Crucible (12 page)

“So this is your home, then.”

He smiled and shrugged. “Not anymore. Now I'd say my home is the road, wherever you are.”

It was Sparrow's turn to blush. “Me? What about Abilard?”

“Abilard and I are together always. But you and I . . . we're two of a kind, Sparrow. We walk the same road.”

His words sounded dangerously like a declaration of a lifebond. Sparrow wanted to hear him say it, and at the
same time she was terrified that he would. Both pathways filled her with confusion. “Don't, Brock. I . . . can't. Or maybe I can . . . I just don't know, not just yet.”

Brock smiled to himself. “I walk with you, either way. Come with me . . . into the clouds.”

Sparrow was familiar with the process, and she hoped the answers to the trouble with the village could be found on the elemental plane where Brock soared. They didn't have time to fully ground their energy or to lie down, so instead she interlaced her fingers with his and leaned forward until their foreheads touched. The silk of his hair brushed against her cheek, and she breathed in his soft musk and relaxed against him.

They breathed together, and though her mind still raced, her body began to relax. She waited for him to leap into the clouds, to where she could not follow.

But this time, when she visualized them on the plane of clouds, he walked up to her, his eyes wide open on this level of existence. He came right up to her and kissed her, gently, on the lips.

“Abilard Chose me,” Brock said. “But you are the one to choose now. You are my beloved, and here, where I can speak freely, I will say it. Hold on, and I will take you up into the clouds now, higher than you have ever flown before. I will keep you safe.”

It took only a moment for Sparrow to decide, despite her fear that both of them would get lost if she too disappeared into the cloud-level of consciousness with him. In the end, she chose to fly because of her father, who needed her to find him. And because here, Sparrow was the limited one and Brock the adept, and she wanted to follow him here, on the higher level where Brock soared on his Gift.

They leaped into the air, flying up and up into the fluffy gray and white clouds. They flew for what seemed an impossible distance, and then . . .

They broke through to the higher level. To brilliant
blue skies above the murkiness and mist of the carpet of fluff below them.

The higher they flew, the less consequential Sparrow felt. She held on to Brock's hand for dear life, staring at the rainbows refracting off the clouds below, bent in fantastical patterns in the sky.

The crows joined them at this impossible height. But up here, Sparrow no longer feared them. Like them, she was winged. The crows surrounded them, a funnel of inky blackness, a whirl of wings and feathers and bright eyes.

“Liros!” Brock called across the great expanse. “Cloud-Singer!”

He did not appear, but his voice called back to them.
“Speak to the crows . . . I listen.”

Sparrow took a deep astral breath. “I bid you well, crows. Please, tell us your tale.”

A great cawing rose among them, and their rough voices soon drew together into a harshly beautiful song:

She chooses, she chooses,

Change comes to the maiden.

Do not be defiled by illusions,

Do not let love be laid down.

For the magic is in the change,

Magic is in the choice.

Spread your wings, little Sparrow,

Speak in your true voice.

The home you seek still lives

In manner changed, but constant still.

Emptiness shall not prevail.

On wings of change, choose heart's will.

They sang their song again and again, until they were sure she understood. Then, their message delivered, the crows unspooled from their coil and flew away in a ragged, shifting formation across the golden horizon.

“Did you understand?” Sparrow asked Brock. Tears streamed down her face, and her heart was bursting with gratitude for the crows' song.

“No . . . the song was beautiful, but it was all a mystery and a riddle to me.”

“The village is under a Change-Spell. That . . . thing . . . in your Clan's
ekele
is a Change-Adept, a man from the north who willingly threw himself into a Change Circle, gave up his humanity for power. He became Emptiness and sucked the life out of the village to cause strife, to feed his power.”

“You are a sage, Sparrow . . .”

She turned to face him, still holding on for dear life. Exhilarating as their flight above the clouds was, she knew that only with Brock's Gift could she fly so high. Only with Sparrow's Gift could Brock return to earth.

Sparrow was not Chosen. But she would do the hard, right thing—fight the Change-Adept who had stolen her father, embrace Brock's love despite her fears. The crows spoke of change, not death.

Brock was right . . . they walked the same path. She chose him as heartmate. And though a Herald's Companion did not Choose her, in her service to Brock, Sparrow herself had chosen the Herald's way.

As they returned to the ground, Sparrow now leading the way to where their bodies waited, she knew Liros had heard the crows' song and understood its import. He'd heard Sparrow's explanation and brought it back to his people. Like a messenger bird, Sparrow had brought the gift of the crows' song back to the Vale.

