Hinterland

  Obeying, the man fled upward.

  Argent met Tylar’s eyes. “We need to speak. In private.” The warden waved for Kathryn to follow, then motioned for a path to the next level. Knights parted out of the way.

  Tylar spoke to Krevan as he climbed up. “Keep with Rogger and the boy.”

  He nodded.

  Moments later, Kathryn and Tylar entered an evacuated room off the second level. It was a squires’ lodging. Four beds were stacked one atop the other near the back. The hearth was cold, and the place smelled of sour ale and old sweat. Pitiable surroundings to decide the fate of Tashijan.

  Argent closed the door. “What are we to do?”

  “We can’t give them Tylar,” Kathryn said, dropping to the lowermost bunk.

  “They hold all of Tashijan in ransom.” Argent paced the room’s narrow length. His sword smacked his leg with every turn. He rested his hand on the diamond pommel to quiet it. “We must consider the greater good.”

  Kathryn opened her mouth, but Tylar cut her off. “The warden is right.” He ignored the fire that flared in her eyes and flushed her cheeks. “We must make a choice between sacrificing one person or risking the fall of Tashijan, a loss that would threaten all the Nine Lands during this dark time. Even my life is not worth such a price.”

  “But will they truly take only your life?” she answered heatedly.

  Both men frowned at her words.

  She sighed in exasperation. “This cadre of gods worked up a storm and sent it against us. And we know they already employ Dark Grace.” She waved vaguely toward where Eylan awaited their decision. “We cannot discount the possibility that these gods are in league or perhaps just manipulated by the Cabal. Look at the choices we are offered by their emissary. Lose you or see Tashijan fall. Both ends serve the Cabal. And the threat below—Mirra’s black legion—only compounds the danger. We must ask ourselves an important question before we decide how to answer their demand.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Is there a connection between Mirra below and the storm without?” She glanced to Tylar, then to the warden. “Consider how these two forces are conjoined so perfectly. Is it happenstance alone—is Mirra merely taking advantage of the situation? Or is it something more insidious? Does the Cabal control the gods, too? Openly or secretly. Either way, if we hand Tylar over to them, his death might not be all they seek. Could they turn Tylar and his powers against all of us? If they somehow enslaved him like the Wyr-mistress below, he would be a weapon that could take down not only Tashijan but all of Myrillia.”

  Argent had stopped pacing and stood with his arms crossed, studying the floor. Tylar leaned on the edge of a small table. He stared down at the crook of his broken finger. It ached all the way up to his elbow. He used the pain to keep him sharp.

  “To gain Tylar as a weapon would be the Cabal’s ultimate victory,” Kathryn continued. “Better to hold strong here. If we bend to their demands now, we’ll be forever at their mercy. Tashijan must be defended.”

  “But what if you’re wrong?” Argent said. “What if these storm gods only want to end Tylar’s abomination? We’d risk Tashijan.”

  “Tashijan is already at risk,” she answered. “And always will be until the Cabal is destroyed. Our towers stand tall, for a reason. To attract those who seek to bring Myrillia low. We are the first defense. We must not fail.”

  Argent looked little convinced. He continued his study of the stone floor. “If only we knew the truth…”

  Tylar mumbled to himself, “There is one who knows.”

  The warden lifted his face. “Who?”

  Tylar had not meant to be heard, but he had no choice but to answer. “The Wyr-mistress. Eylan. She’s been to the storm’s heart and back.”

  “But she’s lost to us,” Kathryn said.

  Tylar nodded. He could not argue against that. Eylan was buried deep in that black melody of seersong. He pictured her eyes, flinty and cold, as dead as a frozen lake. Seersong proved impossible to resist.

  Even for him.

  He shuddered at the memory. All will and wit had been stripped from him in a moment. Though he had remained aware, all his focus had narrowed to the point of a needle, centered on the next note, ready to do anything to hear it, deaf to all else, obedient to one.

  Only for a moment had he been able to shake the thrall. When he had feebly attempted to warn the others to flee.

  Go…run…

  How had he managed that?

