“Huh?” was all I could manage.
“What. Are. You. Thinking!” he repeated slowly, through gritted teeth.
So this was Peata angry.
“Leaving?” he asked. “To the Hæðn?”
My jaw dropped. How did he know? What did he know? Who else knew?
My jaw was trying to work, but nothing was coming out of my mouth. Rahn was just as speechless—which was indeed rare—with his eyes and mouth wide open.
Then it dawned on me, and I wheeled on Marshaan.
“You were following us,” I said, then turned it into an accusation. “You were following us?”
“Yup,” he said evenly.
That would explain the silent, accusing looks from him and his brother.
“Why?”
He continued to hold my gaze for another excruciatingly long moment. Too long, and I looked away in guilt for some reason.
Finally, he said, “Because you’ve had that look in your eye for weeks now, Caden. Maybe longer.”
“What look?”
“The same look you had for months following your arrival here,” he said. “That ‘I don’t belong here, nobody understands me, and longing for home’ look.”
“But I—”
“That look like you’re planning to do something incredibly stupid.”
I shut up and just glared at him.
He sat back, nodding and pointing. “Yeah, that one.”
“How long were you following us?” Rahn asked, trying to hold on to some slim hope of innocence.
“Long enough,” Telluras answered.
“Both of you?”
“Yup.”
We looked at each other, bewildered that we’d never known.
Marshaan was a big man, built like a muscular boulder. Telluras—his brother in the same way that Rahn and I were brothers: not by birth, but by rebirth through the Waters—was a few years younger, but almost as big. Telluras was broad shouldered and narrow waisted, with a thick neck and strong jaw. His long, dusty-brown hair was tied back with a long leather strap. He wore thick forearm sleeves of deep-brown leather, a matching vestment, and deerskin breeches like his brother, with reinforced pockets for the knives and slings he always carried with him for hunting. How the two of them were able to be so light on their feet in following us the whole way was beyond me. I would think the ground around them would shake just at the sight of them.
“You two make enough racket that you couldn’t sneak up on a deaf jackrabbit,” Marshaan said, reading our expressions. “We didn’t even have to be sneaky about following you lot. I could’ve strangled you both a dozen times coming down the mountain, and the other would’ve never known.”
“We weren’t that loud,” I protested, even though that was not the point.
“Did you ever know we were there?” Telluras asked sarcastically.
“Uh, no.”
He shrugged. “You were that loud.”
Peata held up a hand, and the table quieted. He took a long drink from his mug before looking pointedly at me and asking, “Why?”
“Why what?”
He just looked at me like that was the stupidest question ever. Which it probably was. So I was honest. I recounted what I could remember of my ordeal in the Waters—of the waterfall I thought was there and of how I believed we, the Watchers, could rescue so many more Hæðn children from there instead of much further down at the reaping place, Estemere. Basically, everything I’d told Rahn time and time again, both in an effort to convince him and, I suppose, to convince myself—and now to convince them. It worked about as well on them as it had on Rahn.
“Hog’s dung,” Marshaan muttered when I’d finished. Telluras was passive. Peata simply sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. His face was oddly expressionless. None of them said another word and simply waited for me to go on, to try another story, or to tell the truth. Rahn nursed his lager, peering at me with sympathetic eyes over the rim of his mug.
Marshaan leaned forward, resting his massive forearms on the table. “You heard your brother on the blackberry trail. Rahn’s absolutely right. Don’t you know what they would d—”
Peata placed a hand on Marshaan’s arm. Marshaan eyed him angrily but fell silent.
“It’s not,” Peata answered quietly.
The four of us looked at him as if he’d lost his mind.
He looked at each of us in turn and repeated with a casual shrug, “It’s not.”
Marshaan chewed his lip but remained quiet. The rest of us took drinks from our mugs and waited for Peata to explain his sudden about face.
