The Changeling (6 page)

Where is Connor?” Owen yelled, voice full of emotion.

Those on the front line simply looked at him with the vacant eyes of the defeated. Gunnar pushed through and stood by one of the strange weapons.

“Wounded?” Owen said. “Killed?”

Gunnar's jaw was set. “Connor is not here.”

“Where then?”

Watcher screamed, “Incoming!”

The fighters took their places, some moving into the field as decoys while others manned the weapons.

“Tell us when the invisibles are near, Watcher,” Gunnar said. “Please.”

She closed her eyes, the hair on her back standing straight, a foreleg toward the sky. “There. Three in the lead—one in front, two close behind.”

“And four scythe flyers,” Owen said. “We're no match for these.”

“Stand your ground, Wormling,” Gunnar said.

“You'll get more of your men killed,” Owen said. “Why isn't Connor here if he's so committed to this fight?”

“Almost here,” Watcher said, still pointing.

Owen held his sword behind his head.

“Now!” Watcher shouted.

Something like fireworks exploded beside Owen, and three sharpened poles hurtled into the air like missiles.

“They're too high!” someone shouted. “They're not attacking!”

The poles reached their apexes, then fell harmlessly as the scythe flyers flew around them.

“Why aren't they attacking?” Watcher said.

Owen sheathed his sword. “They're after something else.” He turned to Gunnar. “Where is Connor?”

With a sheepish look, Gunnar said, “His plan was to stage this battle, then steal away to the White Mountain to rescue our friends. Several from our group have been taken there—”

“This was all a show? a ruse to get them to attack?” Owen looked back to where the stable boy lay, then to the tents of the wounded. “He would have given up all these? And Watcher and me?”

“His wife was among those taken. We didn't anticipate this many deaths.”

The demon flyers screeched in the distance; then the scythe flyers plummeted. They were mere specks on the horizon, but Owen could see them picking people from the ground and carrying them toward the White Mountain.

“Gather your wounded, Gunnar, and get them to safety. Those flyers will return. And you'll be lucky if they don't make slaves of the lot of you.”

To Owen's surprise, that evening he found Watcher standing over the stable boy's grave, whispering tearfully, “‘May the King keep you and cause his face to shine upon you and give you peace in the valley of eternity.'”

“Where did you learn that?” Owen said.

“Bardig,” she said. “Long ago. He told me the King himself grieves every death, but special in his sight is a child. How can the Dragon delight in the death of one so young?”

Owen, who realized he had grown since coming to the Lowlands, bent to face Watcher. “You encountered the Dragon and lived to tell about it. You know he will stop at nothing to overthrow the King.”

“Which may happen.”

“Don't even think that.”

Watcher shuddered. “But the Dragon and the Changeling act as if the King is dead.”

“Watcher, trust me. With everything in me I know the King lives.”

“And his Son?”

Owen looked away.

“See? There is doubt even in you.”

“I worry about the Son. But the way the Dragon put a decoy in the dungeon and rewarded Qwamay for posing as the Son leads me to believe the true Son is alive.”

Watcher traced something in the dirt, then looked up. “And if we never find him?”

“We will.”

“Why can't the King help us? Why must we travel so far and struggle for every morsel of hope?”

“I have asked the same. Why did I have to come here? Why should a Wormling be employed in this search at all? Why not just let the King's Son rise and fight? But it has been worth it to spend time in
The Book of the King
and learn about the King's heart. He is not far from us, Watcher. I believe he is closer than we think. And victory is not far either.”

Gunnar and a few of his men interrupted them, thrusting their swords deep into the earth. “We have decided to attempt a rescue,” Gunnar said. “Come and bring your Watcher. She can warn us of impending attacks.”

Owen pursed his lips. “I tried to talk Connor out of this. I didn't know it was a rescue attempt. Why he didn't tell me is a mystery—”

“He didn't trust you,” Gunnar said. “He blames you for what happened to his father.”

Owen nodded. “Perhaps one day he'll know the truth. Right now, Watcher and I must continue our quest for the Son.”

“You don't care that Connor could be killed?”

“He made his choice. After we've found the Son, we can try to rescue Connor from the White Mountain or wherever the Dragon takes him. I pray he's not killed.”

Gunnar shook his head. “Praying is just words. Action counts.”

“Action without the blessing of the King is mere exercise.” Owen drew closer. “Align yourself with him, yield your strength to his, and he will use you. That's the best way to help your people and Connor.”

“Tempting,” Gunnar said. “But you leave before a fight is finished. You abandon people and allow them to die. We will try to rescue Connor. If we die, at least we tried.”

“I wish you well,” Owen said. “And as I say, I will be the first to help once we have found the Son.”

Gunnar spat, “Don't bother.”

Getting past the White Mountain was difficult, not only because of the terrain but also because Owen felt a tug to help Gunnar.

Watcher asked Owen why saving the children of Erol in the Badlands was any different from this.

“The children were innocent. They didn't choose to go to the mines.”

“Neither did Connor's wife and the others. Connor was only trying to do what you did for Erol's clan.”

“You argue well,” Owen said. “I hate seeing people in such pain, but the real way to help them—and everyone in the Lowlands—is to find the Son and follow the King's words.”

