Broken Ground Page 4

  Abeke eased up beside him and leaned on the battlement. “Meilin’s a warrior. And Conor … he’s a fighter. The only way for us to help them is to stop Zerif. And to do that, we have to get to Stetriol before he does.”

  “Stetriol,” grumbled Rollan. “Land of the Conquerors, and Shane, and all the people who hate us.”

  Abeke touched his shoulder. “People change,” she said. “Look at us. None of us are the same people we were when this first started. Whoever thought you’d finally put on that green cloak?”

  Rollan snorted.

  “Besides, abandoning Stetriol is what got the Greencloaks into trouble last time.” She looked out at the night. “You, me, Meilin, Conor, we’re supposed to be the future of the Greencloaks. If we choose not to help, we’re just repeating the past. We have to be better … okay?”

  “Okay.” Rollan bumped into her shoulder. “When did you get to be so smart?” he asked. “Are you hiding a talisman or something? Which Great Beast had all the brains?”

  “Ha-ha.”

  “We should get you some mystic robes. You can go around telling futures or advising nobles or whatever people in mystic robes do … ” He trailed off into a yawn, and Abeke broke into a smile.

  “Come on,” she said, steering him toward the stairwell. “We both need sleep if we’re going to set out at first light.” She cast a last glance back at the night, the moon, the glittering water. “Something tells me we’re going to need our strength.”

  “Hoist!”

  “Bartel, hand up that crate.”

  “Careful with the apples.”

  “Gera, got your medical bag below.”

  “Have you checked the sail lines?”

  “Don’t let those blades get wet!”

  The sun was barely up, and the Greenhaven dock was already a flurry of activity. Rollan had secretly hoped that “we sail at first light” actually meant “we sail at a perfectly decent hour sometime after breakfast,” but his hopes had been dashed when Olvan pounded on his door before dawn.

  “I’m up, I’m up,” he’d mumbled before rolling over and trying to stifle the beginning of dawn’s light with his pillow. But when he tried to close his eyes again he’d seen Meilin clawing through the dark, and Zerif’s grim smile, and the wormy black spiral forcing itself across Tellun’s forehead, and he knew that sleep was ruined.

  Now, as they made their way to the shore, Abeke looked almost as tired as he felt, and far less excited about the ship waiting for them at the end of the docks.

  While she’d grown more comfortable with boats over time, Abeke had always preferred being on land. Plus, Uraza got seasick. The short trip from the Amayan coast was one thing, but a sea voyage to Stetriol was another.

  Rollan’s spirits were considerably brighter. Growing up on the streets of Concorba, he’d dreamed of fresh air and freedom, and life aboard a ship afforded both. Besides, when it came to modes of transportation, sailing was about as far from riding a horse as he could get, and in Rollan’s book, that was a mark in its favor.

  The Tellun’s Pride II was a beautiful craft, sturdy with brilliant white sails, but it wasn’t the ship that caught Rollan’s attention: It was the crew!

  Not a handful of escorts, but a proper crew of fifteen—no, twenty!—Greencloaks. All for their mission to Stetriol. The sight of them made Rollan feel rather important.

  “This is quite an expedition,” said Abeke. “Will we draw too much attention?”

  Rollan deflated a little. Of course, she was the one to think of stealth.

  “I’ve sent word ahead,” answered Olvan. “They know you’re coming. Besides, half of these Greencloaks are going to relieve those who are already stationed there.”

  Rollan deflated a little more. And then Abeke knocked his shoulder with hers and flashed him a smile, and he felt himself smile back. It was still an impressive crew. And besides, they were the chosen ones! They’d gone on their last quest without any help at all! And, okay, maybe that was a bad example because it didn’t end so well, but still …

  “Awfully small for Greencloaks, aren’t they?” said a voice behind them.

  Rollan and Abeke turned to find two figures in forest green ambling down the docks toward them, packs on their shoulders. The first was a woman, tall with warm dark skin, a shock of short black hair, and silver in her ears. The second was a man, a head shorter and stockier, with pale hair pulled back in a ponytail.

  “I was beginning to wonder if you’d join us!” said Olvan.

