The Reawakened (8 page)

As he walked, Dravek juggled two short torches, which unfortunately were lit. When they reached the edge of the clearing, Dravek stepped out onto the closest boulder, tossed the last torch high in the air and caught it behind his back.

“No one died,” he said.

“Then why is your hair so short?”

“I work with fire.” He shoved the unlit end of one torch into a chest-high hollow post between two boulders. “Prefer to keep the flames from engulfing my head.”

She stepped onto the flattest stone she could find and set down the pack he’d given her to carry. “You could wear it long, just tie it back.”

“I think it looks good like this.” He ran a hand over his head in both directions. The short strands sprang back into place. “Don’t you?”

His smile almost made her lose her balance as she shifted to the next stone.

“You shouldn’t cut your hair unless someone’s died. It’s a sacred privilege, not a matter of vanity.”

“Don’t assume you know all about me.” He crossed over several boulders to where the other hollow post stood. He inserted the torch, then pointed to a flat boulder halfway between the two flames. “Let’s sit.”

She made her way over to join him, stepping carefully to keep her balance so he wouldn’t touch her again. They weren’t wearing gloves today, and the thought of his skin against hers did not enhance her concentration.

They sat cross-legged on the rock, facing each other.

“Let’s see if you’re really a Snake.” He nodded at the torch to his left. “Make that one flare.”

“I can’t. All I can do is snuff.” A nervous laugh escaped her throat. “I’m just a lowly snuffer.”

He smirked. “Then show me how you snuff.”

Sura swallowed hard, then with no small effort, tore her gaze from him and stood to face the torch. She cupped her hands around her mouth, forming a tunnel that she aimed at the base of the flame. Her mind brought forth an image of a wet blanket descending, wrapping, smothering.

She sucked in a hard breath, and the torch snuffed out.

Sura feigned nonchalance as she turned back to Dravek, her limbs tingling with the torch’s heat.

“Good,” he said. “Now try it again without looking.”

The flame burst forth from the end of the torch. She gasped. His eyes had never left her face, nor had he given the slightest twitch.

“How did you do that?”

“With my mind,” he said, “the way you’ll learn to do.”

“But I thought Snakes could only
control
fire, not make it out of nothing.”

“It wasn’t out of nothing. The torch was still hot, so I just brought it back to life. Now try it again without looking.”

Sura set her jaw and faced the torch again, this time with her eyes shut. Her mind reached out, calculating the distance, trying to see the flame’s position.

“No need to scrunch up your face,” Dravek said.

“Shh. I’m trying to see it.”

She heard the rustle of his clothes as he stood and drew near. The heat under her skin continued to build.

“Don’t try to see it.” His whisper caressed the top of her ear. “Just feel it.”

She shifted away a few inches and extended her hand toward the torch. “I can’t.”

“I’ll help you.” Touching her waist, he turned her around. She drew in a sharp breath and reached for his arms to steady herself.

“I won’t let you fall.” He turned her in place, spinning her slowly one way, then the other, until she no longer knew which way was which. “And no using the sun to get your bearings…” He covered her eyes with his palm and began to turn with her. She let her body relax against his, surrendering to this disorienting dance.

After a few more rotations, Dravek held her still, his hand over her eyes. “Try it now, Sura. If you’re really a Snake, you should feel the fire wherever it is. It calls to you.”

She settled her mind, noticing how cool his hand felt against her brows and the bridge of her nose. Perhaps he had released his own heat by reigniting the torch a minute ago. She wanted do the same, to stop the burning within that begged her to reach for him, to do the wrongest thing in the world.

She drew a deep breath, and the fire appeared in her mind—not as an orange flame dancing in the breeze, but as a pulsing white core of heat. It wanted to be inside her, swallowed and consumed like prey. She coiled her awareness around it and squeezed, gently but without mercy. The fire sighed as it died.

“Yes,” Dravek breathed. “Now bring it back.”

“I can’t.”

“You can. Quickly, before the torch cools. Let the heat flow back all at once. Count to three and then release.”

“One,” Sura said under her breath. The heat twitched within her, wanting to take form in flame again. If she didn’t send it out, it would devour her.

“Two,” she whispered. Dravek was right. It would be easy. Make it burn.

An image slammed her mind, the one she’d been fighting all morning, the one that Dravek’s intoxicating presence had banished for a few moments.

An Asermon farm, burning. Flames licking the thatched roof, ripping it, until it collapsed on the shrieking people within.

She tightened her mental grip on the torch’s embers, smothering them to cold hard nothingness.

Dravek let her go. “You almost had it. What happened?”

She tried to speak, but the heat seared her lungs so that she couldn’t even catch a breath. She bent over and gripped her knees.

Dravek reached for her.

“Don’t touch me!” she choked.