• • •

By the time they rejoined the Clan in the
ekele
, Emptiness had fled. Voices rose in the commotion, and scouts ran in and out the door, bearing the news of the Change-Adept's infiltration of the Vale.

Sparrow sought out Abilard, who was still standing near the entrance to the meeting structure. He shifted
his weight from one silver hoof to another, clearly ready to bolt if need be. They exchanged a long, silent glance.

:The battle is joined, in this place, in this moment.:
Determination and more than a hint of righteous anger shone in his luminous sapphire eyes.

The wind rose outside the
ekele
, a low moan that shook the walls. Sparrow froze, a jolt of fear shooting through her fingers. Her first instinct was to hide and let the warriors take the battle to their collective foe. She was no soldier. Her abilities ran to healing, not war.

But that was her fear talking, not her heart. Her heart insisted that Sparrow had an important part to play in the unfolding battle. She had seen through the Change-Adept's subtle disguise. Herald or not, warrior or not, Sparrow's discernment was critical to what happened here.

She took a deep breath, reached for Brock's hand. The fear trapped in her body transformed into a pure surge of power. “What do we do?” she asked, her voice straining over the uproar. “How can we help the Clan fight?”

“The Mages are sending word throughout the Vale that an enemy is in our midst. The Clan will fight any Change-Beasts with their weapons, but we must use our Gifts. Hold my hand and ground me, Sparrow. I must fight from the air . . . keep me connected so that I can come back.”

“Take me with you!”

Brock's fingers tightened over her own. “As long as we stay linked to this world, we can rise up together. But you're the one who has to make sure we can return.”

She took a deep belly breath, connected with the energy fields running in fast-rushing currents under their feet, a river of life. Brock's fingers grew cold as he sent his consciousness into his domain, the realm of clouds. Sparrow took one last look at the blur of men rushing all around her, some with hatchets and spears in their hands.

:I will stand guard over both of you!:
Abilard called into her mind.
:Go with him!:

Sparrow slammed her eyes shut and took another breath. She gasped at the surge of energy shooting from the subterranean currents up through the soles of her feet and into her core. She shot out of her body and into the sky, a sparrow scanning the clouds for hawks.

Brock's voice filtered down to her like rain. “Straight up, through the clouds. Don't be afraid.”

She almost laughed aloud . . . Sparrow wasn't afraid. She was
terrified
. But Herald Zama's words rang in her ears now, and they made profound sense here, at the moment of truth. Fear meant nothing in this moment. Like physical pain, fear was a messenger, but it was up to Sparrow to choose how to respond.

She chose to stand her ground. To face the sum of her deepest fears, the thief Emptiness. And to do the next right thing, no matter what price she would have to pay.

Sparrow shot through the clouds, exquisitely aware of every tuft of mist, every current of energy blowing like wind through the puffy white configurations forming and re-forming all around her. She had no power to summon, no Gift. But she knew she posed a threat to their common enemy, nonetheless.

“Emptiness!” she called through the clouds. “You took my father, now come and get me!”

A low boom assaulted her astral ears, shook her painfully. Sparrow guessed her soul was an energy too tempting for the Change-Adept to leave behind. He could sense her lack of Mage Gift and could not resist swooping out of the sky to take her too, just another villager, just another power source.

A black clot of nothingness appeared before her, a hole in the world. “You presume, girl!” Emptiness shrieked out of the hole. “You see nothing, you understand nothing!”

Sparrow did not have to understand the evil hunting
her. She only had to stand her ground. She did not stand alone.

Fear and isolation were an illusion, a spell of evil; she could see it clearly here in the clouds of pure being. For here, Sparrow was surrounded by the force of Brock's love for her, a palpable shield. And her enemy feared love more than anything.

Sparrow stood completely still in the clouds, silent. She stared into the void but was not consumed. “I choose,” she whispered. “I choose love. What do you choose, Emptiness?”

He came screaming out of the gray wound in the sky, claws outstretched. “I choose death, I choose nothingness, I choose supreme mastery over life, which can only die. You will feed my power, you are my food!”

She stood, open and defenseless, arms held open at her sides. And as the Adept rushed at her, a column of black wings rose all around her, the crows of Longfall, a living shield.

Mage energies surged into the clouds, turning them from gray and white to pearlescent, vibrating with power. Through the beating wings surrounding her, she saw Emptiness falter, his face indistinct within the gray of the hole in the sky. His claws withered, and his features contorted with rage.

