Aster Wood and the Blackburn Son (9 page)

“She will, or this army will,” he said. “Or maybe the Corentin, himself. I would not have you throw your life away for this cause. And yet you must go. There is no other who can.”

Behind Owyn’s smile, the pain remained. The courage that had been required to survive two hundred years of torture at Cadoc’s hands still stirred behind those irises.
 

“But what about the children? What about Rhainn?” The pull of my commitment to him was painful as I imagined leaving here to focus on some other task. Time was so precious, and we had so little of it.
 

“If we face that army now, without the gold, we will lose,” he said. “All will perish then, and nothing will remain to save. Surely you must understand this.”

It was all I could do to keep standing. The pain in my chest radiated out into the rest of my body, adrenaline and despair combined, torturing me.
 

I nodded.

He smiled a thin, grim line. Then he lifted his hand out to me as all the other men had done before. I stared at it for a moment, a little surprised. Then I put mine into his.

And Owyn Gildas, original of the Eight, leader of the Stonemore resistance, bowed his head.
 

That night, we sat around a fire deep within the grove of trees. Owyn, who had been traveling for some time beyond the reach of Stonemore’s spell, had some food with him. But while it would have been enough to last him a few days, split between eleven of us it had done little but whet our appetites for a meal that was not to come.
 

The group was quiet. Many sets of eyes trained on the flames as the minds of the men tried to comprehend all that had transpired. Nobody had much in the way of ideas about how to release Stonemore. And I, myself, wondered what would come tomorrow.
 

Kiron sat apart from the group, the Book of Leveling propped up on his knees. I had revealed the writings on most of the pages before giving it over to him to study. Now he poured over it, searching for the clue that would reveal how we could accomplish what was feeling more and more like an impossible task.
 

Owyn lay close to the fire, his eyes closed.
 

I didn’t know what to make of Owyn. Everybody else in the group seemed to accept him with ease. But to me, he seemed so different from the determined, tortured leader I had met down in the dungeons. He had been part of Almara’s original quest to travel the Fold and find the cure for the ailing worlds. Then, when Almara had been forced to flee Stonemore, he had been taken captive and held prisoner by Cadoc. For two hundred years his life had been artificially extended. Just like Jade’s.
 

But now he seemed so cheerful and flashy. Something about him made me nervous. He was not the severe man I remembered.
 

Over the scant meal, Kiron had explained how, with Chapman’s help, they had discovered those in the city who were sympathetic to Almara’s cause. There hadn’t been many, and fewer still who had any sort of magic they could bring to the group. But after a time they had gathered a respectable following, and once Cadoc was gone, things had become easier. The people in town were much less suspicious now that the tyrant who had overseen them for so long had disappeared.
 

Chapman waddled over and plopped down beside me. His pink suit had already gathered a large amount of dirt, and though he tried to keep himself clean, it seemed that each time he brushed some of it off he got even dirtier. Finally he settled and, smoothing the scant remaining hair left on his bald head to the side, smiled.

“So how are you, child?” he asked.
 

Being in Chapman’s presence brought me calm, but I wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was because he, alone, had offered to protect Kiron and I when we first landed in Stonemore so many months ago. And at great risk to his own life. He had never betrayed us, as Kiron had feared he would.

“I’m—alright, I guess,” I said.
 

“Ah, I’m glad to hear it,” he said. “We were worried about you for some time. Kiron was having fits after you fled Stonemore.”

“Was he?” My eyebrows raised.

“Of course he was,” he said. “That old crank may not show it to you, but he’s very concerned for your well being.”

“Huh,” I said. “To me it’s always seemed to be about the Fold, not me.”

“Ah, well, there you are mistaken. Or maybe misled.”

I looked over at Kiron, who had his nose an inch from the page he was inspecting.

“So you two are friends now?” I asked.

He laughed.

“Yes, of course,” he said. “I don’t know that it’s possible to fight an army of possessed torturers side by side and
not
become friends. No, after you left we hid together for a time. And then, after Cadoc’s demise, he stayed with me in the shop.”

“Really?” I asked. This surprised me. Kiron had clearly loathed Chapman’s little store in the square.

“Of course!” he said. “Where else might he have gone?”

Lots of places,
I thought.
 

“He’s not so harsh as he may seem,” he continued. “Well, not all the time.”

I looked around at the group. One man had his hand held over the ground, and tiny bolts of lightning sprang from the dirt into his palm.
 

“And what about these men?” I asked in a murmur. “What are they like?”

“Well, you’ve seen them yourself,” he said quietly. “Most are friendly enough. Though not all.”
 

His eyes had come to rest on Finian, who glared into the fire as if he could see the face of the enemy swimming within it.
 

“I don’t like him,” I said, looking at him, too. “He’s so…angry. How can that be helpful?”

“Ah, well, he has good reason to be. Cadoc killed his family when he refused to give up the location of our meeting spot. But even before that, he was a serious fellow. He can tend to take things a bit seriously, Finian.”

“His whole family?” I asked, shocked.

“His wife and two daughters,” he said, dropping his gaze. “After you left, things were difficult for some time.”
 

I had never seen Chapman look so sad. His hands played absently in the dirt, and he did not look up.

I guess I wasn’t the only one who had lost people. Important people.
 

A feeling that had been eating away in my gut suddenly bubbled to the surface.

“I don’t know how I’m going to do this,” I said.
 

“I know,” Chapman said. “None of us do. But you do understand that you must try.”
 

Our eyes met for a brief moment, and then I nodded my head. I did understand.
 