  “Sorry we’re late,” said the woman. Her voice had a slight Niloan cadence.

  “S’my fault,” said the man, who was all Eura. His collar was open beneath his cloak, and across the skin of his chest Rollan could see the edge of a tattoo. It looked like a monkey. Or at least a monkey’s tail.

  “Of course it’s your fault,” said the woman, but her tone was cheerful. “Just be glad they didn’t sail without us.”

  Her sleeves were rolled up, revealing a parrot tattoo that ran the length of her forearm, from talons to crest. She leaned her elbow on the man’s shoulder, and he didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he leaned into her as if they were old friends.

  Will Abeke and I be like that one day? Rollan wondered. It was easy to imagine staying friends, but it was hard to picture getting so … old.

  “That would be hard to do,” said Olvan, “considering you’re the captain.”

  Rollan’s eyes widened in surprise, but Abeke broke into a grin.

  “Which makes me the first mate,” said the man. “And you two must be our cargo.”

  “I’m nobody’s cargo!” said Rollan, at the same time Abeke said, “Cargo?”

  He only chuckled.

  “I’m Nisha,” said the woman, “and this is—”

  “Oi, I can introduce myself,” cut in the man. “Arac. I’m Arac.”

  Nisha raised a brow, obviously amused. “Do you feel better now?”

  “Much,” grunted Arac. “A name’s a powerful thing to have,” he said, addressing Abeke and Rollan. “Can’t go handing it off to anyone.”

  “I’m not anyone, Arac, I’m your wife.”

  Rollan’s mouth fell open. He’d never met married Greencloaks before. Now he could see why.

  “Close your mouth, boy,” warned Nisha. “Before something flies in.”

  Abeke giggled as Rollan’s mouth snapped shut.

  “Chop-chop,” said Nisha, striding up the plank.

  “You heard the woman—er, I mean captain,” Arac amended when she cut him a glance. In a fluid gesture he took up Rollan’s and Abeke’s sacks and hoisted them onto one strong shoulder.

  “You can see I’m leaving you in good hands,” said Olvan.

  Abeke shot the elder Greencloak a worried look. To Rollan’s surprise, the lightness left the old man’s face and he knelt, resting a hand on each of their shoulders.

  “Any advice?” asked Rollan.

  “Yes. Take care. Watch out. And come back safe.”

  “That’s awfully general,” said Rollan, tipping his head. “You got anything more specific?”

  Olvan swallowed. “If you see that stranger, the one with the mask and the red cloak, be careful.” Olvan straightened, his joints popping and cracking with the effort. “I’m counting on you two,” he said. “We all are.”

  “No pressure,” grumbled Rollan as Olvan mounted his spirit animal and made his way back up toward Greenhaven’s keep. Rollan thought he could see Anda beside the gate, dark eyes wide and watching. Rollan lifted a hand, but the boy—if it was him—didn’t respond.

  “Get aboard or get left,” called Arac, pounding a meaty fist along the ship’s hull.

  Abeke and Rollan climbed the ramp, and both cast a last glance back at Greenhaven as the ship put out to sea. They stood there watching as the fortress shrank and shrank, until it was lost from sight.

  “Off on another adventure,” said Abeke, leaning back against a crate.

  “I wonder if Stetriol has good stew,
” said Rollan. Abeke touched her stomach as if the thought were unwelcome, and closed her eyes.

  Overhead, Essix let out a short cry and swooped down toward the deck.

  “I was wondering when you’d show up,” he said, trying not to sound relieved.

  Essix landed on the ship’s rail just long enough to claim a scratch under her beak and another between her wings. Then she was off again, and so were they.

  THE BOY SAT ON A LOW ROCK, SHARPENING A PAIR OF knives.

  He was perched in the shadow of the tree line, shielded by a canopy of leaves while he worked. His cloak, a vivid red, sat at his feet, folded inside out to hide the crimson. His sleeves, crisp and black but torn from the fight with Zerif, were rolled to his elbows. The only sound beside the sh-sh of stone against metal was the rustling of branches overhead, their leaves caught up by the breeze. Now and then, his lips formed words—as if he were talking to himself, or to someone else, or simply remembering conversations long past—but they never took shape, never found sound.

