The Young Dread (6 page)

“Try to concentrate on the higher purpose of our training,” she told him gently, “on how lucky we are to have this as our calling. Being a Seeker is bigger than you or me, bigger than personal fears.” Her voice was growing passionate, as it often did on this topic. “We're part of something…
exceptional.
I get just as scared, but that's how I fight my fear. It's not just about disruptors, you know. You need the mental control when you go
There.
Or you'll never come out.”

John realized he was looking at her with pity. She was a girl with stars in her eyes, born into the wrong family, and the wrong century. Yes, they were part of something exceptional, something bigger than themselves, but he would describe it in very different words—words such as “ruthless” and “vicious.” Briac was both of those things. John knew she would be going
There
tonight, and then beyond, when she took her oath. Quin might not yet realize the purpose of doing so, but John did. His mother, at least, had been honest with him, where Quin's father had not been honest with her.

What would she feel when she discovered the truth? That there may have been noble Seekers once, but nobility was not Briac's style? That her skills were going to be used for a very different purpose?

Softly he asked her, “What do you think you'll be doing tonight when you take your oath?”

“Briac said it would be a task that requires all of our skills.” He watched her eyes growing distant. “Whatever it is, I feel like every generation of my family for a thousand years is waiting for me to join them,” she said. “My whole life has led up to today.”

John too felt the generations stretching behind him, waiting for him to take his oath. He had promised—
Get it back and repay them for what they've done. Our house will rise.

“And what about the athame?” he asked quietly, pronouncing the word “ATH-uh-may.”

Quin was surprised, as he had expected her to be, for John was not yet privy to all of the secret knowledge that had been given to Quin and Shinobu. He watched her studying him, wondering where he'd learned the word.

“If you know about that,” she said, “then you're already halfway to knowing everything.”

“I know it's what Briac's talking about when he mentions ‘the most valuable artifact in the history of mankind.' And I know it's a stone dagger.”

“Even I have only seen it, John. A couple of times. I've never used it.”

“Until tonight,” he pointed out.

“Until tonight,” she agreed. She was smiling now, her excitement at the upcoming events returning.

In the distance, they heard loud, happy shouts. Quin ducked down and leaned through the opening between the trees, and John crouched next to her. From this angle, just barely, they had a glimpse across the commons. The shouts were coming from the cottages on the far side of the meadow. It was Shinobu with his father, both yelling about how well Shinobu had done in the fight. Alistair might be gruff and brutal on the practice floor, but with his son, in his free time, he was a teddy bear of a man.

It had always seemed to John that Shinobu was in love with Quin, but since they were cousins of some sort, there was never a question of Quin feeling anything romantic toward Shinobu. And eventually, once he'd had Quin to himself, he'd been able to treat Shinobu with more friendliness.

“They're celebrating,” John whispered. “We should celebrate.”

“What did you have in mind?” she asked softly.

John slowly pulled her toward him and kissed her. This time she didn't turn away.

They had always stopped themselves from doing anything more. Quin was waiting. She had her oath to take and at least a year more under her parents' guidance before they would consider her an adult. But she and John had daydreamed about camping trips across the river, or rooms in an inn somewhere, someday, when they would finally be able to give themselves to each other.

Now, however, something was different. Maybe it was her anticipation of the evening to come, or the glow of her triumph in the fight, but John felt something more in the way she was kissing him.
She loves me,
he thought,
and I love her. I want her to be with me, even when she knows everything.
The forest floor was covered with years of fallen leaves, and John pulled her down onto that soft ground. He whispered, “Let's go to my cottage—”

“Shh,” she said, putting a hand to his lips. “Look.”

From where they lay, they could see a figure emerging from deeper in the woods, heading toward them. John pulled Quin up, hiding them from view behind the branches. They watched as the figure got close enough to identify. It was the Young Dread, with a string of dead rabbits slung over her shoulder.

From the look of her face, they had figured her age at about fourteen, though of course, with the Dreads, age was a tricky thing. The Young Dread had arrived on the estate a few months ago, along with the other Dread, the one they called the Big Dread—a burly, dangerous-looking man who appeared to be in his thirties.

Briac had been vague in describing the Dreads' purpose for being there, but they were, apparently, to oversee the taking of oaths. Briac, who showed deference to almost no one, seemed strangely respectful toward the Big Dread. The apprentices had decided a Dread was a kind of judge of Seeker training, with a history at which they were forced to guess, since their instructors gave no more than hints.