“First,” he began, “your plan to venture up the Waters, toward that waterfall as you explained it, is actually a sound idea.” He turned to Marshaan. “Have you noticed, Marshaan, that over the years, the gap between the Waters and the cave ceiling, just before Estemere, has been slowly widening?”
“Actually, yes,” he answered, his brow wrinkled and still leaning forward but relaxing as curiosity got the better of him. “There’s the spring runoff that seems to coincide with the Hæðn sacrifices. The water rises with the runoff but then, when it recedes, it’s like it recedes just a hairline less every season. What was once a thin crack of air between the river’s entrance and the river itself when I started is now almost a man’s head’s width.”
“Exactly, And, if memory serves,” Peata continued, “and granted it’s been decades since I could remember anything of the Hæðn ways, but didn’t the Empire use to syphon off water from the Sadrean River there for their crops and fields?”
“Yes,” Marshaan and I answered together.
“And wouldn’t it make sense that, over the years, maybe those fields have grown, and the need for more water has grown with it?”
We nodded in agreement.
“What you’re talking about, Caden, the waterfall you speak of, may have always been there, but not to the extent it is now. It may have been more like just one more feature of the river: a bend or a drop.” He looked to Marshaan and Telluras again. “Now, given the passage of time, there may be space there, an opening worn into the rocks by these falls and the constant rush of water, one that’s large enough for a man, or men, to do exactly what Caden is talking about—to bring those children back through the Waters safely, accompanied by Watchers the whole way.”
“But then,” I asked, “if that area is there, wouldn’t it make sense that we could travel even further? Why not go all the way up? To rescue the sacrifices even sooner, or to confront the Hæðn themselves?”
Marshaan’s face reddened, and he opened his mouth to speak. Peata again placed a hand on his forearm and shook his head.
“The answer is simple, Caden,” he said. “Who are we?”
Puzzled, I asked, “What do you mean?”
“All of us here in Cierra: Who are we?”
I’d been taught this by Daina and Marshaan. “We are the people of the plains. The people of Cierra. Those who have come through the Waters of Death and Life.” I knew the answer, but I was unsure where this argument was going.
“Exactly.” He nodded. “And, who are we to the Hæ—” He stopped, correcting himself. “To the people of Brynslæd?”
I looked to each of the men, then to the few other Cierrans sitting around the inn. I thought of all of us—Cierrans who lived here now, and all who had ever been.
“We are the living sacrifices of the Hæðn,” I said.
“Yes,” he answered patiently. “And the children of.”
He took another drink. “None of us should be here,” he went on. “What the Hæðn do, they feel is right, just, and necessary to their faith. They believe they have appeased their gods, and they believe that through the sacrifices, they have earned the favor of those gods.”
He leaned in, piercing me with his
pale, blue eyes. “What do you think those people would do if they knew that a good many of their sacrifices live to this day? Or worse, what do you think they would fear the gods would do to them?”
“I . . . I . . .” I had no answer. “They . . .”
“If there are powers in the world, powers beyond mere human strength and knowledge,” he said, “fear is possibly the greatest of them all. It can motivate men to do heroic or horrific things, depending upon their motivation. Things even they didn’t believe they were capable of, like lifting a boulder off of a dying child.” He held up a finger. “Or, throwing that same child, bound and chained, to his death.”
“Peata is right,” Marshaan said, taking up the narrative, his voice calm and thoughtful. “If they knew we lived, it would trigger fears throughout the entire Empire. Imagine the terrible power that an entire city, an Empire, could wield through fear.”
“We wouldn’t stand a chance,” Peata finished. “None of us.”
“We are not warriors,” Telluras spoke for the first time. He patted the knives, sheathed in the pockets of his pants. “We use our weapons to hunt and fish. We may practice games of war, and challenge each other in wrestling and swordplay, but we are not warriors,” he repeated. “This is not our fight. This is not our purpose.”
“They would kill us all,” Marshaan said. “Again.”
