Blackveil

  “My pack,” Yates said. “We need to go back for my pack.”

  “No,” Karigan replied, sickened by the image of those roiling, fingering roots and the loss of Hana. “We can’t go back.”

  She struggled to keep Lynx in sight, but Yates constantly tripped and fell. He could not move fast enough. Dragging him behind her and trying to keep him on his feet exhausted her. When he fell, more often than not he wrenched her down with him, and desperate to keep up with the others, she’d lunge back to her feet and help Yates to rise, and then urge him on.

  The others were almost lost to her ahead.

  “Lynx!” she cried. She was met with only the silence of the forest and the fading footsteps of her companions.

  “Lynx!”

  Then there was nothing but her own harsh breathing and the drizzle folding down on them.

  Karigan yanked Yates after her and hastened through underbrush and branches in the direction she’d last seen the company, her heart pounding.

  “Slow down, I—”

  “We can’t!” she snapped. “We’re losing them.” She did not say aloud that she thought they were already lost.

  Yates bravely tried to keep up, but there were too many roots and rocks tripping him and he was again a force holding her back. She halted, her ragged breaths steaming the air. As she stood there and gazed at the sameness of the trees, she did not see or hear any sign of the company, and she had no idea which way they’d gone.

  “Why are we stopping?” Yates asked.

  She heard the fear in his voice.

  “Because,” she replied, turning to face him, “we are—” Something snagged her right leg, and when she looked down, she saw she’d stepped into a tangle of thorny brambles. The thorns, which were hooked and as long as her thumb, had slashed through her trousers and raked her flesh like claws. It felt like a swarm of bees stinging her leg.

  “Damn,” she muttered, pain pitching her voice high. She fought the urge to thrash out of the brambles knowing it would only entangle her further.

  “What?” Yates demanded. “What in all the hells is going on?”

  “Don’t take another step,” she told him. He’d stopped short, she saw with relief, of walking into the brambles. “I’m stuck in a thorn bush.”

  Carefully she pried away the grasping brambles from her leg, but they seemed determined to cling to her. Finally she drew her long knife and cut them away. The canes oozed a yellow ichor she hoped was not poisonous.

  It seemed to take forever to free her leg, sweat streaming down her face, the pain of the stabbing thorns sending chills through her body. Finally when she was able to step clear of the bush, her leg buckled and she fell to her knee with a grunt.

  “Karigan?” Yates asked. “You all right?”

  “Help me up.”

  He extended his hand and she leveraged herself back to a standing position. The stinging pain spread through her leg again, but it held her weight. She removed the bonewood from her pack and leaned on it.

  “I think we need to set up camp here,” she said.

  “What about the others?”

  “They’re gone. We got left behind and I don’t know if I can locate their trail again. It’s best if we stay where we are so they can come find us.” She wondered if they’d even try, recalling how they had not gone after Hana. She closed her eyes and shuddered.

  Whether or not the others sought them out, Karigan needed someplace to sit and remove the rest of the thorns from her leg. She could not go far like this.

  She limped away from the thorn brambles, towing Yates behind her and keeping close watch for any other dangers. Of course if a flock of hummingbirds descended on them, there wouldn’t be much she could do about it.

  “Damn my sight,” Yates said. “We’re lost in Blackveil and it’s all my fault.”

  “No,” Karigan said heavily. “It’s not your fault. It’s the forest. It’s probably affected your ability, warped it.” Their Rider abilities had been considered an asset for sending them into Blackveil, but now those very abilities were working against them. Perhaps they should have known better. After all, when the wild magic of the forest had leaked into Sacoridia last summer, it had wrought havoc with their abilities. Was that why she was able to travel back in time last night?

  “If I hadn’t been so eager to come, we wouldn’t be lost. You would be with the rest of them.”

  Karigan shrugged, then remembering he couldn’t see her, she laid her hand on his shoulder. “We can’t say what could have been. We’ll make the best of this, and I’m sure the others will come looking for us.” But of course she was not.

