Slight and Shadow (Fate's Forsaken: Book Two) (28 page)

He brushed the mud from his chest, and Kyleigh saw that his robes were peppered with tiny, ragged holes. “Have you tried putting them to flame?”

“That’s the first thing I did,” Jake said with a nod. “And they certainly shrivel up rather quickly, but they don’t explode …”

He leaned over, wielding a pair of tweezers, and Kyleigh stepped behind him to watch over his back. “Perhaps you shouldn’t get your eyes so close —”

“Your breath!”

“Is it that bad? I
did
have cave fish for breakfast.”

“No, it’s not that,” he said distractedly. Then he turned back. “All though … yes. Anyways, I think you’ve helped me figure this out.” He spun in his chair, and Kyleigh had to move quickly to keep his long legs from clipping her. “The liquid in a minceworm’s glands must obviously be released prior to digestion — but it doesn’t
stay
in liquid form. The worm’s breath must act as a heating agent, producing enough warmth to vaporize it into a combustible gas.” He sighed at the blank look on her face. “Like how the mist rises up from a pond.”

“Ah, I see,” Kyleigh said. “How are you going to prove it?”

Jake made a few hasty notes in his journal before he looked up. “Well, I suppose I’ll need a live one.” He turned to the healer-mots, who’d been listening curiously from the other side of the room. “Can we visit the silk farm again? I need a fresh worm — and some mint.”

“Of course, spellweaver,” one of the mots said. He scuttled over to a nearby shelf and selected a bowl from its top, which he presented to Jake with a bow.

He plucked a clump of small, green leaves from the tangle of stems and held them out to Kyleigh. She took them cautiously. “What’s this for?”

“A
dragon’s
breath should be deadly — a lady’s breath should not,” Jake said with a grin.

Kyleigh supposed he had a point. She chewed on the mint as she followed him out of the hospital, but she certainly didn’t enjoy it.

The mots’ entire city had been built around the great, underground bell chamber. It sat at the center, and all of the other chambers branched from it like the spokes of a wagon wheel. The farm mountain was just one spoke of the wheel — and fortunately for the mots, the northern passageway was the only path into it.

Guards stood outside its entrance day and night. If the soldiers camped in the hallway failed, they would hold the trolls back for as long as they could, giving the mots a chance to escape into the desert.

The guards’ faces were every bit as cold and stony as the rocks around them. Kyleigh tried not to meet their eyes as she passed, but she could almost hear their lips curling up behind her.

They followed the healer-mots down a different tunnel. This one was so tight that Kyleigh felt the ceiling brush the top of her head, in places. Poor Jake had to stay hunched over much of the way. The tunnel curved and spilled out into a small chamber, one that was hardly the size of a respectable kitchen.

The only light came from the dim glow of the many braziers set up about the room. Hundreds of fist-sized holes peppered the walls and ceiling, making the whole thing look a bit like the inside of a giant sponge.

One of the mots waved them over to a brazier. Sitting next to it was a miniature silver shovel and a bucket of black pebbles. When Kyleigh bent down for a better look, she caught the musky smell of fence animal.

“Goat pellets?” she said.

Jake nodded, pointing to the mot. “Watch this.”

The mot dipped the shovel into the brazier, filling it with burning rocks. Then he poured a bit of the goat pellets on top of the coals and blew on them, stoking them to a blaze. Smoke puffed up from the mixture. The mot held it up to one of the holes, guiding the smoke into it with his breath. After a few moments, he reached inside — and pulled out a large, floppy minceworm.

The creature hung limply in his hand. Kyleigh might’ve thought it was dead, had its white flesh not still been pulsing.

“How many do you need, spellweaver?”

“One ought to do it, thank you,” Jake said, taking the minceworm from him. He held it up to Kyleigh. “Fascinating, isn’t it?”

She leaned away. “It’s certainly … something.”

“The smoke knocks them out — this one won’t wake for hours. It’s like coaxing bees from a hive.” The worm flopped wetly as he shook it. “There’s actually an awful lot about the minceworms’ behavior that remind me of bees. For example: they line their nests with silk, but there aren’t any eggs inside! It makes me wonder if the entire desert might be some sort of gigantic hive …”

Jake’s prattling went on, but Kyleigh wasn’t listening. She never actually
planned
any of her mischief out: the ideas simply came to her, showing up suddenly in the oddest of places. She never knew what sorts of things were going to inspire her. But as she looked around at the silk farm, an idea suddenly struck her.

