"Over_9780307446138_oeb_c26_r1" - читать интересную книгу автора (Jeffrey Overstreet - Cynderes Midnight)

Cyndere’SMidnight

 

26

SCULPTING A FUTURE

Don’t look,” said Tabor Jan to himself, forcing a harvest cart up the ledge from one tier of Barnashum’s cliffs to the next, just a stumble away from a dizzying drop. Others had assured him that the fear would pass. But he found no fondness for heights, and this rickety cart that groaned under the weight of winterroots made every step seem more precarious.

“I don’t know what will kill me first,” said Brevolo behind him, “harvesting roots or eating them.”

“Complaints are what’ll kill me,” he shot back. “We’ve come this far today without any. Don’t spoil it.”

“Let’s go hunting, Tabor Jan. I’m so hungry, I’d roast a Cent Regus cow.”

“If the Cent Regus had cattle, the cattle would be hunting us.”

“I could do with something dangerous. I’m a swordswoman. Slashing vegetables loose from their stems just doesn’t scratch the itch.”

“So you want to go pick a fight.”

“I’d rather find them before they come for us,” she snapped. “We’re not ready. The first siege of Barnashum will be the only siege of Barnashum. The hungrier we are, the clumsier we become. We’re spilling out on these cliffs in full view of anyone paying attention.” She struck a fighting pose, spun her spear swiftly in one hand, and pretended to plunge the dull end between Tabor Jan’s chest shield and belt. “How will our king defend us when our enemies come? Will he scare them off with a blast of unspeakable beauty?”

To Tabor Jan’s relief, the ledge broadened and led them to the edge of a dusty hollow, a stone bowl that bulged out from the cliff like a balcony. Down inside, Cal-raven, king of Abascar, sat on the back of a massive stone animal that he was sculpting with his bare hands. Notes from Lesyl’s string-weave rose like fireflies, and five children sang quietly along. Guards on opposite sides of the bowl tossed a tree branch back and forth, teasing Hagah, Cal-raven’s hunting hound. One of them saluted the newcomers.

Brevolo passed Tabor Jan and glowered down at the scene. “That gloomy song again? Why can’t she sing about something hopeful? Who wants to hear all that droning about descendants of Tammos Raak?”

“They do,” said Tabor Jan. “They are descendants of Tammos Raak.” He gestured to the three children who were busily carving intricate details into the statue’s right foreleg. “Cal-raven’s a stonemaster. And who would have believed our only batch of triplets would manifest that same gift.”

“He should be teaching them to defend themselves, not how to play with clay. Maybe they can sculpt us some rocks to throw at beastmen. Seriously, Captain,”—she thrust an accusing finger toward the statue—“are we safer when our king daydreams? Where’s the proof that such a creature even exists?”

Tabor Jan set the cart down, grabbed a winterroot, and sat with his back against the rock wall, relieved to be farther from the edge. “You have better ideas?”

“Here’s one.” Brevolo knelt down beside him, grabbed a fistful of his long, ragged hair, and pressed her lips to his so fiercely that he dropped the root. She did not stop until they were both out of breath. He was wide awake in ways he had forgotten during months of anxiety.

As she let him go, she cocked her head back. “When I get an idea, I’m shy at first…and cautious. But when I’m ready, I turn aggressive.” She unsheathed a dagger. “I don’t like waiting. I like to act. I’m ready to turn these cutters into swords. Abascar should stop hiding.”

Tabor Jan rose and grasped the handles of the harvest cart, more to steady himself than to move on. “That…idea you just shared with me. Was that a genuine proposition?”

“This endless winter’s made me impatient. I’m in the mood for a gamble. And I’ve got a proposition for the king as well.” She pranced down into the bowl and did not look back.

Tabor Jan brushed his beard with the back of his hand. His lip stung where she had bit. “This should be worth seeing.” He followed.

image

Hagah barked at Brevolo and Tabor Jan, pink tongue lolling and eyes smiling through the bunches of flesh in his face.

