Chapter 42
Crouching low, she sped along the side of the barn, hoping this was not a bad time to try out the veiling enchantment of the cloak. As she rounded the corner, her heart lurched. She could see straight through to the town center from this vantage point. But it didn’t matter, the damage was done and there was none here to hide from. Not even a stray dog roamed the abandoned street.
Smoke curled in lazy tendrils through the air, although here, the flames were nothing more than embers. She looked to the north. Kestrel couldn’t see the falls from here, but she could hear the rumble of the water in the background.
She backed around the corner and headed across the through street on the other side of a charred mercantile. Passing the last burnt-out window-hole, she paused, listening, head tipped forward and to the side. Then she took another step and stopped again. Someone followed, she was sure of it.
Kestrel stepped through what was left of the window and moved to the shadows hugging the interior wall. She glanced around, praying there were no dead bodies inside. Charred scraps of fabric hung from a half-burnt counter. She frowned, and a deep feeling of sadness washed through her when she realized that the Feast of Remembrance and Midtinandra’s Eve must be within a double handful of days.
She sighed, thinking of all the changes to her world since the Kalayani festival. Never again would she think of the season that was supposed to bring hope and renewal as benevolent. Plucked from her contemplation by the wavering shadow of a person stretching across the entrance, she crouched, making herself as small as possible; her arrow at the ready.
The boy that popped his head through the doorway could not have been over twelve, but he looked as if he carried the weight of the world on his soot-smudged face. Kestrel unnocked her arrow, her movement drawing his attention. His eyes got wide when he spied her and he shook his head as he slipped through the entrance.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, his hand reaching out to touch her as if he were seeing a ghost. “I saw you… you rode that black monster.”
Kestrel shushed him as his voice rose in pitch. “Not so loud,” she whispered, her hands patting the air, her voice harsher than she intended. “Are the men that did this still here?” She asked, softening her tone.
He offered her a hand up and she took it, flashing him a grateful smile. Heading back toward the entrance, his words trailed over his shoulder, Kestrel trotted after him, trying to hear what he said. “They left last night. Where is that thing you rode?” he asked, glancing back at her as he slipped across the doorway and out into the street.
“It’s not a thing or a monster, she is a yanzul,” she said, feeling defensive of her friend.
“Well, I don’t know it from one of those things that come outa the Sorrow ever once in a while. And neither do anyone else around heres. It better stay low or it might get an arrow sticking out o’ its gullet.” He turned around, facing her, his hands on his hips. “Why, you look like one of those Espiare that the soldiers were lookin for.” He leaned in as if telling her a secret. “They even took ol’ Selwyn Nedderhold. Said he was a no-good half-breed, they did.”
“Where are your people?”
“Dead, just dead and dead,” the boy said, shaking his head, his eyes downcast.
Kestrel took a step back. She sensed something strange about the boy. But there was so much spent and tainted essence in the area, it was hard for her to get a glimpse of any single one.
“Where’s that animal thing you rode in on, that yanzool?” He asked again, taking a step toward her.
“Don’t worry, he will stay gone until I call him. Can you take me to those that survived the attacks?” Kestrel hoped the boy was just in shock and could lead her to others that knew more about what happened here.
But when he nodded and motioned for her to follow, she found herself reluctantly being drawn down the street. One step to his every two. She paced behind him until more than a double handful of steps lay between them.
Time seemed to stand still. She could feel the essence of the town. The ground it was built on called out for her to stop, to turn and flee. And ahead of her, Kestrel saw streams of light spread out like rays of the sun on the horizon. Each ray, a separate path into the future.
At once, she thought of the Dragon Paths and the time Jayf took her on them. She remembered him telling her how dangerous they could be and she wondered if what she looked at now had dangers just the same. She shivered and in a blink, everything returned to normal, except for her feeling about the boy. Kestrel decided in that flash to obey her instincts and wheeled around to run back the way she came.
From behind her, the boy called out. “Wait… I have something important I need to show you.”