“The way I see it, you and this Jade have a connection. Though her memory of your time together may be skewed by the Corentin, somewhere inside of her she remembers you the way you truly are. From your tale, it sounds like she has fought this darkness for some time now. Fought it bravely, though she has now crumbled beneath it. It is you who must fight now. For her”

“I’m scared she’s going to kill me,” I said. But that was too simple an explanation. Other, more insidious thoughts swirled in my head. I wasn’t sure how I would recover if I found that she really did hate me as much as she had led me to believe. “I’m scared I’m not enough,” I finally finished.

Chapman leaned back and looked up into the night. Above, the stars dangled down like shining ornaments on strings.

“If you die at Jade’s hands,” he finally said, “then your death will have been a noble one, full of purpose and hope. It is only if you give up now that you will fulfill this fear of yours that you are not enough. It is a fear we all share. And it is one we all must combat.”

“Finian doesn’t have that fear,” I mumbled. “Or Kiron.”

He placed his hand on my arm. The look he gave me was stern.

“You truly think that the man who lost the three in his life he loved the most, and because of the company he kept, does not doubt himself? Or that the ancient wizard who has waited for you for more than a century has done so blindly and without question or fear?”

I didn’t respond.
 

“Interesting,” he said. Then he got to his feet.
 

Chapman, too, had changed. No longer was he the man I had once met, a bit silly, frightened of his own shadow despite his devotion to Almara. He was hardened. Still kind, but tough.

“Zacharias,” Chapman said, taking a few deliberate steps away. “I think we are in need of a story.” He pointed to one of the men we had found beside the pot of chocolate in the square.
 

The man looked up from his place near the fire. Then, as he slowly realized what was being asked, he face came to life with excitement. He jumped to his feet and started pacing, smiling and rubbing his forehead as if searching for the right story with his fingertips. Every few steps he would stop, look up as if he had made a decision, but then resume his vibrant gait around and around the flames. Finally, he stopped for the last time, clapping his hands together with a snap.

“Sacha and the Beast,” he said.
 

The men sat up to listen. Even Owyn roused himself from his rest to hear the tale. Only Kiron kept his nose down, scribbling notes from the Book of Leveling.

Zacharias raised his arms, first out to the crowd, and then up to the sky.
 

“In the time of the First Realm, ten thousand years before Jared and his wizards walked these lands, the young boy Sacha lived in the foothills of the Taylan Mountains along the northern edges of Aria. As in so many other times, war had come to the lands of his people. Word of an approaching army had reached the village, and the men were a flurry of preparation. They trained the teenagers in what they knew of the arts of battle. They gathered food to store in case the enemy was able to trap them within their valley. And they plotted late into each night how they might defeat their foe when he arrived with his army.”

“What were they fighting over?”
 

I looked over and saw that Owyn had been the one to ask the question. Zacharias laughed.

“It matters not. All war is naught but a disagreement between two men. They are all, in this way, the same.” Zacharias resumed plodding along the circle of footsteps that was already beginning to cut into the dirt around the fire. “In any case, Sacha, being only seven years of age, had little to do. Too young to be of help to the warriors, and too old to be a babe in his mother’s arms, he found himself frequently underfoot. Finally, when the stick of his mother’s broom had whacked him on the backside for the fourth time in one day, Sacha left his family’s cottage in search of friendlier surroundings.

“He wandered the hillsides, which were safe enough. The enemy was still quite far away, and there was little danger a young boy could have found himself in in that place while battle was still held at bay. He descended the hills along a path he knew well, a path he had learned in more peaceful times when his father’s focus was on family, not war, and his mother’s broomstick had little purpose but to push the straw across the hearth. For five days, each morning he would disappear down into the groves of pine. And each evening he returned, finding his presence not missed by his family.

“In this manner he found his place in the war effort; he removed himself from being in the way of those with important tasks at hand. And in exchange his rear stayed free of bruises and the faces of his parents free of scowls.

“One afternoon, as he swung along the lower of the branches, dreaming of nymphs and faeries and wishing for a companion to share in his games, he heard a strange sound beneath a pile of branches on the forest floor. He dropped from the trees and approached the mound, both curious and wary at once. And when he removed the downed foliage from the spot, looking up at him was a lone panther cub. But it wasn’t any ordinary beast. It glowed with the same white Sacha had seen coming off the snows in winter, and it looked at him with knowing, yet desperate, eyes.”

I gasped, looking around to see if anyone else had caught that particular detail in the story in the same way I had, the mention of the white, glowing animal. Jade had described the great white wolf who had saved me from the snow planet as being of
The White Guard.
And Erod, too, had glowed with a power that hinted at more than the simple magic Jade or Kiron had. Had these men heard the same legends? Had they, too, been visited by the animals when they found themselves in times of struggle? I studied their faces, looking for signs of recognition, but the men were unaffected, their attention on Zacharias as he went on.
 

The encounters, it seemed, were mine alone. I sat up now to listen, to take in every detail about the creatures I had been visited by.
 

“Sacha gathered the cub into his little arms, and the cat rubbed his face against his chin in gratitude. In the strange purrs and nudges from the animal, Sacha understood that he must assist him. Looking down, he bestowed upon him the name Pahana, or
lost white brother
. And so that evening he walked from the grove and carried his found friend home.

“When he arrived, however, his father was not pleased. There were too many others to feed, he argued. And a monster like this, while small now, would not stay that way. It would soon become hungry, first feasting on the littlest and least able of the family before moving onto the larger, more cunning prey. He ordered Sacha to return him to the woods, and forbade him from ever setting foot there again.

“Sacha was distraught, for he knew that if he obeyed his father, the little animal would starve. No mother panther had shown herself in the woods, you see, and he was certain that the cub was quite alone in the world.
 

“But the next day, he cowered beneath his father’s outstretched finger pointing him down into the wooded valley below, and he nestled the animal into the nook of his arm and set off away from the house.