Brock's voice boomed through the air. “Release the illusion. You are not Emptiness, you are Krul Kingfallen of the Ice Snake Clan. Go by your true name. Go by your truth.”

“No!”

But it was too late. The illusion burned away before the power of Brock's voice on this plane, and the Change reverted. Instead of a disguised Adept, a man stood in the clouds, one with white trews and a cruel face.

Before he could say anything else, Krul fell out of the sky. His despairing scream slashed at the clouds. The Change-Spell was broken.

• • •

Sparrow returned them to the
ekele
. Her body shook as with an ague, and she blinked hard, saw dancing gray spots and tasted metal.

Abilard gently whickered, and he stretched his head down to nuzzle her with his velvety nose.
:Don't leave us now, little Sparrow! The battle is won. The danger is averted.:

Exhausted. “Longfall . . .” she whispered.

Brock pulled her into his arms. “Longfall is safe. The villagers were there all the time, hidden by a powerful spell of invisibility. But the spell is broken now. They are all still alive.”

Sparrow relaxed inside the safe circle of Brock's arms, relieved and restored. She and Brock had met Herald Zama's challenge and proven their mettle.

Now it was the time for healing. Word had been sent to Keisha Wisewoman to bring healing to the village, and Sparrow would meet her there, at long last.

“The Raven Clan would have you, Sparrow,” Liros told them as they prepared to leave the Vale once more. “But we claim you for our own, through Cloud-Brother.”

“As I claim you, most happily,” Sparrow replied. “You are my people, as much as the people of Longfall.”

She chose Brock for her lifemate, too. She chose love, and the way of love instead of fear.

She looped her arms around Brock as they rode together with Abilard, and Sparrow knew she had found her home once again, and forever.

The smell of dirt, dark and moist, filled her nostrils. Yesterday's rain had soaked in and started new growth, and she inhaled deeply to savor its earthy scent.

Stabbing agony lanced through her, her ribs burning from the strain of that breath, and she coughed. Dirt and wet leaves scattered, and she forced herself to focus, closing out the pain.

She was lying on the forest floor, her face ground into the soil, searing pain radiating from her left side. Ever so slowly, memory ticked back, her head clearing with each shallow breath.

The town. The caravan. The bandits.
Jenny
.

She listened carefully, but she heard only birdsong and the gurgling stream at the bottom of the ledge the caravan had been following. She cracked one eye open. If there had still been any foes nearby, they would have heard her coughing and come running to finish her off by now.

From where she lay, her field of vision encompassed only a little of the clearing where the bandits had ambushed them. She saw a booted foot, motionless, at an awkward angle, and her eye traveled up the leg, to where a second body lay draped over it, a pincushion of arrows.

Closing her eye, she tuned her senses to the pain in her side. Had she also been shot and left for dead? Somehow
she didn't think so. The pain was broader than the piercing of an arrow. If she had to hazard a guess, she'd say cracked ribs from a blunt blow. A Healer would know for sure, but she assumed the caravan's Healer, more herbalist than true Healer, was either among the bodies or had been taken by the bandits. Probably the latter.

From the normal forest sounds around her and the fact that her cough hadn't brought any change to them, she guessed that the bandits had taken whatever it was they were looking for and were long gone. Setting aside her caution, she lifted her head and turned it to survey more of the clearing, wincing as her ribs protested the movement.

The scattering of a half-dozen bodies, all in the garb of the caravan guards, obstructed much of her view, but off to one side she saw a fold of familiar deep crimson fabric.
Jenny!

Ignoring the pain, she struggled to her feet and staggered to the prone form. Hoping against hope that the same god who had seen fit to spare her life had also somehow saved her partner's, she gently reached out and turned the slight figure over.

The deep gash across the body's throat and the pool of blood soaking into the moist earth shattered her hope, and she collapsed to her knees beside her lover's body, tenderly drawing her into her arms, tears streaming down her face.

• • •

Del shook herself free of the memory's grip, closing her mind to the aching hole at her center. She shifted in her ambush position without moving the brush around her, alternately tightening and relaxing her muscles to prevent cramping. Glancing across the path to the motionless shield of scrub concealing Keegan Ghelv, she hoped the weaponsmith's surprising skills included knowing how to do the same.

