What, you’ve disowned me now? I did what I had to do, son. Time to get past it and move on.
Caleb opened his eyes. Ragged hulks of broken stone loomed about him. The sun had cleared the horizon, and through the torn remnants of the Old Wall, dust-brightened shafts of amber light brought the vast extent of the destruction into terrible contrast. Hodyn soldiers were dispatching the last of the Raéni lying amongst the stray crags; beyond, creeping like a dark tide against the brightening snow, hundreds more made their way up the valley toward the doomed city.
He lifted his right hand, and winced. The bandage was gone, the arrow torn from his arm. Blood streaked his skin all the way to his fingers. Yet below the waist he felt nothing—as if half his body no longer existed.
Terror engulfed him. He forced his growing stare down, down—to where a twisted mass of bloodied flesh and protruding bone lay across the shattered limestone.
A boy called out his name—not Dad or Father
,
but
Caleb Stenger.
He turned his head, grimacing with the effort. Warren stood tall against the sky, his tawny hair like gold in the sun. Only in his shadow did any hint of Heradnora’s evil glow reveal itself.
Caleb could not even weep. The achingly familiar sight of his son, mentally raped, a gloat of victory on his young face, ripped through his soul beyond any power of his body to express.
“You remain alive for one simple reason,” said the voice.
Caleb tried to shout his words, yet all he managed was a wheezing effort. “What do you want?”
“You know damn well what I want. Your pretty little girlfriend was smart enough to give up her half of the Lor’yentré to save herself. I squeezed the rest of her secret out of that traitor, Laivan. I know she sent the other half here. Where is it? Who has it?”
Caleb lolled his head in refusal.
“I’m not going to waste my time on you,” said the Bringer, and turned. “Begora! Bring her here.”
The nearest soldier stepped into view, his hands gripping the bound arms of a woman. She was tightly gagged, and her clothes hung in tatters; her face was covered with swollen bruises and streaks of dried blood, and her hair was so matted and grimed that she looked more like a wild thing than the proud daughter of the Overseer.
She stumbled to a jarring halt above Caleb as Warren leveled his arm to point. “Tell me where the other half is, and I’ll let her live.”
Hope drained from Caleb’s heart.
Is this my fate—to watch every person I love die unless I turn traitor?
Telai shrieked through the gag, hunching forward with her knees bent double. Begora grunted with the effort to keep her upright.
Her muffled screams tore into Caleb, a pain greater than his wounds. The boy he once called son crouched beside him; a young, familiar hand gripped his jaw. The same clear blue eyes that had once welcomed Caleb home stared into his with an insatiable lust for power.
“That’s just a taste. There’s lots more where that came from. Make your decision! Tell me who owns the Lor’yentré, who it was intended for, and I’ll let her go.” He shook his head slowly. “You don’t even want to
know
what I can do to her.”
Caleb’s sight dimmed. His flesh grew cold. There was little time left. Telai’s screams faded, but she still crouched, alternately gasping and holding her breath against the pain.
His voice came out in a guttural rasp. “Stop what you’re doing first.”
The Bringer released him, then glanced at Telai. With one last cry she started breathing easier, and gradually straightened to a stand.
Using his left arm, the only limb he could use, Caleb groped toward his chest and searched clumsily inside his coat.
The child’s jaw dropped. “You? You have it? Your parents died ages ago!” He laughed. “I don’t believe it. Twice now you had the chance to get rid of me and threw it away.”
Caleb turned his fading eyes to the only undefiled love he had left. Tears were coursing a path through the grime and blood on Telai’s face, but he paid them no heed. Her candid, light brown gaze drew him in like so many times before, speaking words only his heart could hear.
Caleb … please trust me.
Without hesitation, he handed the leather bundle into Heradnora’s waiting grasp.
The boy unwrapped it, his grin an abomination of triumph. He reached inside his own coat, and brought out the other half.
The body twitched, as if a jolt of electricity had passed through it—and the spirit of Hendra stared aghast at the new Lor’yentré gripped by hands that were not her own.
♦
In the deepest part of his mind, a young boy called himself Arthur. And Ulysses. Even Joan of Arc.
Anyone but
Warren Stenger
.