The change in his voice made her turn back to him. He still stood where he had, facing away from her. But he bent himself in half backward, his backbone cracking with a loud snap. Two new legs unfolded along his thighs and knees on each side.
Kestrel took a step back and although she did not want to look, she felt somehow drawn to see the transformation through to its completion. He… it no longer looked like a boy or anything remotely like a human or espiare. It oozed a black shiny substance that clung to every part of its body. Its head dangled in front of it, spinning on a thick rope of blackening skin and somehow it still lived.
Each time its face came into view, the neck shortened a little. A bright blue eye winked at her and the smile turned into a leer with a disproportionately long tongue flicking at her like a snake’s. She trembled, feeling glued in place, almost like what happened the last time she met up with academy weavers. But she knew this time it was her own fear.
The black ooze hardened on its body into a shiny shell and it skittered toward her on eight odd-shaped legs. She gulped in air, trying to calm her racing heart and focus. It was too close for the bow to be effective. She reached for her new knives. Now, did she wait until it was close enough to stab? Or did she throw one of the thorn-shaped blades and hope it hit a vulnerable spot?
It took away her choice when it sprang into the air, coming down in front of her. Newly formed mandibles clacked toward her face. She slashed forward, but the bony shell now covering all but its head turned her blade away. Kestrel brought her other arm up, stabbing down with the dagger. Her aim was true, but it twisted its head again, dodging the blade. As her knife slid across its chitinous shoulder, she heard the distinct twang of an arrow being released.
Before either of them could do more than swivel their heads toward the sound, an arrow passed through the black shell, piercing the monstrosity through and through. It reared back on its four hind legs and another arrow sprang from its eye and it fell over.
Kestrel drew a long ragged breath and sheathed her knives. She figured she’d been caught off guard enough for one day, and as she scanned the burnt and ruined buildings for her savior, she let her bow slide from her shoulder. For although she knew the fletchings on the arrows protruding from the creature, some part of her rebelled at the idea of trusting what her eyes saw.
She nodded to the scout when he slipped out from between two charred buildings and waited for him to show some sort of telltale that he truly was who he looked to be. She didn’t have long to wait as he gave her the scout’s whistle of greeting, seeming to sense her disquiet. Kestrel relaxed her grip on her bow. And he motioned for her to follow.
“Let’s get out of here Thorn.”
Kestrel nodded and followed her friend. Still numb from her close brush with that foul creature, she was glad Belac kept quiet. They stayed in the shadows as much as they could, heading south through the city. The shock of what happened clung to her like a spiderweb, but she fought her way through, her curiosity pushing the wisps of lingering fear aside.
She quickened her step until close enough to quietly ask. “Where’s your horse and the other scout, Gariane?” Suddenly filled with doubt and needing desperately for him to give her some proof that he was in truth Belac, she paused.
But before he could speak, more questions tumbled out of her mouth. “How did you find me, or even know I was in the town?”
As her words trailed off, Belac spun on his heel. His hand on hips, he stared into her with eyes the color of slate turned to steel.
“What in the name of the Creator, the Seven, all the Elements and the last star this side of Raisha gave you the idea that it was good scouting skill to go into this place alone and none knowing where you were or what you did, not even your companion. My horse, Gariane and a double handful of survivors are gathered on the east side of town… at the agreed meeting place.”
With a sharp look, he turned back to the road and picked up the pace. She followed him quietly, determined not to add fuel to the fire of his anger. She wanted to explain to him what she intended to do. But his stride outpaced her quickly, and she realized he had no interest in her excuses.
Kestrel tried to recall what she had learned about this area as she followed Belac. She remembered how there had been none of the Al’far from Lowrendal at the For Corners Kalayani festival and wondered if they abandoned this boundary town also or if there were Al’far present when the attack happened.
Terijar was the other country she recalled bordering the Theracan Plains. Sirrsi mind-spoke about Terijar before they found the caravan. The bits and pieces of the conversation that stuck were that a wicked weaving of Tavir and the Ancient’s power destroyed the Al’far city of Elgeenot during the time of Desolation and that the high councilman Urilith’s family were among those to parish. She also remembered her great-mother saying something about one of the ancient’s temple ruins laying somewhere close to the forsaken city. Kestrel sighed to herself. No wonder it was called the Heart of Sorrow.