  “We are chasing shadows,” Argent said. “We must make this decision based on what we know, not what we might imagine. In one bell’s time, the storm gods will freeze our towers. And if that doesn’t kill us, Mirra’s daemons will follow in their wake. There is only one way to stem such a tide—even if such an act only buys us more time to rally, we must give them Tylar.”

  “Let us not make such a decision rashly,” Kathryn argued.

  Tylar let their words drift to the back of his mind. Other words rose, his own words. Go…run… He remembered uttering that warning, breaking free of the song for just that moment. He’d been trapped in song before and after. Up until now, harried by daemons, he’d not had the time to ponder it further.

  He did so now.

  Go…run…

  He went back to those words, to the song, to the moment before he spoke those words. Though deafened to all but Mirra’s seersong, something had reached him. A discordant note had pierced through the lilting spell, not loud, but enough to jar him momentarily loose. He heard an echo of it now.

  It had been a single word moaned in pain: No…

  And he knew who had uttered that word.

  Tylar shoved off the table and back to his feet.

  “The boy.”

  Out in the hall, Brant sat with Rogger on the stone floor, backs against the wall. In simple words, he learned the fate of his friend Dralmarfillneer, how the giant had been struck down by a poisoned dagger.

  “And the witch still lives,” Brant said bitterly.

  Rogger placed a hand on his knee. “Aye, she does. Evil is too stubborn to die easily. But your friend’s death saved all our lives.”

  Brant shaded his eyes to hide the welling tears. “I must get word to his brother.”

  “Time enough for that, young man. No need to rush to break someone’s heart.”

  The door down the hall finally opened. Steps away, Krevan straightened from where he had been talking with Calla. Rogger rose from his seat on the floor. The dagger in his fingers vanished back into its sheath.

  Brant stood, too.

  The regent led the others out the door. Plain from their faces, some decision had been made. The warden passed Brant, casting him a strange glance with his one eye.

  “I’ll clear the lower stair,” he said and continued on.

  Tylar stopped in front of them. He waited until the warden had vanished away. He turned to Castellan Vail. “How is Gerrod managing?”

  “He’s struggling his best to follow the orders you left with him. He’s not sure he has enough humour.”

  “We’ll have to do with as much as he can muster. We may not have much time.”

  “I know.” Kathryn headed down the hall.

  Rogger spoke. “So can we assume that the warden isn’t going to just toss you arse-bared into the winter storm?”

  “Not for the moment.” The regent clapped Brant on the shoulder. “We have one hope.”

  A moment later, Brant stood three steps from the icy floor of the lower central hall. His breath huffed white into the frigid air. Tylar stood a step below. Rogger shared Brant’s perch, kneeling, the bile-wrapped skull resting on his lap. Krevan stood guard behind them with Calla and Kathryn. Upon the warden’s order, the rest of the stairs had been emptied back to the landing.

  “What am I supposed to do?” Brant asked.

  “Just call her name,” Tylar said. “When you feel the burning, you must keep talking. Anything. As long as you don’t stop.”

  Brant sta
red out to the frost-covered woman. She stood as if unaware of their presence. Eyes unblinking, toes frozen to the ice. It did not appear she even breathed. No breath steamed from either nostrils or lips.

  Still Brant sensed something studying them, wary and watchful.

  He clutched the stone at his throat. “I know nothing about breaking curses,” he mumbled.

  Rogger explained. “If Tylar is right, your stone seemed to counter the seersong in the skull. At least you were able to break its hold momentarily on Tylar. The why and how of it all will have to wait for now.” The man shrugged. “And if it doesn’t work, no harm done.”

  No harm…

  Brant remembered the burn. He glanced to the skull in Rogger’s lap. The tainted bone had ruined his home and traveled half the world to haunt him again. Did no one understand it was best destroyed? He had to resist kicking it from the man’s thighs and stamping it to crumbles. But would that truly end its curse? Perhaps a cleansing fire…

  Rogger seemed to read his intent. “Your friend gave his life to help steal this from the witch below. Pay back a small part of that blood debt. Use the stone and skull to strike back at them.”