Imagination was his only friend, his only refuge. It shielded him from the harsh, hopeless reality only a thought away. It kept him from begging his pitiless captor to end it all. Outside that shield, there was nothing—no welcoming arms, no glimpse of a smile, no trace of light or life or love. Curled up inside the ancient tales of Earth, he was safe. Lost inside heroic stories told in a beloved voice, nothing could hurt him. He was home again, wrapped in the cocoon of his mother’s arms, where a world turned cold and cruel could not reach.
Until now.
His father was dying at his feet—a reality so harsh that not even a mother’s love could protect him.
The last spark of Warren’s independence trembled with the need to cry out—to tell his father that he no longer resented him for bringing him here. How he wished he could tell him that he understood all too well the gift he gave to his mother in that hospital room! And he knew the pure hatred in those fading eyes for what it was: a final testament of love from a hero—one no less brave than the ancient heroes of Earth.
An unexpected burst of anger grew in Warren’s heart—a mote, a tiny flame in an endless void.
Be still!
The return of Heradnora’s loathsome voice ended his wandering thoughts. It seemed years since she had last spoken to him. After those first few days of taunting she had grown weary of it, pressed with more urgent matters.
Witch! Let Warren go!
A shiver ran through his body.
Who is she talking to? Am I going mad? This has to be a dream, that’s it. A nightmare within a nightmare!
Warren! It’s not a dream!
Terror seized him.
Is this what it was like in the hospital? All these voices? Did she go mad like this before she died?
The spark grew into a soundless wail, a release of fury long kept in check, flaring wide in the darkness.
Stop it, stop it!
Warren cried.
That’s right, boy! Don’t pay attention to her. I’ll share power. It was foolish of me to take control of you like that!
The shout of anger spread, overtaking him, burning down the walls of his prison.
What’s happening? Who is that?
No one!
Hendra cried.
Is it … is it her? How can that be? Dad! Help me!
The cruelty in Hendra’s voice transformed to desperation, a young girl pleading for her life.
You don’t need their help. I’ll be your friend! Please—let me stay. I can’t bear to go back!
The flames spread, overwhelming his thoughts. The voice weakened to a murmur.
No … you don’t know what it was like …
A whisper.
… so lonely …
Silence.
The flame exploded, shattering the darkness, an eruption of triumph nearly unbearable in its intensity. Power filled Warren’s mind, a strength of will over his flesh like he had never known. And with it came the knowledge that he had escaped his prison but not its chains. Like Grondolos in ages past, his fate rested solely—and literally—in his own hands.
One Lor’yentré snapped in two and fell to the ground. Another became whole.
And the scream of a young boy split the morning air.
17
Treasures
A strong house to keep a child safe—
for this any old tree would gladly fall to the axe.
- Etrenga’s final words
AT FIRST TELAI
recoiled, certain that Heradnora had completely abandoned herself to fury, ready to slay and consume everything left of Ada and their way of life. Yet the child kept screaming for his father, and at last she understood.
Begora, who had stood transfixed by the boy’s transformation, stepped forward with his knife and cut the ropes from Telai’s arms, and removed the gag from her mouth. Even he had seen enough slaughter and inhumanity for one day.
Telai fell to her knees beside Warren, there in the middle of a vast field of crushed Raéni soldiers and wrecked stone. She comforted him as best she could. His tortured face looked as though it would never be sweet and beguiling again, as if Heradnora would forever darken his days and thoughts by the mere force of her memory. But the hurt she felt for him was nothing compared to the sight of the broken body lying before her.
Hope began with a touch on her arm. Warren, still shaking from his ordeal, nodded at the dark talisman clutched in his hand—now whole, his own, while Heradnora’s lay broken on the snow. After exchanging glances, a wealth of words beyond the power of voice, the boy turned to his father.
There was no effort to it. The healing power of the Lor’yentré mocked the skill of an ordinary surgeon. Caleb Stenger returned from the brink of death, shrieking as his shattered bones fused and his body surged back to strength.
It was as if all the vestiges of his past, all the false hopes and the obsessions and the fears, were being purged from his flesh in one brutal yet utterly liberating moment.