“Tabor Jan.” Cal-raven was out of breath, shaken from the exertion that his stonemastery required. From his position on the statue’s head, he had reached down to sculpt the subtle contours of a frightening but noble face. “Good. I was about to send for you.”

Behind him, the span of the statue’s sweeping wings spread out, providing shade for Luci, Madi, and Margi, his freckled apprentices. The triplets now stood on stacks of wooden crates, reaching up to illustrate feathery details beneath those magnificent wings. Their faces upturned to scrutinize their work, they resembled three baby birds waiting to be fed.

Nearby, the orphans, Wynn and his sister, Cortie, carved their own version of the creature with hammers and chisels from a section of a dead tree. Since their arrival, Cal-raven had kept the orphans close, comforting them and sifting their memories for details about their travel and about their remarkable rescuer.

The sight of the children cheered Tabor Jan. They kept everyone focused on progress. And Lesyl, leaning over the cords of her beloved string-weave, also pleased him. When she sang, the king seemed less prone to fretting and biting his nails. The captain had arranged an armed caravan to set out during the night for their risky rendezvous with the Seer from Bel Amica. He needed the king to be calm and careful.

Before Brevolo could drop to one knee, Cal-raven slid down from the statue, clapped dust from his hands, and gestured for her to remain standing. “My king,” she said, “we’ve brought you more winterroots for your next glorious feast.”

“More rocks for Yawny’s stone stew, I see. Thank you.” He slapped the statue’s foreleg and laughed. “Don’t say any more, Brevolo. I know you disapprove of my…my recreation.”

“I know you love stories of the Keeper, my lord.” Brevolo, stepping closer to the creature, ran her finger up the veined surface of the neck. The statue’s eye seemed to stare down at her. “And your stonemastery is extraordinary. But—”

“You think I’m wasting time when there’s so much that we need.”

“I’m your servant, my lord. We owe you our lives. You sculpted figures in the Hall of the Lost. To honor the dead, you said. I understand that. When I walk among those statues, I remember what we were, what we lost, and our responsibility to learn from mistakes. But this—something from children’s stories while we’re fighting to survive? Is this helping us move forward?”

The king scratched at his unshaven face. “I’m glad you understand the Hall of the Lost, Brevolo. Some don’t. But you’re right. We must move forward. The future needs a shape.”

“It’s a heavy burden, my lord. I have no doubt.”

“I’m supposed to protect you, to provide. And to dream. Without a vision for Abascar’s future, I can’t lead.” Cal-raven pondered the statue a moment. “My father exiled Scharr ben Fray for encouraging me to dream about the Keeper. My mother told me the Keeper was nonsense. They liked things they could explain and possess and control. Anything mysterious, anything more powerful…worried them.” He tapped his forehead. “This notion of the Keeper, it’s child’s play. Make-believe. But it haunts my dreams. Yours too. Don’t deny it.”

He turned to the apprentices. “Luci, Margi, Madi, what did you dream about last night?”

“The Keeper!” they exclaimed together, their identical gap-toothed grins beaming.

“Wynn, Cortie, what about you?”

Wynn scowled and looked back at his work, but Cortie nodded, enthused.

“And was it a good dream?”

In a celebratory chorus, they agreed.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because…” They stretched the word out like a long spill of honey, then trailed off, uncertain. “Because when it’s there, I’m safe,” said Madi.

“The light in those wings,” said Luci, and she could not complete her sentence, seemingly lost in the memory.

“The stones under its feet sound like music,” Margi mumbled shyly.

“That’s where I want to take us, Brevolo. Not just away from here. But somewhere safe. With beautiful light. A solid foundation. Music. Somewhere high above these troubles, where the wind is not so punishing, where we don’t have to hide, where beastmen never come.” He brushed his hand along sculpted scales. “Is the Keeper real? Does it look like this?” He shrugged. “Wishful thinking, perhaps. I wake from those dreams with an urge to search. I’ve collected a lot of clues in my investigation, although I still haven’t found it. And if it’s not there in the shadows and luring me on to understand more all the time, then I can’t explain what I’ve seen…all these wonders that whisper about what’s broken and what’s best.”

