Rise of the Darkwitch (The Dance of Dark and Light Book 1) Page 13

  ‘Mantos, Mantos…’

  Bandim.

  And yet, it wasn’t. Something was strange, as if the creature was a reflection in an unpolished plate.

  ‘Dear brother,’ Bandim whispered. ‘I will find you…’

  In a whirl of heat and dust, the voice distorted, whining and stretching until Mantos could bear no more. He pressed his hands to his ears, chanting in vain protection.

  ‘Stop! Stop!’ he cried. ‘Leave me be! Leave me be!’

  Uncountable hands were upon on his body, touching and grabbing and pulling him apart, and—

  ‘Mantos, Mantos!’

  He jerked upright, bed covers tumbling from his soaked skin. His eyes roved, trying to find the owner of the hands. When he caught the gaze of his mother, and felt the softness of her skin, tears flowed.

  ‘Mother…’

  Phen took him in her arms.

  Mantos fell into the embrace. Before, his mother was a pitiable figure, caged in the prison of her mind. She was someone his father never spoke of. She was the wretched waif in the Widow’s Tower, someone he was forbidden to visit, though that did never stopped him. But he never expected to hold her gaze.

  Now, she was here. Now, she held him in her arms. She was real.

  ‘Shh, shh,’ Phen cooed. ‘It’s alright, my sweet. It was another dream. Another terrible dream.’

  Memories of sleepless nights came back to him, a youngling wishing for his mother’s embrace, receiving nothing but cold air and silence. He had needed her. Needed her. But now she was with him, truly alive and well. And she held him as long as he needed.

  He had come back from the dead.

  It was all too much.

  When his tears abated at last, thunder rolled in the distance. Phen touched his face, brushing stray droplets with the tip of her thumb. She traced his armour.

  ‘My son,’ she whispered. ‘I can’t believe you’ve come back to me.’

  Swallowing against his tight throat, Mantos mirrored her gesture.

  ‘I can’t believe you’ve come back to me,’ he said. ‘All those cycles of secret visits… I never thought I would hear your voice.’

  Phen kept her hand on his face. Thunder rolled again, growing closer.

  ‘I’m here,’ she said, her voice strained. ‘I wouldn’t have left you if I hadn’t been forced. But it was either my life or yours… There was no choice to make. I had to keep you safe.’

  There was a flash in the darkness, but Mantos didn’t turn away. Here she was. His mother. His mother, who had, for his entire life, been a husk, lingering on life’s periphery. Someone with two dead eyes and no voice.

  Phen smoothed fronds from his face.

  ‘Tell me about the nightmare,’ she said, her voice soft as silk. ‘Please, tell me.’

  The words had a pleading edge. Mantos closed his eyes for a moment. The air grew heavy, as if the weight of absence fell with the coming storm. Where had she been for every other nightmare? Where were her words of comfort then? The moment of anger passed like a shadow. She had been in a tower, half-dead to keep him alive.

  ‘It was Bandim,’ Mantos said, opening his eyes again. ‘He was taunting me. Threatening me. And he was somehow...different. Changed. It was him, and yet there was something more. Something dangerous and…powerful.’

  Phen clasped his claws.

  ‘He is not who I expected him to be,’ she said. ‘I never thought my younglings would try to harm me, and yet he did.’

  As the words slipped out, Mantos’s eyeridges drew downward.

  ‘What did he do?’

  He could see his mother curse her loose tongue. Regardless, she answered.

  ‘He told me he would kill me,’ she said. ‘For days, he visited me. Every time, he said he would throw me from the tower. He would say I flung myself out in grief for your father—and for you.’ She gulped against Bandim’s bitterness. ‘I think he would have relished it.’

  Rage kindled in Mantos’s chest.

  ‘He always resented my life,’ he said. ‘He would rather I had died and you had stayed with him.

  A crack of lightning split the sky, bisecting the open window. Phen began to weep. The first drops of rain fell.

  ‘I need you to know something,’ she said. ‘I would have done it for either of you. I tried to tell Bandim that, to tell him that if it had been he who had tumbled from his nest, I would have done the same. But...’ She sniffed hard, wiping her tears. ‘He would not believe me.’

  Mantos brushed a talon under his mother’s eyes.

  ‘My brother cannot understand the world beyond the reach of his own claws,’ he said. ‘He resented me from the day he understood why you were gone.’