“You’re burning up,” he said. “If you don’t let it out, it’ll hurt you.”

“I can handle it.” She sat down hard on the boulder. Red circles danced before her eyes.

Dravek knelt beside her. “You don’t have to handle it.” He took her wrist. “Give it to me.”

As if he’d opened the spout of a well pump, the heat rushed from every part of her body, down her arm toward the place where they touched. He gasped and went rigid. His eyes bulged, showing more white than black.

“What’s wrong?” She tried to pull her arm out of his grip, which had tightened like a muskrat trap. “Dravek?”

A sudden sweeping
whoosh!
came from behind her. She turned to see the extinguished torch flare toward the sky. The flame reached higher than the tallest tree, its core shining with blue-white heat.

Dravek let go of her wrist and collapsed on the boulder. Sweat soaked his scarlet face, which was quickly paling.

The torch cracked in half, then toppled over onto the rocks. They watched in silence as it slowly burned itself out, the ashes falling in clumps and scattering across the rock in the steady breeze.

“Did we do that?” she whispered, though she knew the answer.

Dravek sat up slowly, turning away from her. He put his head in his hands and murmured, “There must be a reason for this.”

She looked at the broken torch. “We made a lot of heat.”

“It was you,” he said. “I was just channeling it.”

“But if I took the heat from the first torch and gave it to you, then the second flame should have only been twice as big. But it was easily ten times the size. That means we multiply each other’s powers, not add to them. But why?”

“Why,” Dravek whispered, but didn’t answer or even look at her. Finally he let out a long breath before getting to his feet. He stepped over the boulders until he reached the broken torch. She watched him bend down next to the foot-long piece of wood, watched the muscles of his back shift as he reached forward to grasp it, watched his long fingers curl around the splintered shaft.

Sura knew she shouldn’t stare. He was another woman’s mate. He was her mentor. Most of all, he was her Spirit-brother. But her eyes refused to blink as he lifted the torch and brought his other hand toward it.

The flame burst forth, small and orange and controlled again. His shoulders relaxed, as if he’d just released a great source of tension.

Dravek turned to her. “I think you’re a Snake. But it’s not up to me.” He stepped to the next boulder and pulled a small pack out of the one they’d brought. “Here’s everything you need.”

“For what?”

“Your Bestowing. A change of clothes, a few blankets, a bit of food and water to break your fast in three days, before you return.”

“My Bestowing?” She stood up and almost backed off the side of the boulder. “Now? Where?”

He looked at Mount Beros, then back at her. “The sooner you go, the sooner you’ll have full control of your powers, and the sooner you can help your mother.”

“But—”

“I’m leaving,” he said. “After the wedding, Kara and I are moving to Tiros. You and I don’t have much time together.” He looked away, then back at her. “To train.”

Sura hid her flinch at this news. “I didn’t know that.” She climbed up onto his boulder and took the pack from his hand. “Where on the mountain do I go?”

“Just keep walking until you find the place that feels right.”

I already have,
she thought, and wanted to slap herself. She slung the pack over her shoulder. “Dravek, what if I’m not a Snake?” She attempted a smile. “Can we still be friends?”

His gaze was deadly serious as he moved closer. “If you’re not a Snake…” Dravek touched her cheek with the barest tip of his fingers. “We can be anything you want.”

He cleared his throat. “‘Dear everyone, I hope this finds you well and happy, as much as can be expected. Filip and I are thrilled to be grandparents, though I torment him by disappearing and reappearing when he’s trying to give a speech. The people here in Ilios think it’s fun, though. All the political talk and military efforts by Filip and Kiril don’t impress people nearly as much as a third-phase Wolf’s invisibility. Hee-hee.’”

Rhia smiled, though she missed her sister so much it hurt. She wondered if the landscape in that part of Ilios were anything like the red-brown hills they rode through now. She found it ironic that the more remote sections of Ilios were freer than Asermos and Velekos when it came to practicing magic.

“‘As you might have heard,’” Marek continued reading, “‘we’ve sent most of the surviving Kalindon captives back home to the Reawakened lands. Once the Ilions found out the children in the army camp didn’t develop magic no matter how deep the wilderness, they started selling them off at slave auctions. It felt strange to purchase people I used to baby-sit, but at least they’re free now.’”

“Why do you think they don’t develop powers?” Rhia asked Marek.

“Maybe the Spirits won’t give magic to those who’d use it against us. Let me finish before I get motion sick.” He flipped a page. “‘Arcas and Koli send their love. They finally had a child after all these years of trying. I call her my little sunbeam. I’d never tell my own children this, but I secretly always hoped one of them would have Filip’s blond hair instead of taking after my—’” Marek cut himself off. “What’s that smell?”

“Is that part of the letter?”

“No. Stop for a moment.” He slid off the horse’s back and rushed around the next bend in the trail.

