The Darkling Child

  “Pap!” a voice shouted. “He’s over here! I’ve got him trapped!”

  At once he was up and running, weaving through the darkness, angling away from the voice and the attack. He ran deeper into the woods, the elleryn clutched to his chest. He had forgotten about the Fortrens watching the roads leading out of Portlow, of Gammon’s warning that they were waiting for him to try to escape. He was so caught up in the mystery behind the Druid attack that they had slipped his mind completely.

  Still, whatever his assailant might think, he was far from trapped. He tore through the rain and the dark, fighting down the fear building within him. The road branched just ahead, one path running on to Sterne, the other to Wayford. Along the way were dozens of small villages. He needed only to reach one of them to find a place to hide. Someone would take him in.

  But when a fresh crossbow bolt whizzed past to one side, he was reminded that the Fortrens were woods people and more at home in these surroundings than he was. He ducked instinctively and took a new direction back toward the road. The trees and the heavy scrub of the woods hindered his efforts, and he might make better time in the open. He wasn’t as skilled at wilderness survival as the Fortrens, but he was strong and quick. He might be able to outrun them.

  A tree trunk exploded in a shower of bark nearby, seconds before the explosive discharge of a handheld flash rip. Others followed, bracketing him as he twisted and dodged, fighting to keep his feet in the slick grasses. There were more than one of them now, the pursuit growing. If he couldn’t find a way to lose them, he would have to turn and fight. The thought chilled him. Use of his magic would likely lead to someone dying. Worse, it would alert the Druids to his presence and bring them down on him.

  But what choice did he have?

  He was breathing heavily now, the ache in his leg muscles slowing him. He was running out of space and time; his strength was failing. He pushed himself harder, clearing the fringe of the trees just where the road ahead branched toward Sterne and Wayford. He felt a surge of hope. Which should he take? What if he took neither, but went between them, angling toward the former but keeping off the road entirely? It might confuse them enough to make them decide to wait until daylight, giving him extra…

  The thought died before he could finish it. Ahead, a grouping of figures emerged from the darkness to block the split, closing off all choices of where he might flee. He slowed automatically, knowing that he could not go forward, that he must turn back. But that would mean returning to Portlow, and there was no hope for him if he did.

  Figures emerged from the trees behind him, his pursuit having caught up. He stood frozen in place for several long moments, watching the figures close in from all sides. He must run, but he no longer believed that running would be enough. He would have to stand and fight. He would have to use his magic if he was to get out of this alive.

  He set down the elleryn. He was about to step away from it, still hoping to protect the one possession he had left, when he was struck a blow to the head that knocked him sprawling. The blow had been sharp and painful, and he knew a sling stone had struck him. They were disabling him before he could do anything. He tried to rise, but he was dizzy and slow, and those closest were on top of him too quickly, bearing him to the ground. Screams and shouts of wild elation filled the air.

  “Got him, Pap!” one yelled, whooping and laughing. “All mine, he is. You watch what I do to him! Just let me have ‘firsts.’ ”

  Reyn tried to see what was happening, but there was blood in his eyes. When he tried to use his voice, he found his throat constricted by an arm locked about it. He was helpless.

  “You do nothing, boy!” a rough voice snapped. He recognized it at once. Costa Fortren. The family patriarch’s shadowy form loomed through a haze of blood and raindrops. “He’s mine. His life belongs to me, and I am the one who shall take it from him. You can have him back when the light begins to leave his eyes.”

  Reyn tried to blurt out a final plea, but all that emerged was a strangled gasp. Dark figures were clustered all around. Voices filled with hate and bloodlust traded laughter and jokes. He heard his new elleryn being smashed beneath boot heels.

  He closed his eyes. It was over for him.

  Then someone gasped—a sound filled with fear and loathing. Bodies shifted, and from out of the darkness a figure emerged, blacker than the night, robes billowing in the wind, a wraith exuding terror.

  “I warned you not to harm him.”

  The voice was a crackle that rose above the sounds of the storm. Everyone went silent. For an instant the entire world seemed frozen in time. Costa Fortren turned. “We have no need to do as you—”

  “You have every need,” the wraith replied. “But now it is too late.”

  In the next instant the entire area lit up in sudden explosions of fire as huge torches burst into flame and screams filled the air. But the torches were neither of wood nor pitch, but of human flesh as the Fortrens and their allies caught fire, one after the other. Burning alive, unable to extinguish the flames, they ran screaming this way and that, rolling on the ground, flinging themselves into puddles of mud and water, beating at their flaming bodies helplessly. Their efforts failed. The fire was relentless. One by one, they were consumed, collapsing in charred heaps, their lives extinguished until all that remained were Reyn Frosch and the dark figure striding toward him.

  “I told you to wait!”

  The boy still couldn’t talk, his voice little more than a ragged croak. He pushed himself into a sitting position, trying to avoid looking at the bodies heaped all around him.

  Strong arms pulled him to his feet. The black-cloaked stranger from the Boar’s Head leaned close, his features bladed and hard. “We’ll talk about this later. For now, hold tight to me.”

