Crucible (11 page)

Instead, the circle of crows reappeared, darting from
tree to tree along the lane until they gathered around them. This time, they stayed as silent as the rest of the town, standing sentinel with them.

Where was her father? Where were all the villagers?

She looked again at the crows. They watched her, expectant, silent, waiting.

“By the Mother,” she finally forced out, her voice a harsh rasp. “I think that's them. In the trees.”

Blinking back tears, she scanned the treetops. Had the villagers been changed into birds by some powerful and never-before-seen sorcery? Or, even worse, had they all been murdered, and the crows now stood guard over their departed spirits?

Abilard whispered into her mind.
:The crows wait for us to act. We can do no more here . . . our answers to this terrible mystery lie in the Vale. Come back, remount. We must press on, and quickly.:

She used the rock by the lane to climb back up. Brock leaned forward, buried his face in Abilard's thick mane. “I will . . . send ahead,” he whispered, so low that Sparrow could hardly hear him. “My . . . brothers will be ready for us. And they will prepare for the crows.”

And with that, Brock too was gone. By now, Sparrow was used to his flights into the clouds, where he rode the currents of energy that flowed through Valdemar. She had learned to ground him as he floated away, so that he could find his way back to ordinary consciousness when he returned.

She held on tight, even as Abilard wheeled around and broke into a trot, heading through the village and out the other side, to the edge of the Forest of Sorrows and, far beyond, the sanctuary of the K'Valdemar Vale.

Abilard's stride was so high and smooth that Sparrow knew she could keep her seat without difficulty. As they rode, her thoughts remained in Longfall. She had thought her years at the Collegium in Haven had changed everything about her. But she had been wrong. In fact, she
hadn't really changed at all; she was still Sparrow, she would always be her father's daughter.

But Longfall had changed utterly and, she feared, irrevocably. The buildings still stood, but the heart had gone out of the village. A bright stillness had invaded in its stead, and instead of the people she remembered, crows stood watch over what remained.

The Forest of Sorrows sped by in a blur as they rushed to the Vale. And for the first time, Sparrow thought it was well named.

• • •

By the time they reached K'Valdemar Vale, Brock's consciousness had returned to his body. “They know we are coming,” he said, excitement filling his voice. “All is well there.”

“I can't wait to see it,” Sparrow replied, her spirits lifting with his return. She had heard wondrous tales of the Vale but had never seen it herself. And knowing the Vale had not suffered Longfall's fate filled her with hope.

The Vale rose before them, so beautiful that Sparrow could not believe she was seeing a real place. The northern forest gave way to a verdant oasis of tropical flowers, multilevel gardens, and well-tended paths. Her imagination had not done the Vale justice.

A man waited for them on the crushed-cinder path to their right. A Tayledras, he stood tall under an open gateway made of brass, ornamented with twining, flowering vines. The fragrance of those tropical flowers instantly relaxed Sparrow and set her at ease—or at least made her less anxious than she had been a few moments before.

He was clothed in brilliantly embroidered tunic and trews, with carefully stitched parrots, birds of paradise, and firebirds interspersed with greenery that matched the real vines he stood under. His long hair, unbound, trailed over his shoulders and down behind his back, and though his face was young and unlined, his jet-black hair was shot through with streaks of blue and silver.

“Liros!” Brock cried. “So good to meet you walking on ground.”

Liros raised a single hand in greeting. “My brother,” he said. “You are a welcome sight indeed.”

Sparrow could not keep from smiling. She knew that while Brock could not see in the ordinary way, he could sense the energy-patterns of his Clan members, and he undoubtedly could make out the unique energy that this man, Liros, projected while standing on the path.

She understood his Gift, and sometimes wished she could follow Brock in his mastery, but reveled in the second-hand joy of it nevertheless.

Abilard whickered in greeting as she and Brock slowly dismounted. Sparrow's legs were stiff from hanging on during their swift flight from Longfall to the Vale. But on contact with the ground, she stretched her legs and was amazed by the feeling of well-being that rose inside her almost instantly.