“What is it?” She rode forward and turned the corner. “What did you—” The stench hit her nose, an odor she knew all too well.

Rhia urged the horse to the edge of the ridge and looked out upon the sort of slaughter that could only be the work of her brother.

And now her son, she realized with a thudding heart.

A platoon of Descendants lay in the wide ravine. The late-morning sun revealed not even a twitch of life. A sea of vultures, ravens and crows shared a macabre feast.

She dismounted slowly, her body weighted with dread.

“No,” Marek said. “Let’s move on. There’s nothing you can do here.”

“I have a duty to the dead.”

“It’s not safe.” His eyes narrowed at the bodies. “Besides, they’re just Descendants.”

“They’re all the same to Crow.”

Marek scoffed. “I wish I could be so broad-minded.” He pointed back into the ravine. “I hear a stream that way. I’ll water the horse while you’re taking care of the enemy.” He jerked the reins out of her hand.

She sighed as she watched him lead the horse away. His treatment in Ilion captivity had hardened his heart against them. She couldn’t blame him. It was all she could do herself not to walk away and leave the soldiers to the scavengers.

As she neared the scene of battle, the birds took flight in a rush of thumping wings. The ravens and crows alighted on the rocky outcrops and trees of the hill, while the vultures glided in the sky above, biding their time until their meal resumed. Rhia stepped carefully among the bodies, checking for signs of life. Though she had no healing magic, her mother had taught her first aid, and she’d unfortunately had many occasions to whet that skill.

All twenty corpses wore the scarlet-and-yellow uniform of the Descendants. Though many had round red arrow wounds in their arms and legs, and a few appeared to have sword slashes in their sides, every throat was slit from ear to ear. Each had died in his enemy’s embrace.

In the center of the carnage lay a Descendant flag. Its red-and-yellow tatters fluttered in the wind. As she knelt to examine it, she caught the distinct scent of human urine.

She wrinkled her nose. “Lycas, was that necessary?”

Perhaps it was. She’d never understand a warrior’s mind, never grasp the need to turn the enemy into something less than human. When she released their souls to Crow, He gladly accepted each one.

As the vultures’ shadows swept the ground, Rhia walked the area’s perimeter in search of more clues.

A mass of footprints led south toward Velekos, including sets of hoofprints with boot prints beside them, as if someone were leading the horses at a leisurely pace. Probably Lycas’s troupe on their way to Velekos. More footprints led west, deeper into the hills—Sirin’s fighters returning to the guerrilla headquarters.

She quickened her pace, reaching the eastern end of the perimeter. What she saw stopped her breath.

A set of horse tracks pointed east, toward Asermos. They were deep and widely spaced as if the animal were running.

Rhia quickly knelt beside the first body and murmured the prayer of passage. When Marek appeared with the pony, she called out to him.

“Keep a listen to the east. A horse ran away.”

“We should leave now.”

Fear tugged at her. If a Descendant had escaped on that horse, he could return with reinforcements. But it wouldn’t be the first time she’d risked her life for her Crow duties.

“Just a few more minutes,” she told Marek.

When she had said a prayer over each body, she found a clean spot in the center of the bloodbath—away from the flag—and knelt to call the crows. Before closing her eyes, she glanced at Marek. His own eyes were blank as he tuned his mind to his better senses of hearing and scent.

The crows came at once, circling the sky, one for each dead. Their rasping, croaking voices filled her mind, creating a whirlwind of sound. She sank into it, feeling the presence of Crow flow through her.

Marek’s voice reached through the cacophony. He was the best part of her real life, but these moments between worlds were precious to her.

“Rhia!” He shook her shoulder hard, jolting her out of the reverie.

“What? What?” She wiped her face with her sleeve and looked up into his wide gray eyes.

“Call them off.” Marek took her elbow and hauled her to her feet. “I hear something.”

She waved her arms at the birds. “Go!” They dispersed with a few stray
grok!
s, returning to the hillside.

In the crows’ silence came the sound of many hooves.

She turned to dash for their horse, but Marek grabbed her.

“They’ll catch us if we run,” he said. “We have to hide.”

“We can’t hide our horse.”

“We’ll send him home.”

He stuffed Alanka’s letter into their saddlebag as Rhia tied the reins in a knot so the horse wouldn’t trip on them.

“Yahh!” Together they smacked the horse’s rump, and he took off in the direction of Tiros.

Marek grabbed her hand, and they dashed deeper into the ravine. The rock walls echoed with approaching hooves, making it sound as if they were being chased by hundreds.

They came to a dead end, with nowhere to go but up. As they climbed the ridge’s steep trail, the hooves silenced. The Descendants had found the massacre.

Rhia and Marek reached a flat part of the ridge. They dropped to their bellies and peered over the edge at the new Ilion platoon.