They soon left behind the fire-ravaged buildings of the town. Here the land found its way down to the river in thick, probing fingers. In a ravine, formed between two of those land fingers, the survivors from town went about the business of caring for their wounded. Gariane, the other clan scout, looked up as they approached, his eyes lit with relief when he saw Kestrel.
His admonishment tucked inside a good-natured viewpoint, he said, “You gave us a bit of a worry, not finding you at our meeting spot. Now, come listen to what this good citizen can tell us of what happened and break your fast.”
Kestrel glanced over at Belac. “Go,” he said. “I have a horse to look after, I’ll be over after that.” He turned on his heel and strode off without a glance back.
“Don’t worry, he’ll get over it. Just keep your word,” Gariane said as Kestrel joined him by a small campfire.
She figured their fire was not a worry, with all the smoke hanging in pockets across the valley. Gariane handed her a small bowl of porridge with an oatcake, and an egg; grateful for their generosity, Kestrel sat cross-legged next to the elderly woman speaking in a low voice.
“They came into town in spurts and drizzles over a couple days. Afore we knew it, all four of the inns were filled up with Tavir Academy men, sept for the one taken over by the espiare high councilman. Then three days ago we woke to find the widow Bromley’s field be host to a score of men calling themselves Soldiers of Sangryl’s Light.” The old woman stopped for a drink from her water flask and offered it to Kestrel.
As Kestrel drank, a villager moved to stand next to the old woman with his hand placed protectively on her shoulder. He settled a hot cup of something in the old woman’s hands. She looked up at him with gratitude when he picked up the story while she sipped from a steaming cup.
Kestrel saw confusion and anger in his eyes as he glanced between Gariane and herself. “We’d heard there was trouble down in Four Corners, at the Kalayani Festival. And were warned by long riders to be on the ready for trouble. But then word came: they were just takin’ recruits for the Academy, enlisting those with a knack for shapin’ the Tavir or wantin’ to join their guard. That’s not what happened here.” He glanced around at the other survivors as if to verify that he had the right of things. As he scanned the villagers, he paused, nodding slightly, as if in greeting.
Kestrel glanced over her shoulder to see Belac stood off to the side, a frown stamped across his face as he listened to the account. She realized he too heard this for the first time because he spent his time here looking for her. What stupid jeopardy she put them all in by not following through on her word. She turned back to the old woman and her son, hoping Belac would give her a chance to prove she could learn.
Once again, the man took up the tale. “They call this town Treaty for a reason. We haven’t had trouble with any of the neighbors, espiare or humans, in more years than our elders have lived. Now, these soldiers come in claiming they are saving us from the oppression of the Elemental Guardians and the taint of the Ancients.”
“It was then that they started harassing the espiare councilman. And by the seven, Urilith held his temper better than most would have.”
There were nods and murmurs of agreement from around the small camp as others moved to join them. Kestrel almost choked on the last of her oatcake, her attention finding a target to focus on. Urilith. Her thoughts flew to the last conversation she and Sirrsi had about Urilith Ta’Sarith, the mentor she traveled to meet. And she wondered what drew him to this place when she was to meet him in Legacy.
She swallowed hard, trying to keep the alarm out of her voice, and asked. “What happened? Is the high councilman here?”
“They took him. Him and anyone with enough ancient’s blood in them to make their hound bark.”
A shiver ran through Kestrel, and she stood to see who spoke. Water dripped from a woman at the edge of the gathered survivors. She stood a hand taller than any of them and something about the stance of her lithe frame and the hard glint in her eyes said she knew what she talked about. Her hair, the color of sand on a moonlit night, streamed water down skin that same color of sand on a sunlit afternoon. The people parted before her, and Kestrel didn’t think most of them did so out of respect, although a few bowed slightly as she moved through the crowd with fluid grace.