It was over. He lay recovering, his breath a heavy rasp, sweat pouring from his body. Telai fell at his side, her heart nearly bursting with joy. Then the pain and terror of the last few days overwhelmed her, and the dream-like vision of the two people she loved most, framed against the ruin of Krengliné beneath the blaze of dawn, became the last memory of that day.
♦
A blood-reddened glow seeped through her eyelids. It was not the light of morning. It felt strange, as if it held no kinship with the sun that had shone over the wreckage of the Old Wall. How long had she slept? Or was she still dreaming?
Telai opened her eyes in a squint, then shut them at once. She lay near a window, and a noon sun refracted through the beveled panes directly onto her head. She shifted away, her limbs stiff, vaguely annoyed at whoever had placed her in such an awkward position.
A soft, hesitant voice spoke her name. She turned, and a valiant smile crossed her lips. “Hello there,” she croaked.
“Telai!” the voice said again in a shout, and Garda sprang from her chair by the table.
Minutes passed as Telai lay basking in her embrace. But even a mother’s comfort could not shield her from the horror. Gruesome memories rushed in, and the walls seemed on the brink of caving in. She held her mother tight, desperate to keep the nightmares away.
At last Garda straightened, and sat on a stool by the bed. “You’ve been sleeping for more than two days. You must be starving.”
Telai noticed how pale and drawn her mother looked, and the sorrow lurking behind her eyes. “When was the last time
you
slept?” she asked, but her dry throat brought a spasm to her face.
Garda helped her sit up against the headboard, then filled a cup with water from a nearby pitcher. “I haven’t slept much at all, to be honest,” she answered as she handed the cup to Telai. “But that’s not your doing. I’ve had other concerns to attend to, as you might imagine. Besides, Caleb Stenger’s been sharing the duty of keeping watch over you.”
Telai nearly choked on a mouthful of water. She couldn’t believe she had forgotten about him. “Caleb!” she spluttered. “Is he all right? Is he—”
“Peace, daughter,” she said, halting the inevitable barrage. “He’s fine—physically, at least. You’ll see him in a few hours. You need to eat something first.”
“Physically? What do you mean?”
“Our loss is heavy, Telai. It weighs just as much on him as it does any of us.”
“And Warren?”
Garda hesitated. “I’ll let his father handle that question. For my part, I hold no resentment toward the boy.”
“I should hope not. None of this was his doing.”
“That’s not what I mean. When they opened the doors at Gortgal, and I saw Caleb Stenger carrying you—by great Orand, Telai, I thought you were dead. You were covered in cuts and bruises, and blood was running down your arm. I hardly recognized you.”
Telai raised her right arm. There was no trace of injury. She brought her hand to her face: her skin felt as smooth and healthy as ever. Then she reached back to touch her ruined hair and groaned. It was cut so short it was barely long enough for a ponytail.
“He healed you,” Garda said. “Right there at the entrance. Many others, too, including a few Hodyn. I think it was important to him that I was there to see it.”
“I don’t remember any of that.”
“He thought it best to let you sleep. Caleb Stenger and I agreed. There’s more to healing than mending flesh, and you’re going to need your strength for … for what I’m about to tell you,” she finished, gripping her daughter’s arm.
A lump passed Telai’s throat as she stared absently at the cup in her hands. “Tell me,” she whispered.
♦
Caleb negotiated the city without pause, but slowly, like a lost and weary wanderer. His afternoon shadow meandered over cobblestones that were no longer familiar to him, no longer echoed to the sound of friendly voices. Enemy soldiers patrolled the streets now, grim men full of hate walking back and forth past the darkened windows of abandoned homes. He felt as much a stranger now as when Soren first led him through the gates of Krengliné a lifetime ago.
Two Hodyn guards escorted Caleb from Gortgal to his old room in the inn near the lake. Ferguen, leader of the Hodyn, who arrived in the city only yesterday, had approved the Overseer’s request for the wounded and sick to be housed there. Yet the bulk of Ekendoré’s citizens, as well as the Underseers, were forced to remain in the caverns. Caleb had done what he could for these people—
his
people.
But nothing would soon cure the tragedy in their eyes. The Hodyn had captured their beloved Ekendoré.