He touched the band of colors about his neck. “Auralia testified that the Keeper sent her to Abascar, and she brought colors we’ve never seen. She knew something we need to know. That boy called Rescue—he swears he found survivors by seeking the Keeper’s tracks. He knew something too. Think what it would mean for House Abascar if we all set our minds on finding what they’ve found, if we believed as they believe.”

Brevolo kicked at the scattered stone fragments. “I agree that we can do better than these caves. And your vision…it sounds lovely. But if I may be so bold—”

“I hope you will be.”

“Abascar’s weakening. We might be wise to seize something good rather than go on reaching for something better, lest we collapse. I’m hungry, my lord.”

“And I’m hungrier,” he sighed. “And restless. But when House Abascar leaves the Blackstone Caves behind, it will be at our tremendous peril. We need a plan worth the risk. Every day we’re closer. We’re preparing tools. We’re studying maps. Tonight we ride to gather a generous gift of supplies that one of Bel Amica’s Seers promised us. And this work, this play—it sharpens my vision for that journey.”

He walked along the statue to the ridge that would soon become the Keeper’s tail. “I must admit, at the end of a difficult day, when I feel as though I’ve failed, there’s something deeply satisfying about doing this.” He took up a long-handled hammer from the dust and brought it smashing down.

Crystal shards scattered everywhere, glinting in the afternoon light. “I’ve struck mirrorstone!” Hagah ran at Cal-raven and barked at the hammer. The children dropped their tools and scrambled to gather the shards. Cal-raven bowed low so that his beaded red braids brushed the ground. “You see? Sometimes there are rewards for such play.”

Brevolo stared at her reflection in a mirrorstone. “Can we eat crystals, my king? Or use them to arm ourselves?” A note of bitterness tainted her voice as she added, “That Bel Amican had better keep his promise.” She turned abruptly, crossed the hollow, and disappeared beyond the rising ledge.

Tabor Jan opened his mouth, but the king silenced him. “I wish more of us cared as passionately about Abascar’s future as Brevolo does. And…by the severed arm of Har-baron, Tabor Jan, I fear your lip is bleeding.” As the captain felt his face begin to burn, Cal-raven laughed, “Is there something you want to tell me?”

Hagah woofed after Brevolo, then at Cal-raven to remind him that the time for his dinner was at hand.

Cal-raven leaned against the statue. “Wynn, take the children back down to the tunnel. It’s time to burrow in.”

Wynn dusted off his sister and beckoned to the three young stonecrafters. As the children moved off, Tabor Jan directed one of the guards to follow. Turning to the king, he asked, “What is it, my lord?”

“I saw a beastman today. At the edge of the wood. Staring in our direction.”

“You can’t see so far, my lord!” Tabor Jan laughed. “Or do you have other gifts besides stonemastery?”

Cal-raven took a wooden cylinder from his pocket. “A farglass. Fashioned by young Krystor. As fine a scope as any my father ever used from his tower. Climb up to the edge. Look fast to the forest. It’s getting dark.”

Up among the stone teeth, Tabor Jan peered through the farglass and scanned the edge of the Cragavar. The land seemed to rush at him. He lowered the glass. “I could swear Scharr ben Fray enchanted this glass. Cal-raven, I…”

The king was gone.

Tabor Jan understood at once. “Brevolo.” The captain climbed back down to where Lesyl sat tuning the string-weave.

“You’d better leave them be,” she muttered. “The king thinks that Brevolo’s angry. He doesn’t understand women very well. She’s baiting him. To speak with him alone.”

“On the whys and hows of women, I bow to your wisdom, Lesyl. But I think you might be wrong this time.” He licked the congealing blood from his lip. “The king of Abascar can’t go running off unguarded. That’s bad behavior he learned from his mother. And I intend to break him of it. Especially with beastmen around.”

image

Perhaps he had been too harsh with her. Perhaps he was just too weary to spend another night plotting ways to mend torn threads. Whatever the case, Cal-raven felt compelled to catch Brevolo.

