Magisterium (8 page)

“I have to take him back,” Glenn said, even as her stomach

churned with fear.

“You won’t make it with him in your arms,” it said. “We’re miles from the border.”

“Then take us back!”

“Even if I did, the trip would kill him. Please. I have medicine.”

“He’s been shot!” Glenn said. “He doesn’t need medicine. He needs surgery.”

Kevin’s head fell into the crook of her arm with a groan. She could feel his blood on her skin.

“Let me help him,” the thing said. “If you don’t he’ll die.”

Already Kevin was weighing on her. She wouldn’t make it a mile if she tried to carry him. She had run out of options. The only thing she could do was put Kevin down and back away. The great shadow flowed out from the trees and enveloped him once again. Glenn couldn’t make much out in the darkness, but she thought the creature was arranging several small piles on the rock next to him, things it had brought back from the woods. When it was done, it crushed them together with a stone and then lifted out handfuls of water to make a paste.

As the thing worked, Glenn strained to get a better look at it, but it was still little more than a shadow mixed in with the deeper shadows around the stream. Glenn remembered seeing what looked like claws at the end of its finger, but surely she was mistaken. A delusion borne from fear.

“How did you know my name?” Glenn asked.

The creature drew Kevin up into its lap and began smearing the paste it had made on Kevin’s side.

“I asked you —”

Instead of answering, it lowered its head and began a soft chant over Kevin’s limp body. Glenn drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, watching it. The deep notes of its voice rose and fell as the forest around them rustled in the wind, and the dark stream trickled by.

“We can’t stay here,” it said, its head still bent over Kevin. “Your friend needs more help than I can give. There’s a village nearby.”

“There aren’t any villages beyond the border,” Glenn said.

The creature remained still, Kevin draped in its arms.

“Who are you?”

“My name is Aamon Marta.”

“How did you know my name?”

Aamon didn’t move, didn’t look away from the run of the stream.

“Others will come,” it said. “Worse things than your Authority. We have to go now.”

The vastness of the forest hummed and pulsed with life, the chattering of insects, the crunching movements of animals as they prowled for food.

“I want to see you,” Glenn said.

“There’s no time for —”

“I want to see you or I don’t go anywhere,” Glenn snapped. She was tired and the hours-old terror had gone stale and shifted toward anger. She was sick of vague answers. She wanted to know who she was trusting with her life.

Aamon shifted, then began to rise. Glenn scrambled backward as it crossed the stream and lowered itself into the moonlight.

Ever since she was a little girl, Glenn loved science because it taught her to take new things and incorporate them seamlessly into what she already knew about the world. It was like adding a new room onto an ornate but ever more perfectly constructed house. In science, she learned, everything is connected and everything is explained.

Despite that, when she looked at the nightmare that crouched before her in the moonlight, she couldn’t help but wonder if Dr. Kapoor had been right about her. Had her parents’ madness finally fallen to her?

Aamon Marta’s body was covered in what looked to be thick fur that blanketed the rise and fall of his slablike muscles and his fingers did in fact end in glistening claws. But it was his face that made Glenn’s stomach go cold. It was nearly human, but not quite. It was more like a panther’s, a broad triangle topped with arrow-shaped ears and a dark muzzle. His green, vertically slit eyes glowed with an almost sickly light. When Aamon breathed, his mouth opened, revealing deadly rows of fangs above and below.

“Now that you have seen me,” Aamon said in his deadly growl,

“may we go?”

They came to the edge of the forest late that night. Aamon

shouldered through the tree line and disappeared with Kevin cradled in his arms. Glenn stood frozen at the edge. It was insane, she thought.

There were no villages on the other side of the border. She had seen the pictures to prove it. But what choice did they have? It was too far to go back now. Glenn steeled herself and stepped through the trees.

Glenn’s breath left her in a rush. Before her was not the

devastation promised by a hundred school lessons and satellite photos; instead there was a long grassy clearing and, at the end of it, the towering outer wall of a small village. The wall seemed to be made of stout logs stacked one on top of the other to a height of twenty feet or more. Every turning of the wall featured what looked to Glenn like watchtowers. Each one carried burning torches that cast a flickering light, which spilled down the face of the wall and onto the grassland before it.