Most of the soldiers were caring for their dead—wrapping them and placing them on skids, which were being attached to the horses. From a distance, their sad, heavy postures made them look like any other men in mourning. One knelt next to his fallen comrade, face turned down but palms to the sky.

“He’s praying,” she whispered.

Marek followed her gaze. “To Xenia, the death goddess.”

“Look.” She pointed to a pair of soldiers who were studying the tracks of their horse. “Maybe they’ll think we went back to Tiros.”

One of the soldiers called over several more, and they all headed into the ravine, fully armed, following what must be fresh footprints. Marek cursed and pulled Rhia to her feet. They ran.

The trail twisted and narrowed as it climbed the hill, which provided no caves or crevices for shelter.

They rounded the corner of a large red rock wall, and the trail suddenly shrank to a narrow ledge. Rhia skidded, nearly slipping over the edge of the cliff. Marek grabbed her around the waist. Panting, she peered into an enclosed ravine at least twenty feet deep.

“Careful.” He stepped sideways along the ledge, his back to the cliff. “Don’t look down.”

Rhia heard voices on the trail behind them. She took a deep breath and followed Marek, keeping her eyes on him and the other edge of the ravine, where the trail widened.

She reached the other side and gave a heavy exhale. Marek took her hand.

They rushed around the next bend, and her heart sank.

A dead end.

Marek swept aside the branches of a thick bush. “Get down.”

“There’s no room for you.”

“Doesn’t matter.” He pushed her, gently but firmly, inside the shrub. “Whatever happens, don’t make a sound.”

She shook her head. “You can use your Fox camouflage.”

“If I hide, they’ll find you. They’ve seen our footprints. They know there are two of us.”

“Then what good does it do me to hide?”

“So you’ll be out of the way while I kill them.” He put his fingers to her lips. “They won’t take me alive.”

She clutched his hand and held back a sob. “Don’t do this.”

Marek kissed her softly. “I love you.”

He stood, unstrapped the bow from his back and moved the hunting knife in his boot to the back of his waistband.

Rhia shrank back into the brush and waited.

With a rush of feet and clanging swords, the Descendants appeared. She heard the wooden squeak of a bow stretched taut.

“Get out,” Marek snarled to them. “This is your one warning.”

“Throw down your weapon!” one of the soldiers yelled.

A snap, then a whistle, and someone gave a strangled yelp.

“That
was
your one warning,” Marek said.

Someone shouted the order to charge. Marek’s bow snapped again and again, but Rhia heard only the thump of arrows hitting shields as the soldiers advanced.

He backed up until his feet were next to the bush where Rhia hid. The soldiers were almost upon him. She wouldn’t let them take him from her again.

Just as she was preparing to leap out and shove his attackers into thin air, one of Marek’s heels slipped. He backpedaled, kicking up dust and small stones, then tumbled over the edge of the ravine. His scream lengthened and faded, cut off by a sickening thud.

Her heart slammed to a halt. No sound came from below.

No. He couldn’t be dead. Not Marek.

She clutched her hair and held in her shriek, longing to hurl herself over the edge, to join Marek forever on the Other Side. Her heart demanded it, but her legs remained frozen in place, the weight of the silence crushing her into the hard, cold earth.

Rhia opened her eyes.
The silence.

She listened with the depths of her soul, but heard no wings. Crow wasn’t coming.

Marek was alive.

“Is he dead?” one of the soldiers said.

“You two, go find out,” said another with a commanding voice. “If he’s alive, he’ll have information.”

“Sergeant, there’s no way down except jumping off the edge ourselves.”

A pair of feet came close to the bush, boot toes brushing the bottom leaves. “The tracks stop here.”

The branches swept back, and Rhia stared up at the face of a blue-eyed soldier.

“Look what I found.” He gave her a satisfied smile, then grasped her under the armpits and yanked her from the bush. He dragged her to the edge of the ridge and dumped her on her knees.

“No!” she shrieked when she saw Marek lying sprawled on the rocks below. He looked so lifeless, she didn’t have to fake her fear.

She spit on the boots of the closest Descendants. “Murderers!”

Another man seized her braid and yanked her head back. “How do you know he’s dead?” His voice belonged to the one they’d called “Sergeant.”

She tugged the crow feather out of the front of her shirt. “I hear Him fly.”

The sergeant let go of her and twisted his well-lined face. “Filthy beast. We’ll take her instead.”

Someone yanked Rhia’s hands behind her and bound them with a rope.

A younger soldier with a boyish face said, “Sergeant, you still want us to get the body?”

The sergeant peered over the edge. “Might as well let the crows take care of him.” He nudged Rhia with the tip of his boot. “It’s not worth the risk now that we’ve got this one.”

She started to weep, repeating Marek’s name through her tears to reinforce the lie of his death.