If the Young Dread was indeed fourteen, she was short for her age. Her body was slender to the point of looking underfed, but her muscles told a different story. They were like delicate ropes of steel holding together her small frame. She had hair of an unremarkable dishwater brown, but it was thick and hung almost to her waist. It looked as though it had never been cut and had rarely been brushed, as though she'd received all her grooming advice from the Big Dread, who obviously knew nothing about raising girls.

She walked toward them with the strange gait shared by both Dreads. Her movements seemed slow, almost stately, like a ballet dancer during a particularly sad or serious part of the performance. And then, without warning, she would move at an entirely different speed. As they watched, there was a bird call from the meadow, and the Young Dread's head whipped around, almost too fast for their eyes to follow the motion. When she had identified the source of the noise, she continued on her way, as steady and fluid as a marble sculpture brought to life.

“Watch this,” Quin whispered, so softly that John could barely hear her, though his head was still only inches from hers. Silently, she pulled her knife from her waistband. She waited until the Dread had walked into a patch of sunlight that would make her momentarily blind to motion in the shadows. Then Quin drew back her arm and threw the knife at the Young Dread as hard as she could.

The blade arced through the shadows expertly, aimed just ahead of where the Dread was walking, so she would carry herself straight into its path and it would impale the side of her head.

Yet that was not what happened.

The Young Dread continued her steady approach until the weapon was almost upon her. Then her whole body exploded into action. Her right arm whipped forward and caught the knife out of the air. She spun around so quickly, she almost appeared to blur against the forest backdrop, and she released the blade back toward them much like a thundercloud releases a bolt of lightning. It was propelled at such high speed that they could hear it whistling through the air, and both John and Quin ducked.

It made a perfect arc from the Dread, around the edge of the cluster of trees, and buried itself to the hilt just inches from where Quin's hand still rested against the tree trunk. The vibration of its impact traveled all the way down the tree, and John could feel it in his feet.

“Nice shot,” Quin called, waving at the girl. “Maybe you'll teach me how to do that sometime.”

The Dread's eyes traveled slowly over their hiding spot, almost as if she were examining them minutely, even from that distance. Something about her gaze made them uncomfortable, and instinctively Quin and John moved a step away from each other, as though their intimacy could not survive her fierce stare. The Young Dread looked as if she might say something, but she never got the chance.

There was a new noise above the forest. The Dread and Quin and John looked up to see an aircar, throwing off a low vibration, circling to land in the commons. An aircar was such a rare sight on the estate that even the Dread stared at the vehicle for several seconds before turning away and resuming her steady walk.

John and Quin hurried to the edge of the meadow in time to see a man get out of the car and head toward Briac's cottage on the far side of the commons. When John caught sight of the man, he began to run, sticking to the trees but moving quickly, trying to get a better view.

Quin caught up with him. “What is it?”

The visitor turned for a moment, looking around the estate. John stopped running. Was he imagining things? The man's face looked familiar. But sometimes, when he was on the estate for months at a time, far from London and crowds, he found that every new face looked familiar.

“I don't know,” he said. “Do you think you can find out who he is?”

“I'm sure Briac will tell us if it's important.”

“I'm not,” John said quietly. He glanced at Quin and said mischievously, “But if eavesdropping makes you nervous…”

“Nervous?” She pushed him indignantly, and he was pleased to notice her now studying the visitor with more interest. John wanted as few surprises as possible when it came to Briac. “Hmm,” she said. “I'll come find you if I learn anything.” She kissed John lightly on the lips. “I know Briac will do right by you tonight. He'll say something harsh, but he's not going to stop your training. Of course not.”

With that, she ran ahead of him, toward the cottages. John could already feel himself bracing for the coming confrontation with Briac. He watched Quin go, her dark hair swinging, her body graceful—but not the slow grace of the Young Dread. Quin was full of life.

Quin glanced back at John as she ran from the woods and through the high grass of the commons. He was still standing where she'd left him at the edge of the meadow, in the shadow of a large elm tree. His eyes were following her, but his gaze had retreated within himself, as though he were thinking about something entirely other than her as he watched her go.

John's eyes were deep. That was how Quin had always thought of them. When he was with her, they would flash with humor and love, but at other times they were desolate and hungry, as though searching for something far away and out of reach.

It was his eyes that had first drawn her to him. Though John had only been twelve when he'd come to the estate, Briac had made him stay in a separate cottage out in the woods, all alone. Quin and Shinobu would visit him there often, intrigued by having another child on the estate, especially one so worldly, who lived in London and had been to many other places besides.