Everyone hiding in Barnashum had despaired or lashed out at one time or another during this long, punishing winter. If the flaring tempers of Abascar’s survivors had given any real heat, ice would have fallen from the cliffs. Cal-raven learned to ask questions carefully, and he prepared himself to dodge violent replies. Too much had been lost, too many days had been cold and hard for him to expect better. Patience and good humor were in short supply. Like food. Like garments. Like tools and weapons.

He tried to ignore the other feeling that had drawn him after her. Jealousy. Cal-raven had been careful to conceal his own feelings for Lesyl, which were growing stronger by the day as her music sustained him. This was too fragile a time to make himself vulnerable to heartbreak. With a similar concern for Tabor Jan, he wanted to warn Brevolo. Surely she had taken leave of her senses even as she knocked the captain out of his own.

He paused. Ahead the ledge split into two paths, one leading up to the next tier of the cliffs, the other continuing on. Brevolo had already disappeared. She might have run up, taking the hard route in order to discourage pursuit, find solitude, and nurse her pride. Or if she hoped he would follow to continue their argument in private, she probably would have stayed on the level path.

“She is a woman,” he sighed. “Whatever I guess, I will guess wrong.” He made a decision and dashed forward. To his left—two tiers of high cliffs towered above him, grey and dull in the winter glow, with squawking precipice birds picking at their wings and preparing for their night flight back to the forest. To his right—a sheer drop to what people called the Red Teeth, intricate spears of blood-colored rock as tall as cloudgrasper trees, sharp as razors, impassable except for the surefooted rock goats.

He paused before a cave that opened into the cliff. It was quiet, but the dust just outside the cave mouth had been disturbed. “We need more guards,” he muttered, remembering that he had made his way into the survivors’ hideaways through breaks in the wall at the back of this hollow.

Something moved inside the tunnel.

“Brevolo?”

He saw eyes. Jaws. Claws. And then the Cent Regus beastwoman pounced on him.

Cyndere’SMidnight

 

26

SCULPTING A FUTURE

Don’t look,” said Tabor Jan to himself, forcing a harvest cart up the ledge from one tier of Barnashum’s cliffs to the next, just a stumble away from a dizzying drop. Others had assured him that the fear would pass. But he found no fondness for heights, and this rickety cart that groaned under the weight of winterroots made every step seem more precarious.

“I don’t know what will kill me first,” said Brevolo behind him, “harvesting roots or eating them.”

“Complaints are what’ll kill me,” he shot back. “We’ve come this far today without any. Don’t spoil it.”

“Let’s go hunting, Tabor Jan. I’m so hungry, I’d roast a Cent Regus cow.”

“If the Cent Regus had cattle, the cattle would be hunting us.”

“I could do with something dangerous. I’m a swordswoman. Slashing vegetables loose from their stems just doesn’t scratch the itch.”

“So you want to go pick a fight.”

“I’d rather find them before they come for us,” she snapped. “We’re not ready. The first siege of Barnashum will be the only siege of Barnashum. The hungrier we are, the clumsier we become. We’re spilling out on these cliffs in full view of anyone paying attention.” She struck a fighting pose, spun her spear swiftly in one hand, and pretended to plunge the dull end between Tabor Jan’s chest shield and belt. “How will our king defend us when our enemies come? Will he scare them off with a blast of unspeakable beauty?”

To Tabor Jan’s relief, the ledge broadened and led them to the edge of a dusty hollow, a stone bowl that bulged out from the cliff like a balcony. Down inside, Cal-raven, king of Abascar, sat on the back of a massive stone animal that he was sculpting with his bare hands. Notes from Lesyl’s string-weave rose like fireflies, and five children sang quietly along. Guards on opposite sides of the bowl tossed a tree branch back and forth, teasing Hagah, Cal-raven’s hunting hound. One of them saluted the newcomers.