No
, Glenn told herself, wrestling the shock into submission.
This
makes sense. A few survivors struggling to get by near the border. I should have expected …

Aamon stopped a few steps ahead of her. He was standing just outside the reach of the lights, looking up at the wall.

“If this is it, then let’s go,” Glenn said, striding past him.

She gasped as one of Aamon’s giant hands fell on her shoulder.

The needlelike tips of his claws pressed into her skin. The barest pressure would drive them through.

“I need you to take him,” Aamon said. “It would be better.”

Glenn didn’t look back. The sight of Aamon still unnerved her. It was as if his body was a cypher Glenn’s mind was scrambling to decode and getting nowhere. She forced herself to push it aside. The only thing that mattered now was Kevin. She nodded stiffly and Aamon rolled Kevin into her waiting arms. He was still unconscious and seemed to weigh little more than a puff of air. Only a hint of a pulse fluttered at his throat.

“Do what I tell you and say nothing,” Aamon instructed. “Do you understand? Outsiders are not welcome here.”

Glenn drew Kevin close but before they had taken more than a few steps a bell began to toll deep within the compound. In between the tones, Glenn could hear people moving inside. Shadows leapt into the guardhouses with a clank of metal.

“No farther,” a voice boomed, followed by what sounded like ropes being stretched taut in each watchtower. Small metallic points glinted in the firelight.

Bows and arrows
, Glenn thought, with an almost giddy edge.

They’re pointing bows and arrows at us.

“I said no farther, stranger, or we’ll drop you where you stand.”

Aamon didn’t check his stride. Every step brought him closer to the ring of firelight around the village. There was a leather creak as bowstrings were pulled farther back. Aamon was less than a yard from the halo of light now and wasn’t slowing.

“Archers!” the man called out, readying them.

“Stop!” Glenn shouted.

But Aamon didn’t stop, not until he was standing fully in the light. Everything went still. Aamon’s bluish-gray fur shone in the fires’

glow. His clawed hands were clasped behind his back, and his head was slightly down as if he was waiting patiently for a visit from the welcoming committee.

There was activity behind the walls, jostling bodies and panicked voices followed by what sounded like a lock being thrown and a long creak as the front gate swung open. An old man came hurrying out of the village gate. Every step seemed a prelude to his tripping over the fluttering ends of his dark robes and sprawling out into the grass.

When he reached them the man crumpled to his knees before

Aamon. His bald head, fringed in white, fell and his open palms spread out on the ground next to him.

“Aamon Marta,” the man stuttered. “Please forgive us. It’s been so long. I am Decker Calloway. We thought you had gone. We … we all are pleased at your return. We’ll send an emissary to the Magistra right away. I —”

“No,” Aamon snapped. “Stand up.” Calloway trembled but didn’t rise. “I said stand up!”

Aamon’s voice was a clap of thunder. Calloway flinched, then did as he was told, his body shaking, his eyes on the ground.

“I have an injured human,” Aamon said. “He needs attention.”

Calloway glanced nervously at Glenn and Kevin. His eyes moved over Kevin’s green hair and leather jacket. Glenn stepped back, drawing Kevin closer to her.

“They are returning spies,” Aamon said quietly. “Sent across the border by the Magistra. Is Calle Frit still doctor here?”

“Pardon me, sir, but no. His son is, though he is out with the regent at the moment.”

“Who is the current regent?”

“Sir, it is Garen Tom.”

A sound rose in Aamon’s throat like an idling engine. Calloway tensed as he clearly fought the urge to flee.

“Is he near?” Aamon asked.

“No, sir. He is out near White Oak, hunting a Farrickite traitor.

We could send word —”

“No. Prepare his quarters for us and bring me the doctor’s spare instruments. We also require food and drink.”

“Of course, sir.” Calloway leapt to his feet and backed away from Aamon, head down, not turning his back until he was some distance away.

Glenn followed Aamon through the gates, studying the wall as they drew closer. In the spill of the firelight, she saw that the spaces between the logs were filled with a mix of mud and hay. High up in the towers, the eyes of the guards, framed in tarnished armor, watched them pass.

