Martyr (26 page)

“We are your messengers.” Her words were echoed by the tribe. Strike.

“We are your workers.” Strike.

“We are your vessels.” Strike.

“So mote it be,” she whispered. The tribe repeated her words just as quietly, a whispered prayer.

She then drew the mallet around the bowl in a slow, circular motion. At first Tenn couldn't hear anything; everyone and everything had gone distinctly silent. Then, low at first, he heard the tone of the bowl, the hum of metal as it vibrated in the chill morning air. Or maybe it wasn't the bowl because he noticed another sound, another pitch, as the people around him began to hum as well, matching their voices to the drone of the bowl. Devon and Dreya joined in. No magic was used, but the tone seemed to pull at his Spheres. He wanted to duck back into the tent and hide. For some reason, standing there with a bunch of people humming made him feel far more self-conscious than being in the field ever had. But the pull was strong. Within moments, he started to hum along. Quietly.

In that instant, warmth spilled through him, an electric, comforting spark that made him feel alive, made every part of him tingle. Earth pulsed joyously in his gut, Water swirled in his stomach—for once without dredging up the horrors of his past. And even though he'd never been attuned to them, he could feel Fire and Air, the barest brush of their powers stirring in his body.

He couldn't tell how long he stood like that, swirling amongst the elements that pulsed in his veins like lifeblood, surrounded by others who surely felt it, too. Then the sound began to die down, slow and natural, a quiet fade into silence. He could still feel the tingle of the song. Rhiannon struck the bowl again, softer this time. The Circle was over.

“What was that?” he asked as everyone began to go about their morning chores. Despite the horrors of the last few days, something about the Circle had lightened his mood, made the burden seem a little more bearable. “I've never felt anything like it.”

Rhiannon smiled at him. There was a light in her eyes that reminded him of forests and stones, things ancient and unseen.

“That, dear Hunter, is the true magic of the Spheres.” She turned and began walking back to the trailer. “Come on in, you three. It's time to break our fast.”

The translator, Michael, wasn't what Tenn had expected. Somewhere along the way he figured the man who translated runes would be old, much older than him. He'd probably have grey hair and wizard's robes, or else he'd look like some knockoff Norse god, all blond and muscular and mean. So when Rhiannon answered the door and welcomed in a guy not much older than Tenn, he was a little disappointed. Michael looked like every other hippie guy he'd seen in his youth—scraggly dark beard, messy brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, and a few layers of clothing that looked like they'd been made from old rugs. So much for a grand old wizard.

Michael smiled when he saw them, and went to shake their hands. His grip was strong, and his hands were comfortably warm.

“You must be Tenn,” he said. “You're just like they said you'd be.” His brown eyes glowed like Rhiannon's had after the Circle.

He sidled in next to Tenn and nudged the empty breakfast dishes aside.

“And you two are his companions,” he said, taking in the twins. “I'm sorry I couldn't have met with you last night.”

“It's fine,” Tenn said because that's what sounded appropriate. It would take a while to get used to taking charge, at least so long as Dreya was resolutely mute. He promised himself he'd get to the root of whatever their problem was. Soon.

Rhiannon pulled up a stool and sat next to Michael.

“So,” Michael said. “You're here to learn about the runes.”

Tenn nodded.

“What precisely do you want to know?”

Tenn opened his mouth and realized quite quickly that he had no idea how to answer. He'd followed this lead simply because it was the path Cassandra had sent them on. And here they were, sitting in a trailer surrounded by the people who could hopefully tell them everything they needed to know…and he had no clue what, precisely, they were looking for.

Thankfully, that was the moment Dreya decided to break her silence.

“Our commander sent us,” she said. She didn't meet anyone in the eye—a strange quirk, especially for her. She just stared at the table, one finger tracing nervous circles against the surface. “Cassandra of Outer Chicago. A jar covered in runes was found at the scene of our last battle. We believe it is how the necromancers have been turning the Howls. We believe…” She took a deep breath and glanced up, looking Rhiannon straight in the eye. “We believe that if the runes could be reversed, so could the condition.”

Silence filled the trailer. Tenn did his best to keep his face calm, as though he had known and expected this all along. When had the twins learned this, and why had he been kept out of the loop? Hope fluttered in his chest, the sensation altogether alien.

He had expected that Cassandra was only seeking another weapon.

But to have found a cure? The ramifications were mind-bending.

“Impossible,” Michael said. “We have known for years that the Howls were birthed using runes. How else could necromancers tap into such devastating power? But the runes you have won't help you. Nothing can.”

“Why?”

Michael folded his hands and leaned back in his chair.

“To understand, you have to grasp the nature of magic. The runes are the language of the gods. They are, quite literally, the words that have woven everything into being. It's the magic that keeps the cosmos spinning, the threads and the loom on which everything is woven. The runes themselves are just markings, but they allow us to tap into that language, to harness its power.” He reached over and pushed up the sleeve of Tenn's coat, revealing the twining Hunter's mark. “The runes of your mark allow you to use the elements, but you aren't really creating anything new. You're just using the powers that have already been woven into the world. You're speaking a language spoken for centuries.

“And just as there are many races of man, there are many types of god. Each god has their own language. The language of the Dark Lady is as old as time and was spoken by countless other tainted souls before the Resurrection. To speak it is to go against the very fabric of the world. Every use of that power is another tear in the weave. You wish to reverse Her work by twisting Her words, but that is simply giving Her magic more strength. Any attempts to change Her language, to control or reverse it, will only unleash more evil. The repercussions could destroy the world.”

