Witchlanders (19 page)

Falpian inched back to the path, feeling like a blind man. He was afraid now. What had happened to him on the ledge was already beginning to seem unreal, like something he had read about, or seen from far away.

The body of the attacking dreadhound had slid partway down the path. Falpian approached her warily. Dead eyes stared at nothing. Her body was twisted in an unnatural position, pink belly exposed.
I know this dog,
Falpian thought. Surprised, he stepped forward.

Kneeling in the snow, he took hold of one of the dog's saber teeth, turning her head to the side. There was a dark patch on one of her ears, a small blotch like black ink.

“Kildread,” he whispered. This was one of his father's dogs. She and Bo had shared a sire. Revulsion overcame him as he remembered the joy he'd felt at killing her. What was she doing here?

At that moment, he heard the clang of swords. Falpian clambered farther up the path until he could see over the edge. On the brink of the plateau, Ryder was fighting someone. It was Bron, his friend Bron.

This was all some terrible mistake. With expert swordsmanship the older man was driving Ryder closer and closer to the drop. Ryder was going to be killed.

“No! Please stop! Bron, stop!” Falpian heard the desperation in his own voice, and yet he hardly understood it. Why should he care so much if the Witchlander died?

Ryder glanced down, distracted by Falpian's words. Bron took the advantage and raised his sword, aiming a powerful blow at Ryder's skull.

“Watch out!” Falpian cried.

Just in time, Ryder ducked, and Bron's sword swung through vacant air. The Baen man lurched forward as the force of the empty blow upset his balance. He teetered on the edge.

“Ryder, help him!” Falpian shouted.

It was too late. Bron pitched forward over the brink, falling like tossed stone. Desperately, his arms flailed, grasping at nothing. Falpian turned his face away, but he heard the sickening thud as Bron hit the ground below.

The sleet was slower now, and Falpian's hair and clothes were stiff with ice. There was hardly any blood. Bron's legs didn't seem broken. Still Falpian knew, though he couldn't have said how, that the kennel master was near death.

“Bron,” he said, voice breaking as he knelt in the crusted snow.

Pain twisted the man's scarred face. He struggled to lift his head, but after a moment it fell back again. “Strange. I thought I heard your father's voice.”

“Shh. Don't try to talk.”

“Assassin's magic. He was always best at winter keys.”

“It was . . . It was only me.” Bron didn't seem to hear, and Falpian didn't repeat himself. It felt like lying; the person on the ledge seemed like someone else.

Bron tried to lift himself again, wincing terribly with the effort. “The dogs. Where are my girls?”

“They're fine,” Falpian lied, his voice shaking. “They're right here.” He laid his hand over Bron's. “Don't try to move. I need to find a way to get you to the cottage.”

“No. It's too late,” Bron said. To Falpian's surprise, he seemed to smile at this, and his black eyes were full of warmth. “I'm glad I failed. I thank Kar I failed. It wasn't right.”

“Failed?”

“I swear, I didn't know.” He took a great, rattling breath. “I didn't know when I left you what I'd be asked to do.”

Falpian sat back on his knees, clutching his coat around him. Nearby, the trees in the gorge swayed stiffly, their frozen branches clicking together in the wind.

“You tried to kill me,” Falpian murmured. “You sent the dreadhounds to attack. You sent them to . . .” He shook his head. But why? Was it because Ryder was in the house? Did Bron think he was a traitor, conspiring with the enemy?

“Bron,” Falpian said. “You're my friend. How could you think . . . ?”

Bron murmured something too soft to hear, and Falpian leaned forward. “The war is close, Falpian.” He drew another ragged breath. “Men are being trained; black ships are being built in secret—you should know this now.” Falpian glanced around, afraid Ryder might be near, but the Witchlander had stayed up on the plateau. Bron raised his voice, clutching at Falpian's coat. “It's time for
the Baen people to take back what they have lost!” A fit of coughing interrupted his words. Falpian imagined he could see his friend's life draining into the snow.

“Please!” he begged. “Don't talk.” Blood was seeping from the corner of Bron's mouth—Falpian had to get him to shelter. “I'll be right back. That man at the cottage—he'll help me get you up there.”

“Don't go!” Bron clutched at him again. “I need to explain. I want you to understand.” He lay back. “So many are afraid. The Witchlanders nearly killed us all in the last war. Too many of the lords want to cower in the Bitterlands, making do with what we have. We need to attack, Falpian, like we did at Barbiza and Tandrass. And we need every Baen man behind us. Your father knows that.”

“But I don't understand,” Falpian said. “What does this have to do with anything? What does it have to do with—with me?”

“A boy of high birth, a young man praying for his dead brother, someone innocent, with his whole life ahead . . . It was thought that if the witches attacked such a man in cold blood, the Baen people would throw support behind the war.” Bron paused and lay panting for a moment. Then he looked Falpian full in the face. “I was sent to kill you. And make it seem as if the witches had done it.”

“Oh,” Falpian said. He knew he should feel something,
but no emotion came. He heard the words, but they were wrong somehow.
It's all a mistake,
he thought.
My father would never allow it.

“I begged your father to send someone else . . . but I was the only one he trusted.”

“My
father
? He sent you?”

Bron must have seen the stunned look on Falpian's face. “Caraxus loves you. Do not doubt that if I had succeeded, he would have mourned his sacrifice for the rest of his life.”

“
His
sacrifice,” Falpian repeated. He thought back to how distant his father had been with him, how cold. Falpian had taken this for disappointment. Had it been guilt as well? How long had his father been planning this? How long had he felt that Falpian was worth more to him dead than alive?

“How—how could he do this to my mother?” Falpian asked softly. “Even if he didn't care for me. She's already lost one son.” But Bron wasn't listening.