  Aching and worn, the boy held on for dear life.

  TWELVE

  Reyn remembered little of what happened next. The strong arms guided him through the dark and the rain to where an airship waited and then helped him aboard. His body was battered and bloody from the pummeling he had taken at the hands of the Fortrens, and exhaustion and weakness combined to cloud his thinking. He stumbled several times and almost fell off the ladder once, but eventually he was settled in a corner of the vessel beneath a canopy and wrapped in blankets with his head pillowed. Drowsiness overcame him, and he was asleep almost instantly.

  But just before consciousness faded, he was aware of someone else moving over to sit next to him. Soft hands loosened his clothing, and wet cloths were applied to his injuries. A voice whispered, soothing and low, and he was infused with a sense of peace.

  He remembered, too, the sound of the airship powering up and lifting away, of the rush of the wind and the whisper of the rain continuing to fall, and finally of terrifying images of men turned into human torches.

  After that, he slept. In his sleep he dreamed, and his dreams were dark and haunting. He was fleeing once more, pursued by a nameless terror, a black wraith cloaked and hooded that appeared each time he thought he had left it behind, thwarting his every attempt at escape. It neither spoke nor acted against him, yet he knew it was evil and intended him great harm. He fought hard to evade it, to place obstacles in its path and hide from its coming. But nothing worked. It was an inexorable force intent on crushing the life out of him.

  At one point, men tried to stand against it. And as it was with the Fortrens, they were set afire and turned to ash, their lives extinguished in the blink of an eye.

  When he woke again, it was dawn. The first of the new day’s light was just a faint glow on the horizon. The airship had landed, and the diapson crystals were silent within their hooded parse tubes. The light sheaths rippled and flapped softly in a gentle breeze. The rain had moved on. Overhead, the sky was clear and offered the promise of a sunny day.

  He lay where he was for a few moments, not wanting to disturb the feeling of comfort that cocooned him. Hints of his injuries surfaced when he tried to move, so he chose not to. N
ot right away. He began thinking of what had happened the previous night, the horrific images resurfacing as his memories returned. He had been chased and hunted and nearly killed before the black-cloaked stranger had rescued him and the Fortrens had all burned…

  A shadow fell over him, a pair of slender arms reached out, and soft hands began to stroke his face. “Wake up, Reyn,” a voice urged. “It’s morning.”

  The girl eased down next to him, moving into his field of vision. Her smile was radiant, filling him with such wonder and happiness he could barely keep the tears from his eyes. She was beautiful in an exotic, almost otherworldly sort of way. Her skin was white and flawless. Her hair was a rich toffee color, streaked with gold that suggested threads woven within. She was tiny, and her features hinted at the presence of Elven blood, although it was clear to him that she was not the product of a single Race, but of mixed heritage. Her green eyes held him mesmerized as he fought to say something.

  “That was you next to me last night?”

  She nodded.

  “You dressed my wounds, took care of me?”

  “I did. How are you feeling?”

  “I’m all right. But I wouldn’t have been if not for…” He paused. “Well, I guess I don’t know his name.”

  “Arcannen,” she said. “He thinks very highly of you. He believes you have great promise. He also believes your magic places you in serious danger.”

  “I suppose it does. Are you his daughter?”

  She laughed. “I am his assistant. If I serve him well in this capacity and demonstrate promise, he will teach me his skills. He is a great sorcerer.”

  Reyn took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “He told me he understood. He knew about my singing. He said he could explain it to me. He could tell me its origins.”

  “If he said he could do so, then he can.”

  She adjusted his blankets and eased him into a more comfortable position. He liked the feel of her hands on him. She made him feel safe.

  “Where is he?”

  She smoothed his hair back from his forehead. “He’s gone into the city to find supplies for us. He will be back soon.”

  “Where are we? What city?”

  “Sterne. On the outskirts at the edge of the public airfield. He has enemies here, so he must be very cautious. As soon as he returns, we will leave again.”

  “Leave for where?”

  She smiled and reached over to stroke his cheek. “I believe that depends upon you.”

  She rose and left him then. He wanted to call her back, to tell her to stay with him so they could continue to talk, so that he could feel her hands on him. But she was gone too quickly for that, whispering as she left that he needed to rest and she would be back later.

  Surprisingly, he was asleep in minutes. This time there were no dreams, and he slept undisturbed.

  When his eyes opened again, the sun was overhead and he could hear birdsong and the rustle of leaves. A breeze cooled his face, and the air smelled of woods and grasses.

  The girl was sitting next to him, looking down, smiling. “Much better, are you?”

  He nodded. “Much.” He tested his arms and legs. There was some achiness, but the pain was minimal. “Can you help me sit up?”

  She reached down for him, put her arms around his body, lifting him as he scooted back into a sitting position. She was strong for all her delicacy. She seemed to know exactly how to lift and position him, as if she understood how his body felt.

  “Who are you?” he asked when she was done.

  “I’ve already told you.”

  “No. What’s your name?”

  “Lariana,” she answered.

  “I’ve never heard of another with that name. It’s beautiful. How long have you been with Arcannen?”