Brevolo passed Tabor Jan and glowered down at the scene. “That gloomy song again? Why can’t she sing about something hopeful? Who wants to hear all that droning about descendants of Tammos Raak?”

“They do,” said Tabor Jan. “They are descendants of Tammos Raak.” He gestured to the three children who were busily carving intricate details into the statue’s right foreleg. “Cal-raven’s a stonemaster. And who would have believed our only batch of triplets would manifest that same gift.”

“He should be teaching them to defend themselves, not how to play with clay. Maybe they can sculpt us some rocks to throw at beastmen. Seriously, Captain,”—she thrust an accusing finger toward the statue—“are we safer when our king daydreams? Where’s the proof that such a creature even exists?”

Tabor Jan set the cart down, grabbed a winterroot, and sat with his back against the rock wall, relieved to be farther from the edge. “You have better ideas?”

“Here’s one.” Brevolo knelt down beside him, grabbed a fistful of his long, ragged hair, and pressed her lips to his so fiercely that he dropped the root. She did not stop until they were both out of breath. He was wide awake in ways he had forgotten during months of anxiety.

As she let him go, she cocked her head back. “When I get an idea, I’m shy at first…and cautious. But when I’m ready, I turn aggressive.” She unsheathed a dagger. “I don’t like waiting. I like to act. I’m ready to turn these cutters into swords. Abascar should stop hiding.”

Tabor Jan rose and grasped the handles of the harvest cart, more to steady himself than to move on. “That…idea you just shared with me. Was that a genuine proposition?”

“This endless winter’s made me impatient. I’m in the mood for a gamble. And I’ve got a proposition for the king as well.” She pranced down into the bowl and did not look back.

Tabor Jan brushed his beard with the back of his hand. His lip stung where she had bit. “This should be worth seeing.” He followed.

image

Hagah barked at Brevolo and Tabor Jan, pink tongue lolling and eyes smiling through the bunches of flesh in his face.

“Tabor Jan.” Cal-raven was out of breath, shaken from the exertion that his stonemastery required. From his position on the statue’s head, he had reached down to sculpt the subtle contours of a frightening but noble face. “Good. I was about to send for you.”

Behind him, the span of the statue’s sweeping wings spread out, providing shade for Luci, Madi, and Margi, his freckled apprentices. The triplets now stood on stacks of wooden crates, reaching up to illustrate feathery details beneath those magnificent wings. Their faces upturned to scrutinize their work, they resembled three baby birds waiting to be fed.

Nearby, the orphans, Wynn and his sister, Cortie, carved their own version of the creature with hammers and chisels from a section of a dead tree. Since their arrival, Cal-raven had kept the orphans close, comforting them and sifting their memories for details about their travel and about their remarkable rescuer.

The sight of the children cheered Tabor Jan. They kept everyone focused on progress. And Lesyl, leaning over the cords of her beloved string-weave, also pleased him. When she sang, the king seemed less prone to fretting and biting his nails. The captain had arranged an armed caravan to set out during the night for their risky rendezvous with the Seer from Bel Amica. He needed the king to be calm and careful.

Before Brevolo could drop to one knee, Cal-raven slid down from the statue, clapped dust from his hands, and gestured for her to remain standing. “My king,” she said, “we’ve brought you more winterroots for your next glorious feast.”

“More rocks for Yawny’s stone stew, I see. Thank you.” He slapped the statue’s foreleg and laughed. “Don’t say any more, Brevolo. I know you disapprove of my…my recreation.”

“I know you love stories of the Keeper, my lord.” Brevolo, stepping closer to the creature, ran her finger up the veined surface of the neck. The statue’s eye seemed to stare down at her. “And your stonemastery is extraordinary. But—”

“You think I’m wasting time when there’s so much that we need.”

“I’m your servant, my lord. We owe you our lives. You sculpted figures in the Hall of the Lost. To honor the dead, you said. I understand that. When I walk among those statues, I remember what we were, what we lost, and our responsibility to learn from mistakes. But this—something from children’s stories while we’re fighting to survive? Is this helping us move forward?”