Behind them, she could hear the rhythmic sounds of
the harvesters in the Varyons' fields, sickling the early grain. The weather-witch had predicted rain before dawn tomorrow, and all the men the Varyons could muster were in the fields. Except for the bare handful that, like Del and Keegan, monitored the forest paths that gave access to the estate. At least it would be a moonless night, too dark to try to keep working through. As dusk approached, the harvesters would bring everything in to the barns, and the watchers could simply guard the buildings, instead of being spread out in the woods.

When she settled back to watching the path approaching their positions, unbidden memories returned.

• • •

At last, she lowered Jenny's slim body back to the earth, draping the end of one of her colored scarves over her neck in a paltry attempt to conceal the ragged slash that had killed her. She leaned back against a nearby tree, taking stock of her situation.

It was not good.

Her weapons-belt and pouch were missing, the rest of her gear gone with the caravan wagons. A quick glance showed that the other bodies had also been looted of weapons. She twisted her right foot in her boot, then her left, and a slow, feral smile curled her lip. Reaching down, she confirmed that the bandits had missed both of her concealed daggers. They hadn't taken her bracers either, and a quick flick of her wrist dropped one of two throwing knives into her palm. She revised her opinion of these bandits; they had made some very stupid mistakes, mistakes that would cost them. They had not made sure of her death, and though she couldn't go after them herself, she could warn others who would.

She glanced down at Jenny's body. If they hadn't found
her
boot-sheaths, maybe they hadn't found Jenny's, either. All might not be lost. Biting back the groan of pain as she moved, she knelt at Jenny's feet, gently slipping her fingers along the edge of the right boot until she found the narrow
tube within and pulled it out. Jenny had only had one sheath, and it had not carried a weapon.

For long minutes, she stared at the tube, her eyes narrowed. She hadn't known what was in it, only that they were to deliver it to a certain person in Mornedealth. And that they were not to travel there openly. In fact, Jenny had insisted on taking this caravan job, not another that would end closer to the city, saying that it would make them less obvious. Now Jenny was gone, and there was just her. Her and the scroll tube.

Her jaw set stubbornly. Untwisting the cap, she tapped it on her palm until the rolled papers shifted to where she could grasp an edge and ease them out. There was no seal, and although Jenny had known its contents, she had never said anything about them.

“The fewer who know, the fewer can be forced to talk,”
was all she'd said, and Del had seen no reason to push the question at the time. But now she needed to know.

Unrolling the two sheets of paper, she set aside their signed contract and turned to the other, her eyes skimming through the words. Her breath sharpened, and she understood now why Jenny had wanted to take this job, even though it was far different from their usual.

Once a Green, always a Green,
she thought. Years ago, long before Del had met her, Jenny had been employed by a minor noble of the Green faction in Mornedealth. Her employer had died, and his son had retained his own staff, keeping none of his father's. Jenny had joined the Mercenary Guild and taken up the life of the traveling fighter. But her original loyalty must have made her leap at the chance this document provided: to prove some of the Blues were involved in mercantile price-fixing, and that they were blackmailing at least one of the local heads of the Mercenary Guild to do so. Which was why Del and Jenny hadn't been going to the Council: If the Guild had been corrupted, who else might have been? The Council? The Guard itself? Anger rose in Del at the thought. A
trustworthy Guard was the standard that kept a city working smoothly. If people feared their own Guardsmen, who knew what might happen next? Even in Mornedealth, where most people didn't care what you did so long as you had the money to pay for it, folk still had limits.

The letter told her that the Blues were colluding with certain grain merchants, planning to drive prices higher come winter. But not all the merchants were involved, so there would have to be something that would affect the others, so that those the Blues were allied with would be the only ones with a harvest to sell. If they had control of at least some of the Guild and the Guard, they could ensure that suspicion would not fall on them.

She had to get this letter to someone who could act, before someone lost a livelihood. Or a life.

• • •

Del swallowed a sigh on that remembered thought, turning her head to catch the slight hint of a fresh breeze that lifted the ends of her short blonde hair away from her face. A life had already been lost because of that corruption. Jenny had insisted on taking the caravan assignment, and it had killed her. If they had gone straight to Mornedealth, would her partner still be with her? Weeks later, the question still tortured her, just as the ache of loss still gnawed at her insides. Her right hand fingered a fold of the bright red-fading-to-orange scarf neatly knotted over the bracer around her left wrist. Jenny's colorful scarves were all she had left of her partner. Those, and the memories.