  He gave a rattling sigh and slumped his shoulders.

  “Oh, Yates.” She wrapped her arms around him and squeezed hard. “We’re Green Riders. We’ve been through worse.”

  “I don’t know,” he said. Then smiling slightly, he added, “Maybe you have.”

  Karigan lowered her pack off her shoulder and sat at the base of a tree she thought looked safe enough to begin working the thorns out of her leg. She wasn’t sure she’d been through worse, either. Tears of pain welled in her eyes and she tried not to cry out so she didn’t worry Yates.

  Yates sat beside her. “What are we going to do about a camp?”

  “Camp?” She pried out another thorn, its barbs tearing out flesh with it. She swallowed back the pain.

  “Yeah, since our tent was with my pack.”

  She hadn’t thought about it. As if to mock her, the drizzle turned into pouring rain. It at least washed away some of the blood.

  “Well?” Yates asked.

  “I guess we make a shelter.” She knew there was no we. Without his sight, Yates was not going to be able to provide much help.

  Karigan tentatively rose, grimacing as she placed weight on her right leg. “I’m going to go look for sticks. Stay here.”

  “Don’t—don’t leave me!” He sounded so desperate.

  “I’m not going far. You’ll be in my view the whole time.”

  Yates huddled his knees to his chest looking miserable. Karigan limped off, leaning on her bonewood cane and using it to tap sticks on the ground. Most simply crumbled apart revealing writhing insects and worms. She’d have to hack branches off trees. She returned to Yates.

  “That you, Karigan?” he asked.

  “Yep.”

  “Is there something you’re not telling me? You sound different. Like you’re not moving right.”

  Karigan picked through her pack for her hatchet. “So now you claim your hearing is that good?”

  “Well, if I can’t see, I can focus on my hearing.”

  “I got poked by thorns is all. Aha!” Hatchet now in hand she turned to their tree, gazing at it with trepidation. Might she disturb something dangerous, even deadly, by hacking into it? She shrugged. They needed sticks for their shelter, and that was that. She swung the hatchet, chopping at the lowest branches, which were bare of needles. She hoped for the best—that she wouldn’t dislodge any creatures that lived among the branches, or that the tree wouldn’t awaken and retaliate against them in some way.

  When nothing happened and Karigan had acquired the desired limbs, she sighed in relief. Sometimes a tree was just a tree.

  “If only I had some twine,” she muttered.

  “I’ve a ball of string,” Yates said, “for measuring. Would that help?” Despite losing his pack in Telavalieth, he’d retained the old message satchel slung over his shoulder that held his journal and writing materials. He felt around inside it and pulled out a ball of string.

  Karigan laughed. “I knew I brought you along for a reason.”

  “For my string and not my good looks obviously.”

  “Obviously.”

  She used the string to bind the branches into the rough frame of a lean-to, and covered it with her oilskin cloak. She placed it at the base of their tree, the tree shielding them from the worst pounding of the rain. They had to huddle close together to fit beneath the
lean-to.

  “I don’t think I’ll ever be dry again,” Yates said. “I wish we had Mara here to light a fire.”

  “I wouldn’t wish this on her,” Karigan replied, “or any of the others. And if Blackveil is warping Rider abilities, I can’t imagine what it would do to hers.”

  “Burn the forest down maybe,” Yates said. “Wouldn’t be such a bad thing.”

  Karigan wrapped one of her blankets around the both of them. It, too, was damp, but she thought it might help insulate them from the chill. They leaned together, their combined body heat helping.

  She knew she needed to apply some priddle cream to her thorn punctures, something she ought to have done immediately, but getting the shelter up had seemed more important at the time. She also thought about their food supply. She’d have to share what remained in her pack with Yates, breaking it into half-rations, because there was no telling when or if the others would come for them.

  The gray and damp oppressed her more than ever. She wondered how things were back in Sacor City, at the castle. Was the weather fair there? What was Mara up to? The new Riders? She closed her eyes and tried to imagine the pasture full of messenger horses, but all she saw was shadows.