She had to fight very hard to keep from grinning as she followed Jake out of the tunnel.

*******

When Kyleigh woke the next morning, it was to the force of a spear butt jabbing her side. Nadine’s face came sharply into focus — and she didn’t look happy. “What have you done, a’calla?” she hissed.

“Done about what?”

Nadine pointed to the window — where Silas was already crouched. He clapped his hands together gleefully. “Oooo, look at the guards running around! They’re like worried little ants.”

“This is nothing to laugh about!” Nadine snapped at him. Then she spun on Kyleigh, grabbing a fistful of her hair when she tried to hide her face. “Every last one of the Grandmot’s goats has been eaten. Minceworms have found their way into her lands!”

“Well, then I suppose they’re hers to keep, aren’t they?” Kyleigh said with a grin.

Chapter 25

A Flock of Crows

When Kael returned to the stall that night, he was surprised to find Eveningwing waiting for him. The boy stood beside Kael’s pallet, his hands clamped behind his back. He was obviously up to something, because he kept digging his toes into the ground.

Well, that — and he looked about as guilty as a thief caught in broad daylight.

“What did you do?” Kael said. He had to fight not to smile when Eveningwing’s face reddened.

He bit his lip and stared very pointedly at the far wall. “I stole the book.”

“What book?”

Eveningwing brought his hands out from behind his back and Kael’s stomach flipped when he saw
The Dreadful Journeys of Ben Deathtreader
clutched in his hands. “I know most of the words. But I don’t know them all,” Eveningwing admitted. “My memory of them is … fuzzy. I still think you should read it.” He held the book out. “They’re stories of your people.”

“My …?” Then he suddenly remembered what Ludwig had written, about
Deathtreader
being the
literature of the enemy
. And it struck him: “It’s a book about whisperers?” he said, so quietly that Eveningwing had to lean in to hear him.

“Yes yes —!”

“
Shhh
!”

Eveningwing clamped a hand over his mouth. “I mean …
yes
,” he whispered, glancing out the stall door. Fortunately, the giants were still at dinner. He thrust
Deathtreader
into Kael’s hands and silently urged him to read it.

He didn’t need much encouragement.

Even in Lysander’s monstrous library, there had been very few books about whisperers. The King had ordered them all burned at the end of the War — and had made it a crime to own anything at all related to whispering.

Kael flipped past the slashing words of
Deathtreader
’s title and came to the first page. The whole book appeared to have been written in the same sinister hand, but the writing was uneven: sometimes the words were smaller, more concentrated. Sometimes the sharp loops of the letters dipped well into those beneath it. And in some places, it appeared to have been scrawled in a different color of ink — almost more like a journal than a book.

The reading started out more slowly than usual for Kael. It took him a moment to get used to
Deathtreader
’s peculiar style, but soon he no longer noticed the change in rhythm or ink. The words rose out of the book and seemed to take on a life of their own; the things they described filled his mind, as if he could reach out and touch them.

It wasn’t long before he left the barn and the plains far behind him, and found himself lost — journeying alongside
Deathtreader
:

I am not your average adventurer. I’m not interested in rocks or trees or even treasures. No, reader — what interests me are mysteries: answers to questions so complicated, that few even think to ask them. And those who do are usually not brave enough, or skilled enough, to seek them out.

I am both.

Follow me to strange new lands, reader. Come face the monsters I have faced: beasts so terrifying that Fate herself dares not let them into this world, but keeps them trapped within our nightmares. Come walk in a realm void of sky, where even the most unassuming trinket might cause the whole world to collapse. And you will come to understand that
doubt
is the only death worth fearing.

What follows is an account of me — Ben Deathtreader — and the tales of my most dreadful journeys.

The mind is a house with many rooms …

Kael pulled himself out of the book so suddenly that he nearly tipped backwards. He’d heard that phrase spoken before.