  Phen leaned into Mantos’s touch.

  ‘I just meant to save you,’ she whispered. ‘I didn’t want to push him away. But I haven’t given up on him,’ she said, hope shining in her eyes. ‘He is sick in his mind, but surely he can be cured. Bomsoi brought you back to me—and you were dead. If she can do that, she can do anything.’

  The memory of the nightmare, and the darkness in his brother’s eyes, cut like a knife. Unable to stop himself, Mantos shuddered. It was more than a mere dream. The feelings were visceral. Real.

  ‘I don’t know, Mother,’ he said. ‘I think...’ He stopped, rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, then sighed. ‘I don’t know what I think. But I fear Bandim is a danger to us all.’

  Smiling, Phen squeezed his hands.

  ‘It was just a nightmare,’ she said.

  Mantos shook his head—a deliberate movement, left to right.

  ‘No, Mother,’ he said. ‘It was more than that.’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Training

  Emmy stood at the front of the healer’s tent and shaded her eyes against the dipping sun. There were black figures on the hilltop, silhouetted against the orange wash of the sky. She squinted, trying to make sense of the shapes. I wonder if it’s Charo, or maybe Zecha, she thought. I haven’t seen them in days. Her tunic clung to her skin and she passed a hand over her forehead, threading her claws through her horn crest.

  She closed her eyes and listened. The forest hummed, and if she strained her ears, the sound of animals sharpened: hooting, shuffling, and snuffling in the dirt. She hadn’t seen trees quite so tall, nor had she encountered plants as fragrant as those on Althemer. As Merish waned and Decos waxed, flowers exploded with colour, spilling along the tree-line, coiling in unkempt tendrils around the fences.

  An appreciation for the outside world was something new. The four walls of the apothecary had been her life. She was an object like the bottles, plants, powders. Measuring and pouring and sweeping and cleaning and…

  It was all gone now. Her perfectly ordered, perfectly painful life, had disappeared in a whirl of flames. Krodge was dead. The shop was destroyed, and now she had lost her freedom. She turned back to the tent and lifted the flap. Days had turned to weeks and weeks to a month. And they were still here, still slaves on Althemer. Her old life was gone.

  When she entered the tent, her fingers twitched. The mess of pallets, strewn cloths, empty ewers and full chamber pots reared in Emmy’s mind like a vaemar. She clenched her fists. I can’t stand it any longer!

  She began with the beds beside the front entrance. Before long, she brought sense and cleanliness to the chaos. The assistants glared at her, muttering Althemerian curses under their breath, and kissing their fists, laying them on their hearts. The Althemerians didn’t cherish Medicine-Emmy any more than Krodge had cherished her. They think I’m a demon, Emmy thought. Nothing new there…

  Done, she planted her hands on her hips, her tail swishing. Finally, she could think.

  ‘I see you’ve been busy.’

  Emmy jumped at the intrusive voice. Rel ducked inside the tent. She surveyed Emmy’s work with a mild twitching at the corner of her mouth. Emmy clasped her hands behind her back, waiting.

  ‘Good,’ Rel said. ‘You are no fool, Emmy.’r />
  Emmy’s shoulders loosened.

  Two assistants strode through the canvas flap, faces furious. One almost slammed into Rel’s solid back. The other pulled an expression that could only herald a complaint. Rel gave her a hard stare, stopping the words before they were spoken. Emmy turned to tidy bottles on a rickety trestle table, making sure their labels were straight, with no peeling edges.

  ‘Do not show such disrespect to Medicine-Emmy,’ Rel said. ‘It is her duty to care for the ill, not to clean. And yet she is doing your job as well as her own.’

  ‘But, Medicine-Rel, she—’

  ‘I do not care,’ Rel snapped. ‘See that you keep this level of cleanliness, or I will transfer you to combat.’

  The assistants’ eyes widened. Having no recourse, they scurried off, making beds with heavy hands.

  Rel laid a hand on Emmy’s shoulder.

  ‘Come,’ she said. ‘I need to have a word with you.’

  Emmy nodded, chest tightening, and followed in Rel’s footsteps. What can this be about? she thought.

  Insects chirped and bristled. The sun had fallen further. A soldier on the back of a vaemar lit tall lamps dotted the camp. Rel threw something. Emmy’s hands fumbled, and when she finally secured her grip, she stilled. It was a wooden baton.