  She missed Condor, her little room in the Rider wing, and Ghost Kitty. And she missed ...

  She bit her lip. The king was probably going about his daily business not even thinking about them—her. He walked in the sunlit world and she ached to join him there.

  “Do you think we’re going to get out of this?” Yates asked.

  “I don’t know,” Karigan replied. “I really don’t know, but I hope so.” If for no other reason than she could once more look upon her king.

  WATCHERS

  The groundmites leaped and danced around Grandmother and her retainers, fur flying. They “sang” in grunts and yips and waved spears around their heads. Some wore the skins of other animals, but most wore nothing at all, teats and male parts peeping out from beneath matted fur. Grandmother thought to cover Lala’s eyes, but she couldn’t do so forever. It would not be long before the girl grew curious about such things anyway. Hiding it from her would not protect her; only delay her coming of age.

  Sarat clung to Grandmother’s arm and whimpered. “They’re going to eat us!”

  “I do not believe so,” Grandmother replied. “They are simply welcoming us.”

  After the burning of the gift of entrails, several male groundmites had stepped out of the woods, thus revealing themselves as the Watchers who had followed Grandmother’s little group for so long. They had gestured for Grandmother and her people to follow them. Though they carried spears and clubs, they were not used in a threatening manner. Since they were continuing down the road in the direction Grandmother had intended to travel, she decided to accept their “invitation.”

  After much wearisome walking, their escorts brought them off the road to this, their village, or habitation, or whatever groundmites considered their collection of dens, really nothing more than mounds of dirt with entry holes.

  The creatures carried on their dancing for quite some time. Then suddenly they stopped and a portion of the circle opened to admit a small groundmite with a humped back. She wore skins draped around her waist, her teats hanging slack to her belly. Animal bones had been knotted into her gray-striated fur. Though stooped by age, she carried herself with dignity. She gazed up at Grandmother with one rheumy eye. The other was missing.

  It was clear by the way the others regarded the groundmite that she was a leader among them.

  “Ugly little beast,” Deglin muttered.

  “They all are,” Cole replied. “Smell worse than a pack of wet dogs.”

  “Hush,” Min snapped. “You aren’t smelling too good yourselves.”

  The old groundmite issued some unintelligible proclamation to Grandmother. When she finished, all Grandmother could think to say was, “Thank you.”

  All the groundmites stared silently as if expecting more. She licked her lips. “We are descendents of Arcosia,” she said. “Of Mornhavon the Great’s people.” She pulled out the pendant of the dead tree.

  The old groundmite’s one eye widened in recognition. She babbled excitedly and the rest started carrying on again. They brought Grandmother gifts of bone necklaces and raw meat. It was good to know the creatures still honored the empire. Their ancestors had served Mornhavon in battle.

  How, she wondered, might she get these groundmites to serve her?

  The old groundmite patted her chest. “Gubba,” she declared. “Gubba.”

  “What’s she saying?” Deglin asked.

  “I think it’s what she is called,” Grandmother replied. She pointed at the groundmite. “Gubba.” Then she rested her hand on her chest. “Grandmother.”

  Gubba caught on immediately and mimicked Grandmother and pointed at her. “Grrrnmudda.” Then pointed to herself. “Gubba.”

  Once the names were settled, Gubba pulled on Grandmother’s sleeve, leading her toward one of the dirt mounds.

  “Grandmother!” Sarat cried.

  Grandmother glanced back. Groundmites blocked her people from following, anxiety on each of their faces, except Lala’s. “Be patient,” she told them. “I will come to no harm.” She would not, she knew. This Gubba had welcomed them, felt that Grandmother was her equal. It did not mean Grandmother held any desire to crawl into the hole, but etiquette seemed to require it.

  Gubba dropped to all fours, and despite her age, crawled agilely into the mound. Grandmother had no choice but to follow. She slowly lowered herself to her knees and crawled into the mound, dragging her yarn basket with her.