  Brant scowled at him, recognizing when someone was trying to ply his emotions. He hated the man for the attempt—mostly because it worked. He had to try.

  For Dral.

  He nodded.

  “Ready yourself, then,” Tylar said.

  Brant ignored him. There was no preparing.

  Rogger studied Brant a moment longer, then reached and peeled back a flap of bile-caked sailcloth. A peek of bone showed. It was enough.

  He gasped as the stone ignited between his fingers, melting fat, burning flesh. Flames roared into his chest. He moaned, trying his best to expel the heat. His legs went weak.

  Tylar caught him and lowered him to the stairs. “Speak her name,” the regent said.

  Brant tried, but fire seared his throat. It was agony to breathe. Sweat poured like molten fire into every crease.

  “You’re killing him,” he heard the castellan warn. “There must be another way.”

  Brant rocked on the stairs, seeking some way to escape the pain.

  “Her name…” Tylar said.

  Brant knew only one way. He let the fire build. He squeezed the stone with one hand. The agony stoked until he could stand it no more. He screamed. “EYLAN!”

  He felt a slight ebb of the pain. Tears blurred his vision and trembled the woman’s form.

  “She’s moving,” Rogger said.

  It wasn’t just illusion. The woman stumbled a step, almost losing her footing on the slick ice. Then she seemed to catch herself and began to stiffen again.

  “Again…” Tylar said. “Anything. Each word will help break through the seersong to reach her.”

  Brant searched deep inside himself, seeking something to fortify him against the pain, to free his tongue. But all he found were more flames. They burnt through all his memories, stripping years. Page after page of his life turned to ash. Finally a memory appeared, one long lost and buried by a tide of days. A thatched room, hard arms cradling him, rocking him…and a lullaby gently sung to the moons, sung to hold back the night.

  It was a mother’s tune, but he’d had no mother.

  This memory refused to burn, shielded by grief and lit by flames.

  In that moment, he recognized all he truly lost so long ago. Had he ever truly mourned more than the hunter who was his father? He listened to the lullaby and grabbed the grief that he had unknowingly carried with him all these years, as buried as this lone memory.

  He let the flames carry forth his anguish.

  He started haltingly, words dissolving into gasps and moans, etched with agony. But he refused to stop. He continued to sing—not for Tylar, not to break curses, not even for his lost father. He sang for the boy who wanted those hard arms around him one last time.

  Tylar did not even recognize when the boy had begun to sing. Brant lay on his side, curled on the stairs, moaning. Then Tylar saw Eylan stir again out in the ice. She hobbled a step toward them…then another.

  Only then did Tylar perceive a whisper of words from the boy’s pained lips. “‘Come, sweet night…steal the last light…so your moons may glow.’”

  Below, Eylan lifted an arm, trembling, confused.

  “The seersong’s grip is loosening,” Rogger said, rising with the skull under one arm.

  Krevan slipped down to join them. Kathryn went to the boy, kneeling and lifting his head into her lap. She stroked back the lanky hair that had plastered to his forehead with sweat.

  He whimpered, then continued, thready and weak. “‘Come, sweet night…hide all our worries…so our dreams will flow.’”

  “He’s burning up,” Kathryn warned, glancing to Tylar.

  “But it’s working,” he countered.

  Eylan lifted her head toward them. Ice still clouded her eyes, but the depth had melted. Lips parted and cracked. Blood flowed.

  “No…” she moaned. “Stop…”

  Hands rose to her ears. But against whom was she warding? Her new masters out in the storm or their attempt here?

  Eylan took another step in their direction. Cakes of frost fell from her arms and legs. “Must stop…”

  Blood dripped from her chin and splattered to the ice, steaming and hot. The seersong’s hold was plainly melting, releasing her.

  “Eylan,” Tylar said. “Tell us about the storm.”

  “Must stop them…”

  He was still unsure whom she meant.

  Behind Tylar, the boy continued his tinny whisper. “‘Come sweet night…protect all the children…’til the cock’s first crow.’”

  Eylan’s eyes found his. Tylar read flinty glimpses of clarity. Her face twisted in a rictus of agony, baring too many teeth.