“How do you know all this?” Tenn asked.

“Because we have tried,” Rhiannon said. “In the beginning, when the Howls first formed. We begged the spirits for a solution, a cure. But not even the spirits were willing to delve into those darker mysteries, and they turned their backs on us.” She sighed and stared out the window. “There was a time, years ago, when we could hear the gods in every sigh of wind, in every drop of rain. Now they have grown silent. They know that mortals are delving into dangerous territory, that the actions taken on this plane are ripping holes through all of creation. We cannot counter the Dark Lady with Her own magic, and the runes we have now are too weak. Without the gods' help, we have no way of undoing Her work.”

“Hearing the gods is my calling,” Michael continued. “For some reason, the gods chose me to be their vessel. I was the one person in all the Clans who could hear their voices and translate those words into runes. That's how we learned how to cloak ourselves from danger, how to purify water or grow food in barren soil. But it was like hearing a melody from far away. These magics…they were whispers from the past, old skills. The spirits refused to speak anything new. No matter how much I begged or tried to prove myself, they refused to speak the greater magics. We weren't ready. We weren't suitable vessels. They refuse to help us do anything more than scrape by and survive.”

“If that is true,” Dreya said, “why did the spirits tell you to wait for us? Why do they want Tenn?”

Rhiannon's mouth quirked in a smile, and both she and Michael turned their attention to Tenn. He felt his face blush.

“As we said, the runes are a language,” Rhiannon said, “and we have been translating and speaking their words since the dawn of time. But now, the gods require a new language. And Tenn will help create it. His words will overpower the Dark Lady. His language will change the world.”

Tenn felt something stir in his chest, a strange mix of fear and doubt and responsibility. He opened his mouth to ask more, but his words were interrupted by someone pounding on the door.

Before Rhiannon could stand to open it, the door slammed open. A boy burst in, his face muddy and tears streaming down his cheeks.

“Mother,” he panted, gripping the doorframe with one trembling hand. “We were attacked. There were Howls in the forest. They ambushed us.”

Rhiannon was there in a moment, her arms embracing the boy as he broke into sobs against her chest.

“There, there, child,” she whispered. She nuzzled his head with her cheek but didn't break her gaze from Tenn. It was impossible to read that expression, but there was a fierceness in her eyes, a protectiveness that reminded Tenn strongly of Jarrett, right before he leapt from the rooftop. “You're safe now.”

The boy shivered against her and took a deep breath.

“They took Tori,” he said. “Alive.”

There was a pause as Rhiannon's eyes shut tight, pain lining her forehead.

“Then it is a good thing we have Hunters here to save her,” she whispered.

Tenn barely heard her words, not through the wave of guilt that Water threw against him. Death followed everywhere he went. Even when he sought sanctuary, the innocents around him suffered. And this time, the life in the balance was a child's.

26

Michael
accompanied the boy out a few minutes later, his arm comfortingly wrapped over the boy's shoulders. Rhiannon didn't speak a single word of blame, but the weight of the situation lingered in the air between them, heavy and sharp as an ax. Tenn knew it was just his imagination, knew she would never hold this attack against them, but that made it worse. The twist in his gut was fueled by his own self-loathing. A part of him wanted to shrink down into himself, to let grief and self-hatred consume him. Another part, a slightly stronger part, filled with fire. That part—the part that had watched so many people die—wanted blood. He pushed himself from the table, the twins following suit only a moment later. But Rhiannon held up a hand before they made it to the door.

“Not so hasty,” she said. She turned and walked over to the cabinets above the sink. Despite her words, there was a quickness to her step that hadn't been there minutes ago. “If you leave the commune without an escort, you will never find your way back. And I'm afraid, if the woods are overrun, I cannot risk the lives of my people to follow. We aren't as well-versed in killing as you.” She opened one of the doors and pulled out the brass bowl from the morning's ritual.

“I had hoped your first lesson would be a bit more relaxed, but the spirits move as they will.” She brought it over to the table and set it before them. “There are two things you must know about runes. One, every rune needs a vessel. Traditionally, wood or bone or metal. Two, every rune needs an energy source. Some require Earth, others a flame, others breath. This energy activates the powers of the runes. Without that power, they are naught but letters on a page.”

She gestured into the bowl. Tenn glanced inside. There was a single mark etched within. It looked like the letter F, with an extra angled line at the base.

“This is a tracking rune,” Rhiannon said. “It is unique amongst the runes because it doesn't use magic to create or manipulate the world. Its entire purpose is to reveal the location of its vessel. Its energy source is thought. Memorize this. Memorize the mark and the bowl, for you must know the vessel well to differentiate it from the others. It will guide you back to us. Without it, you are lost.”

Tenn let her words wash over him as he stared into the bowl. The rune burned itself into his mind, humming in his head as he memorized the curve of the bowl, the grain of the metal, each individual hammer-mark of its forming. He felt heavy with power, with a knowing that settled into his bones.

“When you have it memorized,” Rhiannon said, her voice barely cutting through his thoughts. The rune seemed to be
calling
to him. “Close your eyes and bring it to mind.”

He did so. He could still see it, glowing in the dark of his eyelids, orange and fiery like a lantern. The moment he brought it to mind, he could
feel
it. Like an inner compass, he could sense precisely where the bowl was in relation to him. He turned and felt the proper direction slide around him, always calling him to the bowl. He opened his eyes and was surprised to find himself grinning. When he glanced at the twins, they too had a look of small satisfaction on their faces.