The king scratched at his unshaven face. “I’m glad you understand the Hall of the Lost, Brevolo. Some don’t. But you’re right. We must move forward. The future needs a shape.”

“It’s a heavy burden, my lord. I have no doubt.”

“I’m supposed to protect you, to provide. And to dream. Without a vision for Abascar’s future, I can’t lead.” Cal-raven pondered the statue a moment. “My father exiled Scharr ben Fray for encouraging me to dream about the Keeper. My mother told me the Keeper was nonsense. They liked things they could explain and possess and control. Anything mysterious, anything more powerful…worried them.” He tapped his forehead. “This notion of the Keeper, it’s child’s play. Make-believe. But it haunts my dreams. Yours too. Don’t deny it.”

He turned to the apprentices. “Luci, Margi, Madi, what did you dream about last night?”

“The Keeper!” they exclaimed together, their identical gap-toothed grins beaming.

“Wynn, Cortie, what about you?”

Wynn scowled and looked back at his work, but Cortie nodded, enthused.

“And was it a good dream?”

In a celebratory chorus, they agreed.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because…” They stretched the word out like a long spill of honey, then trailed off, uncertain. “Because when it’s there, I’m safe,” said Madi.

“The light in those wings,” said Luci, and she could not complete her sentence, seemingly lost in the memory.

“The stones under its feet sound like music,” Margi mumbled shyly.

“That’s where I want to take us, Brevolo. Not just away from here. But somewhere safe. With beautiful light. A solid foundation. Music. Somewhere high above these troubles, where the wind is not so punishing, where we don’t have to hide, where beastmen never come.” He brushed his hand along sculpted scales. “Is the Keeper real? Does it look like this?” He shrugged. “Wishful thinking, perhaps. I wake from those dreams with an urge to search. I’ve collected a lot of clues in my investigation, although I still haven’t found it. And if it’s not there in the shadows and luring me on to understand more all the time, then I can’t explain what I’ve seen…all these wonders that whisper about what’s broken and what’s best.”

He touched the band of colors about his neck. “Auralia testified that the Keeper sent her to Abascar, and she brought colors we’ve never seen. She knew something we need to know. That boy called Rescue—he swears he found survivors by seeking the Keeper’s tracks. He knew something too. Think what it would mean for House Abascar if we all set our minds on finding what they’ve found, if we believed as they believe.”

Brevolo kicked at the scattered stone fragments. “I agree that we can do better than these caves. And your vision…it sounds lovely. But if I may be so bold—”

“I hope you will be.”

“Abascar’s weakening. We might be wise to seize something good rather than go on reaching for something better, lest we collapse. I’m hungry, my lord.”

“And I’m hungrier,” he sighed. “And restless. But when House Abascar leaves the Blackstone Caves behind, it will be at our tremendous peril. We need a plan worth the risk. Every day we’re closer. We’re preparing tools. We’re studying maps. Tonight we ride to gather a generous gift of supplies that one of Bel Amica’s Seers promised us. And this work, this play—it sharpens my vision for that journey.”

He walked along the statue to the ridge that would soon become the Keeper’s tail. “I must admit, at the end of a difficult day, when I feel as though I’ve failed, there’s something deeply satisfying about doing this.” He took up a long-handled hammer from the dust and brought it smashing down.

Crystal shards scattered everywhere, glinting in the afternoon light. “I’ve struck mirrorstone!” Hagah ran at Cal-raven and barked at the hammer. The children dropped their tools and scrambled to gather the shards. Cal-raven bowed low so that his beaded red braids brushed the ground. “You see? Sometimes there are rewards for such play.”

Brevolo stared at her reflection in a mirrorstone. “Can we eat crystals, my king? Or use them to arm ourselves?” A note of bitterness tainted her voice as she added, “That Bel Amican had better keep his promise.” She turned abruptly, crossed the hollow, and disappeared beyond the rising ledge.