After she had been released from the caravan guard contract, Del had been free to travel straight to Mornedealth, to report the death of Jendralatha Penetheryad to the Mercenary Guild headquarters there. She had hated the doubts that filled her mind whenever she interacted with a member of the Guild, even if the name wasn't one of those in the letter. So she kept her silence among them and had felt the mistrust directed at her
from the ordinary folk of Mornedealth. That had angered her even more, had made her more determined to deliver the letter and help bring a just return to the ones who had sown such distrust. Instead of simply finding Nakon Dryvale and completing their contract, however, she had found herself plunged deeper into intrigue.

“One mouth, two eyes, two ears,
” Jenny had once said.
“We're meant to use the one less than the pairs.”
With some lucky eavesdropping upon her arrival in Mornedealth, Del had learned that Nakon Dryvale had vanished, and no one knew for sure where. That same moment of eavesdropping had led her to Keegan Ghelv's smithy and to one of the few in Mornedealth she found herself trusting.

• • •

“It's a marvel of a blade,” she murmured, sheathing the sword with a smile. She had made only a few passes when she knew that she would give up quite a bit of what remained of her coin for this weapon. Its balance was flawless, and it felt like an extension of her arm as she swung it.

She glanced at Keegan, who had watched her work through her sequence of training exercises, his brawny arms folded over his chest, shaved head gleaming in the morning light. “I'm almost afraid to ask—how much?”

The price he named made her blink. “Surely not. Twice that is too little for workmanship like this!”

Now it was his turn to smile. “To someone who understands the blade, I can afford to be generous.” He winked. “I'll simply charge a minor noble an outrageous price for one of those lighter pieces I have that look pretty but won't be used as this one will be.”

“Done, then,” Del replied, reaching for her purse. The price wouldn't quite empty it, but she would need to find some sort of work if she intended to stay in Mornedealth more than a few days.

As if he had read her thoughts, Keegan leaned toward her. “If you're looking for a contract, Rulijah Tavamere is
in need of a private guard,” he murmured. “She has a small shop at the far corner of the Market. Tell her I sent you.”

Del blinked, then nodded, thanking him in a carrying voice for his excellent workmanship and fair price. She doubted very much that it was coincidence that he would mention the very name she had overheard from the man at the pie cart next door. Had his sharp eyes noticed that she had paused at his shop precisely when the owners of the cart were speaking of Nakon Dryvale? If so, he had somehow judged her and found her trustworthy enough to help, despite the fact that she was clearly a Guild merc.

• • •

And now Del was set up in an ambush opposite him, this odd weaponsmith who must have been a damn good fighter before he turned from using weapons to making them. All to find the man to whom she and Jenny were to deliver the letter.

On Keegan's advice, she had sought out Rulijah Tavamere, and the dark-eyed, heavily pregnant young woman had hired her on. Her husband, like Dryvale, had gone missing, although she put it about that he was away with a trading caravan. Del had found herself listening wherever she went, more carefully than she was used to, drawing inferences from half-hints, trying to piece together the connections and think of what the Blues might attempt.

Surprising even herself, in her free moments she had been drawn time and again to Keegan's booth in the Trader's Market. What had started as a chance encounter and a mutual appreciation for a fine blade had developed into a friendship of sorts. She didn't confide in him absolutely—only Jenny had ever gained that depth of her trust—but he had a sharp sense of humor and a keen understanding. He'd lived in Mornedealth for several years, so he'd shared with her much of what he knew about the city and its customs and inhabitants.

She
thought
Nakon Dryvale was in safety somewhere here on the Varyon estate. And if this was where she would find him, she presumed she would also find Rulijah's husband, who was known to be a friend of Dryvale and had vanished at nearly the same time. But in order for Master Varyon to trust her with any answer about the two men's whereabouts, she apparently had to prove herself by holing up in his woods to guard his harvest. Even though she was the one who had brought him the warning of a possible attack in the first place, determined to do what she could to prevent the corrupted Guild from succeeding. She could offer him no details, no proof, of course, and so she waited and watched.
At least he took me seriously enough to set a guard at all
, she thought.

Del sighed, her exhalation a soft whisper below the steady
shussshing
of the scythes. This was the reason she avoided Mornedealth. Even for a simple merc fighter, the city was too full of intrigue, questions, and subterfuge.
Give me a straight answer and a straight sword any day
, she thought, her hand shifting to the hilt of her weapon, and she suddenly smiled.
Well, maybe not a
straight
sword.
She loved the gentle curve of the new blade, which made it so much easier to draw and maneuver.