John had seemed wary of their company at first, and his look warned them away. He'd spoken very little of anything personal, but eventually, Quin had decided the storms in his blue eyes were not anger or fear of betrayal, as she'd at first thought, but simple loneliness. They'd begun to spend more time with each other, and she'd seen his look slowly change to something almost like happiness.

Now, moving across the commons, she could still feel the press of his lips on hers, his arms at the small of her back. She stole a final look as she neared her cottage, but he was gone.

A few minutes later she'd climbed through a window in the back wall of her parents' house. Crouching inside the pantry, which shared a wall with the cottage sitting room, she could hear the visitor from the aircar deep in conversation with Briac.

“There can be a disappearance,” Briac was saying. “In which case, searches may go on indefinitely. That can be good and it can be bad.”

Silently Quin pressed her ear against the narrow pantry door, which allowed her to hear better and see a small slice of the room through a crack between the door and the jamb.

Her father was sitting in the old leather armchair, beneath the rows of ancient crossbows strung along the ceiling, and next to the display chest decorated with carvings of rams—the symbol of Quin's family—and filled with knives. He was speaking to the visitor, a man in his twenties, who was warming his hands by a cheerful fire in the hearth.

The visitor wore clothes that appeared expensive, though Quin knew she was not a good judge of clothing styles. In her fifteen years of life, she'd spent almost no time off the estate.

“There can also be a clear-cut finish with no trail to follow,” Briac continued, one hand running through the dark hair that Quin had inherited from him. Her father's head was still untouched by gray. He was not yet forty years old, as trim and strong as he'd been as a young man, though to Quin he'd always been an ageless, all-powerful presence, like the sky or the land. “It depends on what you need,” he was telling the visitor. “We create a circumstance to serve your purpose. Do you know what you need?”

Briac was doing his best to appear friendly and polite to this visitor. Quin found the effect unsettling. She was used to her father's face and words being hard. He often frightened her. She accepted his demeanor as a necessity of her training: he was preparing her for a life that would be harsh, but it was harsh in service of something good. To be a Seeker was to be one of the chosen few who could step
between
and change things.

The visitor began to respond to Briac's question, speaking so softly that Quin could not make out the words. The man was very intent, but he seemed almost shy of speaking aloud. She pressed her ear more firmly to the pantry door.

Briac held up a hand. “Wait, if you would,” he said. “I'd prefer if we continued this discussion outside.”

The young man nodded, and the two of them rose to leave. When the visitor's back was turned, Briac took three steps across the room and gave the pantry door a hard shove, driving it into the side of Quin's head. She was sent sprawling to the floor.

She got slowly to her feet and staggered out of the pantry and into the kitchen, rubbing her head. In the other room, the cottage's front door opened and shut, and through a window, she saw Briac and the visitor walking together into the meadow. Apparently, Briac wanted privacy.

“Quin. What were you doing in there?”

Fiona Kincaid, Quin's mother, was sitting at the kitchen table with a mug of something in front of her. Quin caught a whiff of alcohol and knew her mother was drinking the strong cider of which she'd become so fond in recent years. On the stove, a stew was cooking for dinner, and there was bread in the oven, filling the cottage with delicious smells. These kitchen aromas were the background of her childhood, along with the scent of the tall grass that covered the commons and the rich earth beneath the trees of the forest. Only the faint trace of alcohol in the air took away from the sudden surge of happiness Quin felt. John would be successful. She and Shinobu would be successful. It was meant to be, and her life with John would be as she had always imagined.

“Were you eavesdropping?” her mother asked.

“I thought maybe it had something to do with tonight,” Quin explained, dropping into a seat across from Fiona and drawing her knees up against her chest. Her mother's dark red hair was back in a tidy braid, and her face was blank.

Even without a smile, her mother had a beautiful face. Everyone said so. She was looking out the window now, at Briac and the visitor as they walked away. Then she turned back to her mug of cider, her expression growing serious.

“What did you hear?” her mother asked.

“Nothing,” Quin answered. Then an unpleasant thought came. “You're not trying to marry me off, are you?”

This caught Fiona by surprise, and the hint of a smile formed on her lips. “Marry you off ? Why, did you find the young man good-looking?”

“I—I don't know. I'm not really used to…” Her sentence died in embarrassment.

“Of course we're not marrying you off,” her mother said with a gentle smile.

“Don't say ‘of course,' ” Quin responded. “That's what happened to you, isn't it?” In fact, her mother had never said that exactly, but this was the impression Quin had gathered from Fiona's description of her courtship and marriage to Briac Kincaid. She never spoke of falling in love so much as she spoke of her parents “making a match.”

“Well, we're not marrying you to
him,
” Fiona said, teasing her.