“But if we had a chance to stop the sacrifices?” I pleaded. “Wouldn’t that be the ultimate goal of the Watchers?”
“Yes,” Peata agreed. “It is certainly a noble goal. I honor your idea, Caden, and maybe it is worth further consideration . . .”
Again, all of us wheeled on Peata in surprise.
“But,” he said, raising his hands in surrender, “let us start small. Let us start with what we can do. I would like to consider your idea, Caden, to venture to this waterfall.”
I couldn’t help the grin that split my face, and it was as if Peata had expected that reaction as he added, “With the help of Marshaan and Telluras.”
“What?!” Marshaan bellowed.
At the outburst, all eyes turned to our table. Peata waited, smiling innocently, drumming his fingers on the table and looking between Marshaan and the rest of the people scattered throughout the inn until the hum of conversation resumed and all had lost interest in the commotion.
“What?” Marshaan repeated, quietly and (almost) calmly.
“You and Daina will have first Watch with this coming reaping, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Then it only makes sense, so as not to draw any unwarranted suspicion. I would like to keep this between the four of us, plus Daina.” Peata looked around the other tables and then pointedly at Marshaan. “If we can.”
Marshaan rolled his eyes but nodded.
“Wait. Daina?” I asked. “Why does she have to know?”
“She already does,” Marshaan answered with a growl.
My jaw dropped, and he rolled his eyes a second time. Then I looked at Rahn.
Rahn did a spit-take with his lager. “Don’t look at me,” he said, wide-eyed. “I didn’t tell her.”
“I did,” Marshaan said, then continued before I could protest. “She’s known for a while now, boy. She noticed the same look in your eyes that I did. She actually brought it up to me.” Then, more softly, he added, “She’s worried about you.”
“And this is gonna help?” I asked. I couldn’t help the sarcasm dripping from my voice.
“Actually, yes,” he answered, unfazed. “Especially if she knows Peata and I are behind this crazy plan of yours.”
“She might tell you she is,” Rahn offered.
“Close enough,” Marshaan said. “Besides, she will be there too.”
“What?” I asked. “At the waterfall?”
“No.” Marshaan chuckled. “You know how she feels about water. But she will be Watching with me. She will be there. At Estemere. Waiting for us.”
“And worried,” Rahn added.
Marshaan shrugged. “Probably.”
“We’ll begin then with first Watch. Agreed?” Peata asked.
“Agreed,” we all chimed in.
Then, with the topic well covered, we finished our drinks in silence.
As we rose to go, Rahn leaned in to me. “She may know about how you feel, Caden,” he said. “But who exactly is going to tell Daina about this little plan of ours?”
I just shrugged. “Not me.”
I looked at him, and he shook his head vigorously.
Marshaan, watching us, snorted and asked, “Do you candy-asses want me to come with you? Hold your hands, maybe?”
“Yes, please,” we answered.
He laughed and stood with us. “You babies.”
13
The Cure
The house appeared empty as they came in. Rhiana prompted her daughter over to the counter where a few dishes from the morning’s breakfast still lay in a pile beside the wash basin. From the dustbin below the basin, she took out a few bent stalks of grain she’d used the night before to make a few loaves of bread, examining them in the late afternoon light spilling through the window. Curious, Arteura stepped up beside her, leaning close, trying to see whatever it was her mother was so intently looking to find.
“Humph,” Rhiana grunted, nodding, obviously satisfied at finding whatever it was she was looking for. She took the stalks and shook them lightly over the countertop. Sure enough, a few small and wriggling white worms fell out onto the wooden counter.
“What are those?” Arteura gasped. “Is this . . .”
“These are the cause of the famine,” Rhiana said. “I’m sure of it.”
“How on earth did you find them? How long have you known?”
“For a while now. I discovered them quite by accident, while I was making bread and threshing out a few grain heads. Kind of like I just did here. They just . . . fell out.”