  “Help them,” she keened out at him. “Free them…”

  The words echoed Brant’s earlier words, when he’d held the skull down below. Tylar glanced back to the boy, remembering the strange discourse.

  HELP THEM…FREE THEM…FIND THEM.

  The boy had no memory of what he had been saying. Tylar turned back to Eylan. But here was someone who might know.

  “Find them…” Eylan gasped out, finishing the same chorus.

  “Who?” Tylar shouted out to her.

  She fell to one knee on the ice. Blood now poured from both nostrils. The war for her mind was tearing her apart.

  “It’s killing her.” Rogger confirmed it at Tylar’s side. “The seersong has its hooks deep in her mind and spirit. Ripping them out is destroying her.”

  Out on the floor, she sank to one buttock, supported by an arm on the ice, weakening rapidly.

  “The boy’s almost gone,” Kathryn said behind him.

  He had no choice.

  “Who?” he called again to Eylan. “Who are we supposed to find?”

  She lifted her face. “The rogues…find the other rogues…chained and forced…” She suddenly coughed, spewing crimson across the ice.

  “Forced to do what?”

  Eylan opened her mouth to speak, but only blood flowed. Tears streamed down her face. She lifted her arm and pointed toward the wrecked gate.

  “The storm?” he asked quietly.

  Her only agreement was the sagging drop of her arm. Her head sank heavily, too.

  “Where are they? How do we find them?”

  Eylan did not stir, seeming deaf to him now.

  “The boy’s stopped breathing!” Kathryn gasped out and stood. She hauled the boy up in her arms and faced Rogger. “Cover the skull!”

  Hesitating, Rogger glanced to Tylar. Both of them knew they needed more answers.

  “He can’t speak any longer!” Kathryn screamed at the both of them. “Rogger, cover the skaggin’ skull!”

  Recognizing the truth of her words, he finally obeyed and whisked the sailcloth back over the skull. He shrugged an apology at Tylar.

  A scrape drew Tylar’s attention back out on
the ice.

  Eylan’s fingers scratched at the ice. Her head lolled like a broken doll. Then an arm pushed, a leg shifted. She began to rise.

  “The song is claiming her again,” Rogger said.

  White frost climbed her calves and scrawled up from her wrists, coating her again, collecting up its lost puppet.

  She lifted her head. Her eyes found Tylar. He read the clarity before it drowned away. Her lips moved and one word escaped, an answer to his last question.

  “Hinterland…”

  Then her eyes iced over.

  Before he could grieve, a sharp twang startled him.

  From Eylan’s forehead, a small puff of feathers bloomed—then seeped blood. A crossbow bolt. Her head fell back, followed by her body. She crashed to the ice.

  Dead.

  Tylar turned.

  Krevan lowered his crossbow. He matched Tylar’s stare—then turned and climbed the stair. It was a cold act, but the right one.

  For Tashijan, for Eylan.

  Still, Tylar remained silent as Krevan left. He had noted how much the pirate’s arm shook as he lowered the bow.

  Kathryn led the others, sweeping up the stairs toward her hermitage. Behind her, Krevan carried Brant. The boy had begun breathing again, but it remained shallow, and he’d yet to wake.

  Fury helped fuel her course. She had cradled the boy as he had come within a hair of dying. Though she understood Tylar’s desire for every bit of information, there were lines between necessity and cruelty. To use the boy so harshly bordered on as black an art as those they fought practiced.

  Still, he breathed now—and none had noted her tears as she’d held him. A part of her felt foolish, and a good amount of her anger was directed at herself. Had she not seen enough death? Why did this boy’s life warrant tears when the loss of so many others had not? But she knew the answer. She knew the source of those hot tears.

  They rose as much for the son she had lost long ago as the boy here this night, churned up by her fury at Tylar for risking Brant. That anger stoked embers within Kathryn that she’d thought had long gone cold. But a fire remained, a buried resentment toward Tylar for his role in the loss of their child. He had willingly plied with the Gray Traders, opening himself up to accusation and misuse. A path that eventually led to a bloody bed and a tiny body in her palms.