  “Not long. I had to talk him into taking me with him. He was resistant at first. He didn’t believe I could be of service to him. I think he is used to being alone.” She smiled. “Are you like that?”

  He shrugged. “Probably. I never thought much about it.”

  “But your magic sets you apart, doesn’t it? It makes it easier if you keep to yourself. Then you can avoid questions and the need for explanations you don’t want to give.”

  “I suppose it does. Mostly, I’ve spent my time trying to feed myself. I’ve been alone since I was eleven.”

  And just like that, he was telling her the story behind the deaths of his parents and his subsequent flight from his home and efforts to make his own way in the world afterward. She listened without interruption, her expression shifting with each new revelation, her interest complete. He found it easy to talk to her, and he never once thought to ask himself if revealing so much would in any way prove detrimental.

  “You’ve had an interesting life,” she said.

  “Tell me of yours.”

  She shrugged. “There’s not much to tell. Like you, I was alone early. I came to the Southland and lived right here in Sterne for several years while I tried to find a way to make a living. It wasn’t easy. A young girl on her own doesn’t have many choices. But I found a way. Eventually, Arcannen met me and I asked if I could come with him. We agreed on the bargain I already spoke about.”

  “Can you do any magic?”

  She gave him a sly look. “Not so you would notice. I’m pretty good at healing injuries, though.”

  He laughed. “I guess I’m proof of that. How did you learn healing?”

  “Just another skill I picked up along the way. Are you hungry? Would you like something to eat?”

  He decided he would, so she reached down inside the small storage compartment of the Sprint and brought out cheese, bread, and ale for them to eat. They sat together in the midday sun, enjoying their food and continuing their conversation. Reyn told her about Gammon, and how he had been almost like a father to him during his stay in Portlow. She told him, in turn, about a year she had spent with an elderly man in Sterne, looking after his affairs, caring for him as his life leaked away but his good humor and kindness never wavered.

  “I was lucky to find someone like that,” she said. “There were others who treated me much differently. There were times when I didn’t have any choice but to let them.”

  He studied her face, thinking that he would never treat her badly. She spoke of it almost matter-of-factly, with no bitterness or anger, without any hint of self-pity or weakness. It did not seem as if she expected anything else from life than what she had encountered. She appeared to have no illusions about how difficult it could be or how demanding. He understood that. He had seen and experienced enough to have developed a thick skin and a cautious sense of trust.

  But he believed Lariana was more mature and better equipped to face life’s hardships than he had ever thought of being.

  They finished their meal, and she cleared away what was left. Sitting next to him, she sipped at her ale contemplatively, pressed close.

  “When did you first discover you had this magic Arcannen talks about?” she asked him finally.

  He thought about it a moment. “I was almost eight. It was an accident. I became angry with this other boy and yelled at him. My voice changed register; it grew more intense. I could feel it when it happened. Suddenly this boy was picked up and thrown backward. I never touched him. He was so scared he got up and ran away. Nothing came of it. I didn’t tell my parents, and he didn’t tell his. But when it happened again, there were other people around. You know the rest.”

  “You get so angry you can’t control it?” she asked. “But you must have some control.”

  “I do. It’s just not always reliable. I have to make myself stay calm. I can’t allow myself to get angry. I just keep it inside, bottle it up. I can use it on purpose, though. But mostly it’s better if I don’t. Better if I don’t let anyone know I have it.”

  “But you sing for a living. You’re a musician. You have to use it then. You have to let people know about it.”

  “Except they don’t know what it is I’
m doing. Mostly. They just like my singing and playing and don’t pay attention to anything but how good it makes them feel or how sad or whatever other emotion it arouses in them.”

  “But Arcannen knew.”

  The boy nodded. “He’s a sorcerer, right? So he must have sensed what it was.” He paused. “What does he want with me? Why did he bring me with him?”

  She gave him one of her dazzling smiles. “I imagine he will reveal that to you when he returns. But he didn’t tell me.”

  Then she leaned in suddenly and kissed him—a soft, lingering pressure of her mouth on his before pulling back.

  “But you’ll tell me when he does, won’t you?”

  He nodded solemnly. In truth, he would have promised her anything.

  When Arcannen finally returned, arriving in a cart laden with supplies and driven by an old man, he climbed down and walked over to where the boy and the girl sat together in the shade of the canopy at the rear of the aircraft. Lariana rose immediately and went to him, and he directed her down off the vessel to help the old man unload the supplies from the cart.

  Reyn started to rise to help her, but the sorcerer reached out quickly and held him back. “Not yet, Reyn. You need to rest a bit longer, recover a little more of your strength. Lariana can manage the supplies.”

  The boy leaned back again, glancing past him momentarily to where Lariana was disappearing down the ladder. “I’m well enough already.”

  “She’s quite remarkable, isn’t she?” the other asked, arching one eyebrow. “Did you have a nice talk?”

  “She says she is your assistant. Is that so?”

  The sorcerer nodded. “She applied for the job, even though I wasn’t offering it to her. She is quite persuasive. I agreed to take her on because I like her determination and confidence. How did she do with caring for your injuries?”