Tabor Jan opened his mouth, but the king silenced him. “I wish more of us cared as passionately about Abascar’s future as Brevolo does. And…by the severed arm of Har-baron, Tabor Jan, I fear your lip is bleeding.” As the captain felt his face begin to burn, Cal-raven laughed, “Is there something you want to tell me?”

Hagah woofed after Brevolo, then at Cal-raven to remind him that the time for his dinner was at hand.

Cal-raven leaned against the statue. “Wynn, take the children back down to the tunnel. It’s time to burrow in.”

Wynn dusted off his sister and beckoned to the three young stonecrafters. As the children moved off, Tabor Jan directed one of the guards to follow. Turning to the king, he asked, “What is it, my lord?”

“I saw a beastman today. At the edge of the wood. Staring in our direction.”

“You can’t see so far, my lord!” Tabor Jan laughed. “Or do you have other gifts besides stonemastery?”

Cal-raven took a wooden cylinder from his pocket. “A farglass. Fashioned by young Krystor. As fine a scope as any my father ever used from his tower. Climb up to the edge. Look fast to the forest. It’s getting dark.”

Up among the stone teeth, Tabor Jan peered through the farglass and scanned the edge of the Cragavar. The land seemed to rush at him. He lowered the glass. “I could swear Scharr ben Fray enchanted this glass. Cal-raven, I…”

The king was gone.

Tabor Jan understood at once. “Brevolo.” The captain climbed back down to where Lesyl sat tuning the string-weave.

“You’d better leave them be,” she muttered. “The king thinks that Brevolo’s angry. He doesn’t understand women very well. She’s baiting him. To speak with him alone.”

“On the whys and hows of women, I bow to your wisdom, Lesyl. But I think you might be wrong this time.” He licked the congealing blood from his lip. “The king of Abascar can’t go running off unguarded. That’s bad behavior he learned from his mother. And I intend to break him of it. Especially with beastmen around.”

image

Perhaps he had been too harsh with her. Perhaps he was just too weary to spend another night plotting ways to mend torn threads. Whatever the case, Cal-raven felt compelled to catch Brevolo.

Everyone hiding in Barnashum had despaired or lashed out at one time or another during this long, punishing winter. If the flaring tempers of Abascar’s survivors had given any real heat, ice would have fallen from the cliffs. Cal-raven learned to ask questions carefully, and he prepared himself to dodge violent replies. Too much had been lost, too many days had been cold and hard for him to expect better. Patience and good humor were in short supply. Like food. Like garments. Like tools and weapons.

He tried to ignore the other feeling that had drawn him after her. Jealousy. Cal-raven had been careful to conceal his own feelings for Lesyl, which were growing stronger by the day as her music sustained him. This was too fragile a time to make himself vulnerable to heartbreak. With a similar concern for Tabor Jan, he wanted to warn Brevolo. Surely she had taken leave of her senses even as she knocked the captain out of his own.

He paused. Ahead the ledge split into two paths, one leading up to the next tier of the cliffs, the other continuing on. Brevolo had already disappeared. She might have run up, taking the hard route in order to discourage pursuit, find solitude, and nurse her pride. Or if she hoped he would follow to continue their argument in private, she probably would have stayed on the level path.

“She is a woman,” he sighed. “Whatever I guess, I will guess wrong.” He made a decision and dashed forward. To his left—two tiers of high cliffs towered above him, grey and dull in the winter glow, with squawking precipice birds picking at their wings and preparing for their night flight back to the forest. To his right—a sheer drop to what people called the Red Teeth, intricate spears of blood-colored rock as tall as cloudgrasper trees, sharp as razors, impassable except for the surefooted rock goats.

He paused before a cave that opened into the cliff. It was quiet, but the dust just outside the cave mouth had been disturbed. “We need more guards,” he muttered, remembering that he had made his way into the survivors’ hideaways through breaks in the wall at the back of this hollow.

Something moved inside the tunnel.

“Brevolo?”

He saw eyes. Jaws. Claws. And then the Cent Regus beastwoman pounced on him.