Brock could not stop smiling either. “This is a healing sanctuary, Sparrow. You can feel it, I can tell.”

“By the Mother, yes! Why does anybody leave here?”

Brock laughed aloud, a soft trill that never failed to melt Sparrow's heart. “Liros, this is my guide and oldest friend, Sparrow, and you have Walked with Abilard before, I know. Sparrow, this is Liros Cloud-Singer, of my Clan. A Healing Mage, and my first teacher. I've been waiting three long years for you two to meet.”

Liros' face lit up once he heard her name. “Sparrow! You are the little bird who called back my brother from the clouds. Welcome to K'Valdemar Vale. The whole Clan wants to meet you!”

“Thank you,” Sparrow replied. His welcome, so open and generous, brought tears to her eyes. “We need sanctuary as well as fellowship, and there is no better place, I know, than K'Valdemar to find both.”

“Sanctuary?”

Quickly, Brock filled in the events of the morning, as
Sparrow interrupted at intervals with her visual observations. By the time they were done, Liros was no longer smiling. His expression was grave as he waved for them to follow him.

“Come to the meeting room in the Cloudwalker Clan's public
ekele
,” he said. “I want you to tell them everything you just told me. We just got a very different version of events.”

“You did?” Sparrow blurted. “From where?”

“The mayor of Longfall.”

There was silence as that information sank in. Sparrow walked fast to keep up with Liros' long, loping strides and Abilard's dignified, high-stepping walk.

“I would ordinarily welcome you with a great deal more hospitality, a welcome meal. We will make celebrations, certainly. But it seems you have arrived in the midst of an unusual storm. Please come quickly.”

Their lush, tropical surroundings belied the storm raging in Sparrow's mind as they hurried along the winding paths, structures rising high overhead on multiple levels built among the trees. They stopped in front of an enormous flowering hedge with red berries interspersed with pink and purple flowers.

“Come inside,” Liros said.

“Inside? But I don't see . . .”

Before Sparrow could finish her question, a door appeared between the thick branches. What looked like a manicured hedge was in fact the dome of a large, half-submerged ground structure. And it was huge inside compared to how it looked from the pathway.

Even Abilard fit through the entry and into the meeting room without difficulty. The meeting hall was filled with scouts and leaders of Brock's adoptive Cloudwalker clan. Voices filled the scented, slightly smoky air, debating, questioning, exclaiming.

And in the middle of all of these colorful Clan brothers stood a single villager. Not too tall, not too short,
dressed in homespun and tradesman's boots. She stepped forward to see him more clearly . . . at first glance, he seemed utterly ordinary. Yet, in so many little ways, he didn't look like a Longfaller at all.

For one, his boots had not a spot of mud on them. Even brand new boots got muddy once you put them on, especially in a village with no paved roads. And his hands . . . they looked soft, and too clean, and his nails were too long, with not even a speck of grime or grass stain on them.

Finally, his face. It was full summer, and yet his face was pasty pale, with not even the half-tan that the village menfolk developed under their broad brimmed hats after a long day tending the fields or working in an open-air summer workshop. He looked like a priest or a scrivener, not a villager.

No way.

“You're not Mayor Undor!” Sparrow said.

The man looked at her, his eyes widening in shock. The hum of voices ceased, and suddenly Sparrow felt as though the man and she were the only two people in the room.

“You are not the Mayor of Longfall,” she said.

“Undor is no more,” the man said, but he stumbled over his words, looked confused.

“In Haven, I got no word that Undor retired. In fact, he was re-elected last year after a record harvest!” she said. Her heart pounded in her ears, and she tasted smoke and ashes in the back of her throat. “What happened to them?”

The rest of her was shaking too. Whoever this man was pretending to be, he was not of her village. He might know where they had all gone, or what had really happened, but he was not their mayor, not a protector of his people.

He was a liar, and maybe a murderer. Sparrow knew, in the pit of her stomach, that this stranger was no respecter of peace accords, nor acting in good faith.