  His mask, a smooth plane of white wood, sat cast aside him on the stone. Unlike the others, with their ears and snouts, their horns and tusks, his mask held no such markings. It was even, featureless, save for the slits through which he saw and breathed and spoke.

  When the knives were clean and sharp, he set them aside and rolled his head on his shoulders, trying to work out the stiffness that had settled in his muscles. A cut ran along his jaw—it was a testament to the force of the blow, that it even broke the skin—and his muscles ached, but he was alive, and so were the Greencloaks. But he hadn’t been fast enough to save Tellun.

  And in the end, Zerif had gotten away with his newest prize, vanishing in the trees.

  The man seemed at times a monster, at others a ghost.

  In the distance, the sun sank over the water, turning the ocean and the sky from blue to orange and purple and gold, the colors of a fading bruise. A clearing stretched between the boy’s perch at the edge of the woods and the shore, and the boat waiting for him on the docks.

  As soon as night fell, he would go.

  Until then, he tended his weapons and nursed his shallow wounds. As he dabbed fresh salve over the cuts, his skin caught the setting sun, illuminating the band of scales that tapered down his forearm like armor, shifting from green to gold.

  He paused, arm outstretched before him, and stared at the scales, marveling now the way he had when he’d first seen them. When he flexed his arm, they shifted in response, not like well-fit clothing, but like skin itself. He lifted a fingernail and ran it thoughtfully along their plated surface.

  A bird screeched overhead.

  Not a falcon or a pigeon, but a crow, a Ksenian crow, a southern tracking bird with a dash of white on its forehead. He held out his scaled arm, and the bird landed on his wrist. A message was bound to its leg with a single piece of dark red cloth.

  The message was from Stead.

  He recognized the young man’s short, blocky script, even before he read the note.

  Only a few lines, but that was all he needed.

  King, it read.

  A Great Beast has risen.

  Return to Stetriol.

  He jostled his arm, and the bird hopped free, waiting with curious eyes while the boy dug a piece of charred wood from his pocket, turned the scrap of paper over on the stone, and scribbled an answer. He then retied the note to the crow’s foot. It clicked its beak, clearly expecting a reward. He fed it a scrap of dried meat and sent it on its way. Within moments, the bird was a speck of black in the reddish glare of the setting sun, winging its way toward the sea, King’s message bound to its foot.

  A single line, signed with a K.

  Already on my way.

  The boy they called King squinted until the crow was lost from sight, then slid his knives back into their holsters and took up his mask. He fastened it over his face, settled the red cloak back on his shoulders, and made his way to the boat bobbing on the dock.

  To Stetriol.

  TUNNEL AND CAVERN.

  Tunnel and cavern.

  Tunnel and cavern.

  Meilin had been trained to map the terrain in her mind so she never got lost, but it didn’t work down here. Not when everything looked the same! They were beneath the earth, she knew, but how far beneath? Feet? Miles? How long since the doorway had collapsed? How long had they been trapped underground, wandering the corridors of Sadre, the world under the soil? Days? Weeks? Time ran together just like the tunnels and caverns.

  Meilin had tried to keep track, marking time on her sleeve with a bit of blackish chalk, but she’d given up one night after slipping in a puddle, the muddy water smudging the tallies beyond recognition.

  Tunnel and cavern.

  Tunnel and cavern.

  It was maddening.

  Down here, there was no up or down, no forward or back, no day or night. Time bled, and the simple beat of Meilin’s heart was deafening in her ears. She couldn’t distract herself from worries about Abeke, and Rollan, and Conor. She reached for Jhi’s calm, which usually came to her, even in the panda’s passive form, but where it once wrapped around her, now it felt more like a grazing touch. Still, Meilin clung to that comfort and resisted the urge to scream.

  “We should stop here,” said Xanthe when their tunnel gave way to another cavern. “I’m sure we could all use some rest.”

  Meilin looked around. It looked like almost every other space they’d passed through.

  “Is it night?” she asked, before remembering that outside of Phos Astos, Xanthe likely had no way to keep track of day and night. “I mean … is it the time when you normally sleep? How do you even measure the hours?”