  ‘You don’t need much help from me regarding medicine,’ Rel said. She held a wooden weapon of her own. ‘However, I can teach you my other skill.’ She raised an eyeridge. ‘I will teach you to fight.’

  ‘Fight?’ Emmy asked. ‘I thought I was safe from the fighting.’

  ‘You are safe from front of the army,’ Rel said. She spun with the weapon, moving from one pose to another. Her muscles flexed under her skin. ‘However, you are not safe. Enemies can sneak in the darkness. They can come to lonely tents and—’ She dragged a claw across her throat. ‘The Masvams love to kill healers. You need to learn to protect yourself.’

  Emmy held the sword at arm’s length, as if it was a chunk of putrid meat.

  ‘I don’t know where to start,’ she said.

  ‘No matter,’ Rel said. ‘I will teach you. There’s no need for you to become a warrior, but you should know how to protect yourself. Now, hold it—no, with just one hand. It is not a club.’

  ‘And a stick is not a sword,’ Emmy countered. ‘What am I going to do with a stick?’

  ‘It isn’t a stick,’ Rel said. ‘It’s an ohza, a wooden baton. But that is of little consequence. Ready yourself!’

  Face flushed, Emmy lifted her chin, but did as she was told. Rel positioned herself to attack and Emmy flinched. All that came her way were words.

  ‘Two warriors face off in forest,’ Rel said, bouncing a little on her feet. ‘The first is old, a female skilled with a sword, but weakening. The second is young, headstrong, and only has a stick to defend herself. Who wins?’

  Emmy snorted and tried to mimic Rel’s stance.

  ‘I suppose you’re going to tell me the young one with the stick does,’ she said.

  Rel struck out and knocked the ohza from Emmy’s grip. Her gasp echoed into the darkening forest.

  ‘No,’ said Rel, holding her own ohza to Emmy’s chin. ‘The skilled female runs her weapon through the other’s middle and kills her.’

  Emmy blinked. She tilted her head. Rel clicked her tongue.

  ‘She wins because of her skill,’ Rel continued. ‘But skill with steel begins with skill with wood. If the weapons were reversed, who would win then?’

  ‘I imagine you’ll tell me it’s still the old female,’ Emmy said.

  ‘Yes,’ Rel said. She withdrew the sword. ‘Why? Because it isn’t the weapon that wins. It’s the skill. And skill starts with the stick, so pick it up.’

  Emmy retrieved her discarded weapon. Rel took up another fighting stance.

  ‘Stand like this, feet apart. Use your tail for balance.’ she said. ‘Good. Now, try to strike me.’

  ‘I—I—’

  Cursing her fearful stutters, Emmy closed her eyes. Just concentrate…

  She burrowed into her pits of anger. She thought of Krodge and her cruel strikes. She thought of Zecha, lying in a sea of mire, bleeding to death. She even thought of Bose’s nasty taunts—and his detached head.

  Emmy flew forward with her ohza raised. Rel’s face was gone. Instead, she landed blows on Yamor, and all the Masvams who ruined her life.

  Then she was striking Pesmam, who so cruelly cut a hole in Zecha’s belly.

  Then she was fighting a faceless, blacked-out figure, the body of Charo was at its feet.

  Emmy struck out wildly. She knew it was Rel. Yet she kept striking, landing blow upon blow upon blow.

  Without warning, Emmy was stunned, stilled, and enveloped in a cold wind. Rel’s face was thunderous, her arm outstretched. Her eyes were ablaze with blue flame. Emmy’s heart hammered, the blueness of Rel’s once-green eyes probing deep into the darkness of her heart.

  ‘Who—who are you?’ Emmy choked.

  The wind abated as Rel withdrew her hand. Emmy collapsed, panting and clutching her head. What happened? she thought. What did Rel do? Why were her eyes so…blue? I don’t understand!

  Twin screams jerked her upright. Rel yelled as she was set upon by two very familiar figures.

  Charo and Zecha.

  They tried to land blows on the female with their own ohza. They were quick, but Rel was skilled. She struck out, knocking Zecha from his feet. Charo dodged the sweeping arc of the same blow and lunged at Rel’s head. Rel ducked, and Charo was felled, pinned under Rel’s boot. Zecha growled and leapt onto Rel’s back. His hands went for her neck.