He smiled now, a toothy, predatory grimace. “And you are?”

Sparrow shot a glance at Brock, but of course he could not return it. How she wished she could speak directly into his mind, or Abilard's mind. Anything to warn them of the danger, without revealing to this man how much she already understood.

Nobody in this crowded room could help her. Sparrow was going to have to make her own way. “I'm Sparrow,” she said. “Tell me, who is my father?”

A wave of confusion passed over the man's face and away. “What does it matter? I am here to claim vengeance for my people.”

“Your people? Who are your people? They are certainly not mine.”

Liros stepped forward. “He says he is the mayor of Longfall,” he repeated.

The confusion on the man's face melted away, replaced by an expression of injured dignity. “I say it because it is true.”

Sparrow glared at him. “I was born and raised in Longfall, and I tell you it is
not
true.”

The mask fell away then, and the stranger flew into a terrible rage. “You lie! You lie! How dare you question me!”

Liros looked from Sparrow to the stranger, a small smile dimpling his face. “He says that a Clan attacked the village and killed all of the inhabitants.”

Pain shot through Sparrow's heart like an arrow. “No. No, I just don't believe it.”

The thought of it made her want to curl up on the floor and die too. But instead she stood her ground against the stranger. “It can't be true. There was no murder at Longfall . . . only silence. Brock and Abilard felt it too. My villagers are missing, not murdered.”

Sparrow took a deep, shuddering breath, shook her
head. “I don't know what is going on here,” she said slowly. “What is your name?”

“I am Emptiness,” the man said, and the hairs all along the back of Sparrow's neck prickled in warning.

A shout from outside the
ekele
interrupted them, and the thunder of beating wings filled the sky. Sparrow ran to the door, as much to get away from the man called Emptiness as to respond to the noise.

She threw the door open and looked up.

Crows. Hundreds of crows, crowding the trees around the Vale, cawing and calling one to another, back and forth. So many crows that the trees looked black now, not green.

They waited in their multitudes. Sparrow gaped up at the massive visitation from the doorway.

“They are coming for you.” It was Brock, at her elbow—how did he find her, without sight? “Liros told me, when we spoke in the clouds.”

“Why?”

“You will need to ask them to find out.”

She turned to face him, her beloved friend. And, she secretly wished, her heartmate someday. His face turned in on itself, his eyes forever closed, but his strength flowed through her, gave her courage.

“I cannot speak their language, Brock. I don't know what they want from me.”

“I will take you. Come with me.”

She pointed at the
ekele
. “But what about that—that disaster in there?”

“Nothing's going to happen until we understand the truth. That man, whoever he is—will have to wait until we return . . . Liros will make sure of it. Nobody would have made war over what he said, but something is terribly wrong, and now we all know it. These birds know the truth. They want to tell you.”

He reached for her hand, and she grabbed his fingers, put her arm around his shoulders . . . the long ride and the
confrontation in the smoky
ekele
had made her so dizzy and sick that Sparrow needed to lean on his strength.

They left the
ekele
behind and walked together. Brock led the way now, following leylines that Sparrow could not make out with her ordinary sight. He took her along a winding path, shielded by plants with enormous leaves like fans, blowing lazily in the summer breeze. She forced herself to breathe, and the loamy smell of the rich earth half-revived her as they went.

“Come in,” he said, and they walked into another ground-level structure, much smaller than the one where they had met the stranger.

“What is this place?” she asked.

“This is my
ekele
,” he said. “On the ground level, no climbing required.”

Suddenly Sparrow didn't know where to put her feet, as if she were an awkward puppy slipping on the surface of a frozen-over pond. “Um, so this is where you came from,” she said.

She took in the space with a single glance—it wasn't very large at all—and when she looked back at Brock, she was amazed to see him blushing. “This is where I used to chase the clouds by myself, after I got sick and lost my sight,” he said. “I didn't know how to get back here, but at least I knew my body would be safe. And even though the Healers couldn't call me back the way you can, they made sure my body and spirit stayed connected somehow.”