“I hear them. My girls.” Bron hoisted himself up on his elbow with a groan.

“Don't get up.”

“Beautiful sound, don't you think? Dreadhounds baying for their kennel master.” His scarred face broke into a smile.

Falpian frowned and looked about, ears alert for any
sound, but there was nothing, only the crack of ice in the branches. When he turned again, Bron was dead.

Falpian threw open the door of the cottage. Bo, wet and bedraggled, thumped his tail against the floor as his master passed, but Falpian didn't stop. He went straight to the desk in the study and pulled out the bronze container. For a moment, he held it tightly in his hands.

“Please,” he prayed. “Tell me it was all a lie. I know I have a mission here. I know I'm supposed to do something important.”

The words engraved over the scroll holder seemed to move and twist as they caught the light.
Duty, honor, sacrifice
. Falpian pulled the scroll out and broke the wax seal. Slowly he unrolled the parchment.

It was blank.

He turned it over, stared at it back and front. His father had written nothing. Falpian had no mission here. None at all. He felt his body shake as rage coursed through him.

“Why?” he demanded coldly, as if his father could somehow answer. “Why give me a scroll at all?”

The pretense of a mission seemed so cruel—Bron could have killed him just as easily without it. Was it just to keep him on the mountain? Did his father think that without a mission, Falpian might come home early with his tail
between his legs, ruining the plan? Did he think Falpian such a craven wretch that he might shirk the duties of his mourning season?

“You know nothing about me!” Falpian shouted, hating the tears that were stinging his eyes. He picked up the metal scroll holder and hurled it across the room. It hit the window with a bang, leaving a star-shaped crack in the glass.

“Is he dead?”

Falpian wheeled around, breathing heavily.

“The assassin, is he dead?” Ryder stood in the doorway wearing Falpian's nightshirt and a pair of his leggings.

“Assassin?” Did Ryder think Bron was the one the witches told him about? Briefly Falpian wondered if there might be some truth in that. But no, Bron couldn't have anything to do with Ryder's confused notions of evil men and creatures made of mud. “Yes . . . he's dead,” Falpian said carefully.

“Well, stop talking to yourself and help me. I have to hurry.” Ryder turned abruptly.

“Who told you you could wear my clothes?” Falpian demanded, following Ryder into the kitchen.

“No time to dry my own.”

Ryder disappeared into the pantry and came out again almost immediately, carrying armfuls of white packets tied with string. It was lump—survival food made of dried meat
and berries held together with lard. He stuffed the packets into his pack.

“You're certainly in a hurry all of a sudden,” Falpian observed. Ryder turned and gave him such a look of anger and pain that Falpian took a step back. “What's wrong?”

“What's wrong? What's
wrong
?” Ryder's eyes were wild, and there was a desperation in his voice that Falpian hadn't heard before. Falpian's own anger and pain were so fresh, it was disconcerting to see them on someone else's face. “Are you blind?” Ryder gestured to the window.

Falpian went to the door and pulled it open, staring out at the frozen plateau. In front of him, the bodies of the dreadhounds lay like mounds of dirty snow. Beyond them was the crooked mountain, and beyond that, rising up like a pillar, was a line of smoke. Bloodred smoke.

Black for war, green to gather, red when the coven is under attack,
Falpian thought.

“But it can't be an attack,” he said. “It's too soon.”

Ryder grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around. “What do you mean ‘too soon'?”

Falpian stammered as the Witchlander's blue eyes bored into him. “I don't mean anything. I—”

He'd forgotten how much hatred could be communicated by that stare. Falpian's eyes fell to the velvet pouch on the windowsill, but Ryder was too quick. He grabbed the humming stone and stuffed it into the pack with the
other supplies. Then he took the rope from the table and came toward Falpian again.

“Don't,” Falpian said, shrinking back. “What are you going to do?”

Ryder grabbed him by the collar. “Change your clothes,” he said, pushing him toward the bedroom. “Change anything wet, and do it quick. You're coming with me.”

CHAPTER 15
THE BEST JOKES

A glaze of ice covered the trees, making them sparkle in the weak winter light. The sleet had stopped, and all was white and silent in the gorge. Falpian trudged through the crusted snow, his hands tied in front of him. Whenever he tried to stop and catch his breath, Ryder pushed him roughly from behind or whacked him with the flat end of his sword.

“Bo!” Falpian shouted. “Attack! Kill him! I know there's a real dreadhound in you somewhere!”

It was no use. Bo just stared at Falpian and cocked his head, then bounded off down the path, leaving wide stretches of untouched snow between his footprints. Up ahead, he turned a corner and disappeared.

“Stupid dog!” Falpian yelled. “I should have let them drown you!”

He walked on in brooding silence, listening to the
snow crunch under his feet. Around him, the glittering silence of the trees was too beautiful. It seemed to sap his anger, and Falpian needed his anger. Without it, his heart felt brittle and cold, heavy with ice like the branches. He wished he could keep his mind from drifting back to Bron's dying words; he wished he could erase what he knew from his mind; but the thought of his father's betrayal raked over him again and again.

“Where are you taking me?” he asked dully.

“Coven. Witches will find out what you know.”

Witches. Falpian lifted his eyes to the mountain. Lilla the Blood-Smeared. They cut off the hands of their victims and used them for prophecy bones. He knew what would happen to him up there.

“If the coven's been attacked, maybe all the witches are dead,” he said hopefully.

A sudden blow to the head jolted him, and Falpian stumbled to one knee; Ryder had cuffed him from behind. “If there are no witches left, who's tending the fire? Who made the smoke? Answer me that, Baen.”

Falpian turned and glared. Obviously he'd hit a nerve with his captor. “Fine, fine. Clearly there are enough witches left to boil me for dinner.” He stood up, brushing snow from his knees with tied hands.