  Inside, Grandmother was assaulted by the rank stench of piss and wet fur and damp dirt. Plant roots dangled through the domed, earthen ceiling, which was alive with crawlies. Gubba snatched a writhing centipede from overhead, popped it into her mouth, and mashed it with her gums. After swallowing, she peeled her lips back in a sort of smile. She was missing many teeth, but yellowed canines remained.

  A clay cup filled with clotted fat made a crude lamp, the sooty smoke rancid. A woven reed mat covered the floor and Gubba gestured for Grandmother to sit. Not that Grandmother had much of a choice for the ceiling was low and the insects not far from her hair.

  As her eyes adjusted to the muted light of Gubba’s den, she espied gnawed bones strewn about the floor, the movements of more crawlies in the dark recesses, and a jumbled heap of . . . objects. Objects that required a second glance. They were metal, she was sure of it. Some looked like the rusted shards of swords, a pile of nails, pieces of armor, but the other bits were beyond her ken. Jointed pieces that had been made for movement, springs, and tubes—were these artifacts from Arcosia? The chronicles of her people claimed her ancestors had been uncommonly clever artificers.

  Gubba raised her lamp, shifting shadows and revealing one section of wall covered with primitive paintings in soot and a red ocher substance. Dried blood? She could not say. The images were handprints, fearsome creatures, spirals, and abstract patterns, and in the midst of it all, the dead tree of Second Empire.

  Certain Grandmother had taken in the tree, Gubba set the lamp down and removed a pouch from her belt, and emptied tiny bones into her clawed hand. She breathed on them, then tossed them onto the mat before her. She leaned over them as though studying their pattern.

  So, Grandmother thought, Gubba fancies herself a fortuneteller. Grandmother did not hold stock with such cheap tricks and found herself vaguely disappointed by the display.

  Gubba wiggled her fingers. The bones vibrated, then lifted from the mat to float between them. Grandmother reassessed her opinion. This was the art. Gubba had some command of etherea after all.

  Gubba chittered, her gaze intently following the bones. Then with a distinct, “Oooh,” she watched for a few more intense moments before allowing the bones to gently settle on the mat. She turned her eye on Grandmother, then pointed at the yarn basket.

  Grandmother took it to mean Gubba de
sired some similar show of power. She picked through her yarn. She had no way to replenish her diminishing skeins and had taken to being very careful with what she had left. Some minor demonstration with a small knot would have to suffice. She would create a flower from flame.

  She gestured if it was all right for her to borrow the lamp, and Gubba gave her a very human nod. Grandmother rapidly tied a simple knot, one of the first she had learned at her mother’s knee, and dropped it into the flame.

  A flower did not bloom as she expected, but the trunk of a tree sprouted from the cup and grew and grew and grew until it was immense, followed by more and more until she and Gubba sat in the illusion of a vast forest of ancient trees.

  “The grove,” Grandmother murmured in awe. “It must be.” With the perversity that was Blackveil, the etherea had once again warped her intention, but this time with a magnificent result. Gubba’s eye was wide as she took in the trees.

  Then a voice thundered, “FIND THE GROVE.” Gubba’s den vibrated with the voice of God. Crawlies fell out of the ceiling.

  Gubba shrieked and Grandmother bowed her head. “Yes, my lord,” she whispered.

  “FIND THE GROVE BEFORE THE OTHERS.”

  “The others?”

  “AWAKEN THE SLEEPERS!”

  The illusion faded and all was as before. Gubba reached a shaking hand over to Grandmother. “Gubba scurrit Grrrnmudda. Gubba scurrit Grrrnmudda ock Sleeprrrs.” She walked her fingers on the mat.

  Grandmother emerged from Gubba’s den elated. God had not forsaken them, and if she interpreted Gubba’s gibberish correctly, the old groundmite was going to lead them to the grove of the Sleepers. Absently she plucked a twitchy insect out of her hair. Her people came to her, touching and patting her to ensure she was all right, their anxious expressions relaxing to relief.

  “All is well,” she told them. “Gubba is going to take us to the Sleepers, and they shall be awakened as God wills.”