  ‘Oi! Stop!’

  As quickly as he landed, Zecha was yanked off and held in a headlock by a burly guard. More appeared in her wake.

  Rel grunted and lifted her foot from Charo’s chest. Zecha struggled in the guard’s grip until Rel barked an order for his release.

  Another voice cut in.

  ‘What is going on here?’ came the scream. ‘Medicine-Rel, explain!’

  It was Commander Pama, teeth bared, braids swinging.

  Dropping the ohza, Rel held her palms up.

  ‘A misunderstanding,’ she said. ‘These ones,’ she jerked a thumb at Zecha and Charo, ‘are good for beginners. They’re strong.’

  Pama’s mouth worked without sound for a moment, before she spluttered.

  ‘I don’t care!’ she said. ‘Brawling is not permitted in this camp!’

  ‘They thought I hurt their friend,’ Rel continued, calm as still water. ‘It wasn’t so, of course. I was training her, but they came to her aid. It is admirable.’

  ‘I could have your head for this, Belfoni!’ growled Pama said, jabbing a talon into Rel’s chest. ‘You should not be training anyone in combat. You are not Bomsoi, and you never will be! Osos, I am sick of your insolence!’

  Pain flashed across Rel’s face, but it was gone before Emmy could be sure if she had really seen it. Pama’s expression grew dark in the flickering torchlight and, for a moment, Emmy thought Rel might be dragged away. Instead, Pama spat on the ground her feet. The she whirled around, the other guards following as she stalked away.

  Emmy watched her go, then turned her attention to Rel. Her eyes weren’t blue any more. But the image of their glow was burned into Emmy’s mind.

  ‘Who are you?’

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The Queen of Althemer

  The Queen’s Palace towered high above the rest of Kubodinnu, rising from the capital city like a gleaming opal spiral. Many windows curved along the walls, glinting in the pale evening sun. On the lower levels, the windows were joined by fine statues of past rulers, hewn into the stone. Each had a hand that reached outward. Some wore expressions of compassion, others were solemn. Some were cold.

  The expression of the current queen fell into the latter category. Queen Valentia surveyed her subjects from the grand windows of council chamber, watching the specks hurrying about their daily business. Mantos clenched
his fists under the grand council table. He wanted, more than the moons themselves, to disappear into the swirl, to escape from everything. I don’t want to be in this place, he thought, but what choice do I have? He suppressed a choked laugh. It’s not like I can go home.

  ‘Your brother threatens us all,’ the queen said, still looking through the glass.

  She spoke her own tongue. Mantos, as heir, had taken great pains to learn the many tongues of the lands outside the empire. Not to mention my letters with Fonbir, he thought. Closer to the language of Metakala and Selama than Masvam, learning Althemerian had been an unexpected challenge.

  ‘You have had enough time to heal,’ Queen Valentia continued. ‘Now it is time to act.’

  Mantos swallowed. Those gathered at the table shifted in their seats, straightening as the queen spoke. There were the two princesses, Fylica and Valaria. To their left was Fonbir. Mantos and his mother lingered at the far end of the table. Standing aside, cloaked in black, was Bomsoi. Guards in ceremonial robes stood at the door, unwavering.

  When Queen Valentia spoke again, Mantos’s stomach churned.

  ‘Masvam forces are rutted in our northern forests. They claim lands they have no right to. They murder my subjects.’ She turned, her eyes lingering in deep shadows. ‘What are you going to do?’

  Mantos blinked. He looked from the queen, to Fonbir’s compassionate face, to the twin glares of the princesses. The walls closed in, pressing him back and back. He tried to speak. All he mustered was a dry croak.

  ‘Pathetic,’ said Fylica.

  ‘Fylica,’ the queen snapped, ‘if you do not behave in a manner more suited to the council chamber, I will send you out. Treat everyone with respect, even your enemy.’ Mantos winced. ‘To do less is to become low.’

  ‘Yes, Your Highness,’ the princess replied.

  She bowed her head, but when her mother looked away, she bared her teeth.

  Still bereft of words, Mantos sought Fonbir. I feel like a fool, he thought. Where is my courage? Fonbir ventured a soft smile, the skin around his eyes crinkling in a way that set Mantos’s heart fluttering. At least I have one friend on Althemer, he thought.