wrong place. He smiled and nodded at the four who sat at the table by the door, watching him. They were ready to leave, too, he could tell. They were dead, but they were somehow anxious about what they feared would happen. He imagined that Fluken was also waiting for him, just outside the door.
He asked for and received a third tankard. This time he held up his hand to detain the barman. “I’m looking for someone,” he said.
The barman nodded. “Aren’t we all?”
“A girl. Young, hair so blond it could be white, lavender eyes. Pretty, in a deceitful sort of way. I’m looking for her.”
“You’re looking in the wrong place,” the man repeated.
“She would have come through here a few weeks back, traveling alone.”
“Not through here, she wouldn’t have. Not a girl alone.”
“Wait, now,” a voice interrupted.
A burly man with coarse, heavy features and massive arms appeared, leaning into the bar and smiling. “I might have seen this girl. Young, you say? And white-blond hair? I think so.”
Tavo allowed himself a twinge of hope. “She was here?”
“No, no, not in this place. On the road, out north. Traveling with a family of Rovers. But she didn’t seem to be one of them. Didn’t have their looks or their dress. Seemed to have taken up with them to share the journey, that was all.”
The serving woman appeared with the plate of food and set it down on the bar in front of him. She turned, gave the man an indecipherable look, and disappeared again.
Tavo began to eat. “Did you speak to her?”
The burly man shrugged. “No. Had no reason to. Didn’t speak to any of them. Just passing by. I remember the girl because of that hair. Distinctive. You don’t see hair like that too often.”
“Or never!” someone behind them shouted, and there was a burst of laughter.
“Shut it!” the burly man shouted angrily, turning as if searching for the faces of those who laughed at him. “You bunch don’t know what I’ve seen or not seen, so stay outta this!”
Tavo held his ground, although he knew now that he was in trouble and the man was lying. Over by the door, Squit Malk, his uncle, and the man and woman who claimed him as their son had risen and were moving toward the exit. He wanted to scream to them to stay or even to take him with them. But they were dead, and the dead can’t help the living.
“Now, then.” The burly man clapped a hand to his shoulder and brought him back around. “I might have a way to help you with this girl you’re seeking. Just might. But it will take some of my time and a few supplies because we’ll have to go looking for her, you and I. So do you have the means? Credits, to pay me for my trouble?”
The boy shook his head and put his back to the serving counter. “I’ve no money.”