“I know how it used to be done,” Quin went on. “Protect the bloodlines. Keep control.”

In truth, she understood the value in being matched by her parents. Marrying someone her father trusted would help keep their knowledge and weapons under Briac's direct control. Briac and Alistair were, she had always been told, the last of the Seekers, and she and Shinobu must carry on this tradition in an unbroken line—and John, of course, but his line had already been broken, because his family had almost died out. In theory, she would be happy to marry someone who pleased her parents—but in reality she very much hoped that their choice agreed with her own.

Her mother took a long sip from her mug and shook her head. “We're not marrying you to someone, Quin. Even if your father might like the idea. Enough of your life has been planned out for you already, I think. You should choose your own mate.”

Quin looked out across the meadow to where she and John had just been walking. The feeling of happiness was upon her again, and she decided to take a leap. She was only hours away from taking her oath. Soon she would be an adult in their eyes. “Mum, you know I've already chosen him, don't you?”

Her mother followed her gaze out the window, but there was nothing visible except grass and trees.

Slowly Fiona asked, “And is he?”

“Is he what?”

“Is John Hart your mate?”

Quin felt her cheeks flush hotly. “Ma.”

“I believe you've been sneaking off together for a long while. Have the two of you…”

“No!” The conversation had taken a very fast and drastic turn. “Wait. What are you asking me?”

“Have you kissed each other?”

“Oh…Yes.” Quin found herself smiling despite the embarrassment. “Yes, we have done that.”

“And…” Fiona prompted.

“And what?” Quin was thinking of the way John had laid her on the ground, those lonely eyes of his focused completely on her…She looked down at her hands and said, “There's been kissing. A somewhat large amount. Don't you know already, Ma? You usually know these things without me saying.”

“Sometimes I do, but not this time. Are you sure that's all?”

“I'm not an idiot. Briac's hard enough on him as it is. I don't want him chasing John around with a shotgun.”

Fiona really did smile at that, her face lighting up as it rarely did. For a moment, Quin saw her mother's beauty at its full force, like a warm spring sun coming out from behind heavy clouds.

“Mum,” Quin said, deciding that she was already so embarrassed, she might as well press on, “do you think Father will mind?”

“Mind what?”

“If I marry John?”

Quin held her breath as she said it, worried about her mother's reaction. But why shouldn't she speak about marriage? John was the perfect partner. He was from an old family like her own, wasn't he? Like her, he wanted to use his training to do good things in the world. Maybe they would live together here on the estate, or maybe she would live with him somewhere more exotic, but either way, they would work together, fight together, to help the world.
Tyrants and evildoers beware…
And of course, she loved him deeply. Surely her parents could see that.

Quin's eyes followed her mother, waiting for an answer as Fiona got up to tend the stewpot. It was a mystery to Quin what needed to be tended. It was stew, after all. You could cook it for days if you felt like it.

Her back to Quin, Fiona asked, “Has he asked you to marry him?”

“Well, no, not yet. But we understand it, I think.”

“You're very young,” Fiona said softly. “I've never known— I'm still a bit surprised it's John you're choosing.”

Quin wasn't sure what her mother meant by that. Who should she choose, some stranger she'd never met? Some older man her father picked out? But she went on quickly anyway: “I don't mean now. Someday. Do you think Father will mind?”

Fiona turned to her, wiping her hands on her apron, her eyes looking anywhere but at Quin's face. “I think your father will have strong opinions on the topic, yes. And a lot has yet to happen between now and the time when you're ready to get married.”

“That's not really an answer.”

“But, Quin,” Fiona went on, as though Quin hadn't spoken, as though she had to say the words immediately or they would disappear, “it doesn't matter what he thinks. Your life is yours.”

Mildly astonished, Quin looked closely at her mother's expression, which had a nervous edge to it. Briac was, well,
Briac.
His absolute authority was part of the strange and privileged life into which she had been born.

“Ma…”

“Your life is yours,” Fiona said again, almost urgently, taking a seat next to her. She glanced toward the window, then back. “If you…if you wanted to go to John right now…if you wanted to leave the estate with him…have a different sort of life together, right now. I would understand.”

It was such a strange thing to say, she decided her mother must be more drunk than she looked.

“I'm not drunk, Quin.”

“I didn't say that! But…now that you mention it, I do smell something in your mug.”

“I'm not drunk,” Fiona repeated.

“I never said you were.”

“You did.”

It was pointless to argue about whether or not she'd said those words, so she didn't bother. “I'm going to take my oath
tonight,
Ma. Didn't Briac tell you? I can't leave the estate.”