With the back of her hand, she swept everything from the counter back into the dustbin and then reached to a top shelf of the cupboard and brought down a small ceramic container. “I’ve been working on a remedy for the past few weeks. I believe I’ve found a combination that effectively kills the worms.” She handed the container to her daughter. “Smell, and see if you can tell me what’s in here.”
Arteura hesitated, looking at her mother skeptically.
“Relax.” Rhiana giggled. “It’s not dung. Smell it.”
Arteura slowly brought it up to her nose and sniffed, cautiously at first, but then, with a curious grin, more deeply. “What is that?” she asked. “Garlic?”
“Yes. And?”
Another sniff. “Pepper. But not a sweet pepper.”
“Yes.” Rhiana grinned. “Savory. More a spicy one. Quite hot, actually. And?”
“There’s more?” Another sniff. She shook her head. Hardly anything was getting past the garlic. She felt lucky identifying the pepper.
Rhiana cocked her head and waited.
One more nose full. “Wait,” Arteura said. There was something there. Something oddly sweet. It would make a horrible dressing, but would likely make quite an effective pesticide. “Is that . . . mint?”
“Among a few other things, but yes. You’ve hit the major players.” Rhiana took back the container. “At first, this seemed to be effective against the worms, but it did nothing to reverse the damage they do. The plants, even the ones not totally ravaged, still seemed to die off. Until . . .” She drew out the word, picking up a small canteen from a peg-hook by the door. “I gathered some of the water from the Mihtcarr.” She shook it, and the water sloshed inside. “Arteura! This was the key. This works!”
The excitement was infectious. “You said you’d felt power there like you never had before,” Arteura said.
“Yes,” Rhiana said. “There was indeed.” She pointed out several thick leather waterskins hanging between the wash basin and front door. “And I’ve been using it ever since.”
“And you were hoping the water from the Gildro
m would . . .” Arteura’s eyes widened. “Wait a minute! What do you mean you’ve been using it ever since? You’ve actually been spreading this on the fields?”
“Several acres now, yes.”
“And no one’s noticed?”
“That the fields are no longer dying? Hardly.” She chuckled. “I’ve just started, Arteura. And the fields are massive. I’ve just been doing what I can do.”
Arteura shook her head. “No,” she said. “I mean no one has noticed you spreading this concoction?”
Rhiana gave her daughter a conspiring smile. ‘That’s what I want your help with. I’ve been going out under the cover of moon and stars.”
“At night?”
“Of course at night. And now that I know—we know—that this will work to cure the famine, I would like your help to spread it even further.”
≈≈≈≈≈≈
Later that night, with two waterskins slung over each shoulder, Arteura and her mother slipped quietly up the pathway leading to the Gildrom. Halfway there, they veered off the path and down a narrow, overgrown trail that led to where the eastern wall of Brynslæd butted up against the steep terrain of Dunwielm. The way was treacherous and slippery, and the added weight of four full waterskins each didn’t help their footing. They slid, cursed, and held on to the loose, hanging branches of willow as they descended. Finally, they found themselves outside the city walls, emerging at the edge of the Sadrean River, not far from the path that led Arteura and Marcus to their secret spot by the Mihtcarr. Guards were few and far between on the battlements, and the two had no trouble treading along by moonlight outside the city between the wall and the river.
As they reached the southeast tower, Rhiana whispered, “This way.”
She led Arteura away from the Southern Gate and away from Brynslæd, keeping to the edge of the Sadrean where the trees dipped low along the riverbank and the rustling water masked any sound they might make. About a mile from Brynslæd, Rhiana turned into the forested area between the river and the field’s edge. They emerged into the tall, rolling expanses of grain waving lazily in the evening breeze. A storehouse stood in the distance ahead of them, and slave quarters were off several hundred yards to their left. There was one lone lamp inside a lower window of the quarters. Probably a guard’s room where bored slave lords were playing cards and drinking away their winnings at this hour.