* * *

Over the next two days, Watcher warned Owen any time invisible scouts drew near. Owen dutifully followed her to safety, but he wished he could slice those pesky creatures in two.

Finally, after walking all night, they reached a range overlooking the village of Yuhrmer.

“Why stop here?” Owen said. “The Scribe lives in Yodom.”

“I thought we might eat here and rest.”

“How much farther to Yodom?”

Watcher pointed. “Another night's journey. But, Wormling, this is also where the woman lives. The one whose picture is in your backpack.”

Owen recalled Watcher having seen the picture of his mother. “I thought you barely traveled from your mountain. How would you have seen this woman?”

Watcher smiled. “Before the Dragon forbade travel, Bardig took me with him when I was a youngling. There was a fair in Zior. People set up booths and tents where they sold the most wonderful fruit and plants and baked goods. And there were games that kept me laughing, just watching the old ones try to win.”

“A carnival,” Owen said. “That's what we call that in the Highlands.”

“Anyway, one booth from Yuhrmer bore the most beautiful bedcovers I had ever seen. Delicate cloth so soft and silky that I didn't think they would even let me touch it. But a kind lady there held it up to my face.”

“The lady who looks like my mother?”

Watcher nodded.

* * *

When Owen and Watcher arrived in Yuhrmer, Owen noticed that most of the homes were made of logs, topped with thatched roofs. One, perched slightly above the village, was made of stone, and its wide chimney belched smoke. The pleasing aroma drifting down the hillside reminded Owen of the bakery near his house.

As often happens in small towns, children were the first to meet the strangers, leaving a game played with sticks and a crude ball. The children in Owen's world were driven to soccer practice wearing expensive shoes and played with the best equipment. These kids slapped at a roll of yarn and scurried in the dirt with bare feet. Still they giggled and seemed to be having just as much fun.

Despite the children's worn clothes, their faces were round and they seemed well fed. The girls wore their hair in braids. The boys also had longish hair. Soon Owen and Watcher were surrounded by staring children with dirty hands and faces.

“You look funny,” one said, pointing at Owen.

“Stop it, Thomas,” an older girl said. Owen figured this was Thomas's sister. “It's not polite to point.”

Thomas lowered his finger and scrunched up his face. “He does look funny, though. He's too small to be carrying a big sword. Where'd you get that?”

Owen laughed and pulled it from his scabbard. “It was a gift from a friend.” He let Thomas feel its weight, then had to let each child have a turn.

Watcher pawed at the ground as if ready to keep moving, but Owen took off his backpack. The children crowded closer, peering in. The picture of his mother was water damaged and ripped, but it was still clear enough to show the kids. “Have you ever seen her?”

“That's Drushka,” a girl said. “At least, I think it is.”

Several nodded. “She lives in the bread house—the one with all the stones.”

The children guided them to the house. Owen felt uneasy as he climbed the steps. He had been told that his mother had died the day he was born. He had assumed this was why his father was distant and didn't show affection. Owen couldn't blame him. If he had truly loved the woman, and if she'd died giving birth to Owen, that would explain a lot.

But his father had given him information about his mother just before he traveled to the Lowlands—a book of pictures that included her. Could she still be alive? And could the woman inside this house be his actual mother?

“Knock,” Watcher said. “What's wrong?”

“Well, what do I say? ‘Hello, I'm your son, the Wormling'?”

“Wormling?” a child squealed behind them. “He said he was the Wormling.”

Watcher rolled her eyes. “Great, tell everybody.”

Owen tapped lightly on the heavy wooden door.

Owen felt his face blanch when a woman opened the door, and he worried he might keel over. This was the woman in his picture. She was larger, perhaps, her face fuller and shiny. But she was still beautiful, with dark hair covered by a shawl and a dress nearly reaching her ankles. Her skin was pale, as if she spent too much time in the dark.

“Miss Drushka?” Watcher said.

“Yes,” she said with the hint of an accent. “Call me Drushka.”

“My friend here thinks he may know you from somewhere. May we come in?”

Drushka wiped her doughy hands on her apron and stared at Owen. Then she looked past them. “You children leave these two alone. Go and play!”

She ushered Owen and Watcher into the huge kitchen, where she was baking bread. The smell made Owen's mouth water.

“I met you at the fair in Zior years ago,” Watcher said. “You let me touch the soft fabric.”

“I remember,” Drushka said. “Would you like a crimrose? They're fresh from the fire.” The woman produced two steaming pastries.

Owen closed his eyes as he took a bite. “This is like a croissant back home. So flaky and soft, it nearly melts in your mouth.”

“And where is home?” Drushka said.

“Watcher here is from the hill country, but I'm actually from the Highlands. I'm a Wormling.”

Drushka locked her eyes on Owen.

He pulled a worn book from his backpack, its pages crumpled and warped from moisture. Drushka flipped through it, scanning the pictures until she came to one that made her cover her mouth. Owen handed her another—the one he had shown the children. Drushka ran her fingers over it like a child with a new doll.

“Is that you?” Owen said.

She looked overwhelmed. “Where did you get this?”

“From my father. He runs a bookstore in the Highlands. Our name is Reeder.”

“He can read,” Watcher said. “He even knows much of
The Book of the King.
”

The very mention of the sacred book seemed to startle the woman.

Owen said, “Do you have a child?”

Tears came to Drushka's eyes. “A son.”