Glenn stepped through the gateway and onto a dirt road that led through the center of town. As soon as she did she clutched Kevin tight and had to stifle a gasp.

The road was lined on both sides by ranks of kneeling villagers.

They were all dressed in little more than rags and, like Calloway, they had their heads down, exposing the back of their necks. Their hands lay at their sides, palms up. Each one of them was as motionless as stone.

They looked like prisoners silently awaiting execution.

Aamon stood just ahead of her, staring at the ground as if he expected the stretch of dirt between the villagers to burn his feet.

“We have to go,” Glenn urged, once she found her voice.

“Kevin.”

Aamon grunted then forced himself past the gauntlet of villagers.

Glenn followed, trying not to be overwhelmed by the eerie silence of the place. Behind the kneeling villagers were lines of windowless shacks set in even rows. High up and centered on each closed door was a line of black that floated in the breeze. As Glenn passed close to one, she saw that they were feathers, glossy black with silver tips that shone in the firelight. They made something deep inside Glenn shudder.

When they were all inside the house, Aamon slammed the door.

“Put him there,” he ordered, indicating a low pallet covered in blankets that sat underneath a street-facing window. Glenn dropped down to one knee and rolled Kevin out of her arms and onto it. Kevin groaned but remained unconscious. “Get Frit’s instruments.”

Calloway scurried away as Glenn wiped the sweat from Kevin’s face with her sleeve. She lifted his blood-soaked shirt. Now that they were out of the darkness Glenn could see it was shockingly red, thickening to black at the center. Aamon had packed it with some kind of greenish paste. Glenn’s hands ached for her tablet. With it, she would have access to entire medical databases. Without it, she was helpless.

She looked over her shoulder at the stone hearth where a fire crackled, orange and yellow. Aamon was crouched in front of it, warming his hands. He reminded Glenn of gargoyles she had seen perched on ancient buildings, twisted demonic things. For the first time, Glenn noticed the long gray tail that fell behind him and swished restlessly back and forth. Aamon turned from the fire as if he knew Glenn was watching him. His green eyes flashed.

“What is this place?” she asked. “Who are you?”

“I have Dr. Frit’s instruments, sir.”

Calloway stood at the edge of the room, a small wooden box in his hands. Aamon snatched it away and crossed the room in a single stride. Glenn scrambled aside as he stooped down at the end of the pallet.

“Go out into the village,” Aamon commanded Calloway. “Find

me a healer.”

“Sir, there are no —”

“It doesn’t have to be a guild healer, Calloway. An herbalist.

Anyone with an Affinity. The boy needs help.”

Calloway’s face went a shade paler. “Sir” — he fumbled,

glancing at Glenn and then whispering fast — “you’ve been away. The guilds are no more. And the Magistra has restricted the use of those …

talents. To express an Affinity without approval is death.”

Aamon’s eyes went sharp on Calloway as if he was trying to root out an impossible lie. But before Aamon could say anything, a moan from Kevin pulled him back. Aamon brushed away the green paste.

“The poultice has slowed the bleeding, but we need to sew him up if he’s going to get better.”

Aamon fished a needle and spool of thread out of the bottom of the bag. They were rough, simple things, no different from what you’d use to mend clothes. Aamon threaded the needle and leaned forward, but Glenn grabbed his wrist before he could use it.

“You have to sterilize them first,” she said. “Boil them.

Something. It’s not safe.”

“All of Dr. Frit’s instruments are consecrated,” Calloway said from behind them. “I helped him myself.”

“Consecrated?”

“He means they are blessed,” Aamon said.

“I know what it means,” Glenn snapped. “You have to take us back so we can get him to a real doctor.”

“They’d capture you the second we crossed the border.”

“Let them!”

Aamon’s hand moved too fast for her to see, and before Glenn knew it, he had her wrist and was holding the bracelet up to her face.

“You’d give them what they want?”

Glenn tried to take her hand back, but his grip was like a vise.

“It’s a stupid piece of junk.”

“Then why were they ready to kill for it?”

“I don’t know. I don’t care!”