  This wasn’t the first time Meilin had asked that question, but Xanthe still answered patiently. “By the sound of the water in the rocks, and how tall the ground blooms are, and whether or not the wall rushes are awake.” Then she shrugged and added, “And how tired I am.”

  “I think it’s fascinating,” said Takoda. “I mean, what is day and night without the sun and moon? How does a body know the cycles of need?”

  Kovo and Meilin rolled their eyes at the same time, then caught each other and glared. She didn’t trust the ape or his scarlet gaze—a look that seemed constantly challenging, a body always on the verge of action. And yet what help had he been? He’d gotten them trapped here beneath the earth, and now he didn’t seem to be doing anything but biding his time. For what?

  Briggan gave a soft whimper, and Meilin turned to find Conor half walking, half stumbling, bracing himself against a handhold of rock.

  “I also judge the time,” said Xanthe soberly, “by how badly your friend needs to rest.”

  “I’m all right,” mumbled Conor, but his blond hair was sticking to his face with sweat. Meilin could tell he was suffering. “I’m … ” He trailed off as a shudder passed through him.

  Meilin reached for his arm, but to her shock Conor jerked backward, a hiss escaping his throat.

  The sound was so strange, so utterly inhuman, it stopped her in her tracks. Conor’s hands curled, not all the way into fists, but claws, and his expression twisted into something animal, his eyes vacant, and his mouth half open in a snarl.

  Briggan leaped forward and put himself between Conor and the rest, not to protect him, Meilin realized with a start, but to protect them. Kovo growled and wrapped his arms protectively around Takoda.

  “What’s going on?” demanded Xanthe, pink eyes wide. “What’s wrong with him?”

  Conor’s chest heaved as Meilin inched forward. Xanthe tried to pull her back, but she held up a hand, her eyes trained on her friend.

  “Conor,” whispered Meilin. “You’re stronger than this. Fight it.”

  The boy squeezed his eyes shut, another shiver rolling through him. Then he blinked and looked up, and his eyes widened. He was Conor again. The boy from Trunswick. The kindhearted Greencloak who’d stood beside her through thick and thin.

  “Meilin,” he wh
ispered. “I’m … I’m sorry … ”

  He tried to take a step forward, but his knees buckled. Meilin was there by his side, catching him before he could fall. He was burning up as she lowered him to the cave floor, and when she pulled his shirt aside and saw the vicious curl of the parasite against his bicep, inching up toward his shoulder, his throat, his head.

  Xanthe saw the mark then, and leaped away with a gasp.

  “He’s infected.”

  “But he’s fighting it,” said Takoda.

  Xanthe shook her head. “Do you honestly think we would have cast our own people out if they could be saved? There is no way to fight it.”

  “I refuse to believe that,” snapped Meilin. “He’s still my friend.”

  “Not for long,” said Xanthe, wrapping her arms around herself. “And once the mark takes him, he’ll be able to infect us. This is how one become many. He can’t come with us, Meilin.”

  “I’m not leaving him behind,” she said as she took the cloak from her shoulders, folding it for a pillow beneath Conor’s head.

  “I’m sorry, but there’s no saving him.”

  “You don’t know that,” snapped Meilin. “If we get to the Wyrm, if we defeat it … ” She could hear the desperation in her own voice; she knew how it sounded, but she wasn’t just trying to make herself feel better. She believed he could be saved. She had to believe it. “Look, if he loses control, then … ”

  “Then what?”

  “Then we’ll talk,” said Meilin. “But until then, he stays with us.” She looked up. “Even if that means you won’t.”

  Silence fell over them, broken only by Conor’s fevered breathing. Xanthe’s eyes flicked from Meilin to Takoda and Kovo, then down to Conor. The way she looked at him, like he was already gone, turned Meilin’s stomach. She gripped Conor’s shoulder. She knew what it felt like, to be trapped inside your skin, to be fighting against someone else’s control. She knew the fear, and the helplessness, and the hopelessness of that fight, and she wouldn’t let him go through it, not alone.

  “Xanthe,” she said, fighting to keep her voice even. “I don’t know if we can do this without you, but I won’t do this without Conor.”