It seemed like ages ago, but Kael remembered it clearly: Morris had said the exact same thing, once. He’d been explaining the skill of mind-walking — a branch of healing so powerful, that allowed a whisperer to transport himself into the mind of another person. It was supposedly such a dangerous trick that Morris made him swear to never try it. And he fully intended to keep his word.

Kael looked up, but the stall was empty. Eveningwing had vanished. He’d likely set out to visit Jonathan, or perhaps he’d gone in search of a snack. Before Kael could wonder too much about it, the torches fluttered and dimmed. He had no choice but to stuff
Deathtreader
under his pallet and try to act as if nothing had happened.

A moment later, the giants flooded into the stall and began to settle down for the night. Brend had spent the whole evening telling the others about the joke he’d pulled on Finks. They chortled about it all through dinner — and had even come up with a plan to spread the tale amongst the other mages.

Everyone agreed that it would be a
mightily grand thing
if they could get all of the mages to think that Scalybones was after them.

Before long, the giants’ excited whispers faded into grunts and snores, and Kael was left with little to distract him. He was exhausted; he knew he ought to get some rest. But
Deathtreader
’s words raced unchecked through his head. Their dark mystery drove off his sleep, and he found himself longing to know more about mind-walking. His fingers itched to turn the next page.

After a few moments, a mischievous little voice rose up in his head:
You aren’t really
trying
it,
the voice whispered.
And you promised only that you wouldn’t try it, not that you wouldn’t read about it. What harm could there be in reading?

That was all it took to convince him.

Kael snuck
Deathtreader
out from the corner of his pallet and opened it carefully, so that the pages wouldn’t crackle. His eyes flicked hungrily across the next lines:

The mind is a house with many rooms. Whether a man is rich or poor, it makes no difference. I have discovered a mansion hidden inside a hermit’s skull: a beautiful, glowing world of warm fires, vaulted ceilings, and chambers grand enough to shame a King.

But inside noblemen’s heads, I’ve often found the world to be disappointingly drab and simple — no more complicated than a hermit’s hovel. I suppose if a man wants for nothing, he will dream of nothing. Though I can’t prove it.

Regardless of the circumstances of our births, hidden within each of us is a world of our own devising: our minds. Every thought, desire, and even our unconscious dreams serve in its construction. It is a living thing. The pathways are ever-changing, new wings form the moment the old ones have crumbled, and the secrets — oh, the secrets scream out from the walls, trying to snare the unwary adventurer.

Do not follow their voices, reader. They mean to send you down a dark path … a path from which you will not likely return.

Though the way be dreadful, I’ve walked the hallways of the heart. I’ve survived the maze of fear and discovered the Inner Sanctum. The steepest stairs I’ve ever climbed were not made of brick and mortar, but of belief. And if a man isn’t firm in his morals, the climb can be most treacherous, indeed. There is no help for you, once you have entered. Even
the owner will not know all of the dangers that await you.

For the mind is a house with many rooms — and we are merely its caretakers …

Kael didn’t know how many times he read
Deathtreader
— though when he woke the next morning, his face was plastered to its pages.

The stories were so complicated, so shrouded in mystery, that he couldn’t quite piece them all together. Even if he’d read it a dozen times, he still didn’t think he would have understood everything.

As Kael followed the giants out to their allotted field,
Deathtreader
consumed his thoughts. He was so wrapped up in his wonderings that he very nearly lost his head.

“Watch it!”

Kael ducked just in time: Brend’s scythe hissed through the air above him, clipping off the top of his wildest curl. “Sorry,” he muttered. He ran a hand through his hair, and the loose bits showered out.

“Don’t apologize to me,” Brend called over his shoulder. “It wasn’t
my
head that nearly fell off!”

The giants moved in a perfect line across the winter wheat fields. Their scythes swung out from their middles in wide arcs, and heads of grain fell helplessly in their wake. Golden shafts toppled over onto their sides, falling with a final shiver, and it was Kael’s job to pick them up.

His scythe skills had not improved. The weapon was simply too big around for his grip. His scythe had flown out of his hand on the first swing and wound up nearly maiming the giant next to him. So while the others harvested, Kael had been ordered to follow along behind them and tie the wheat into bundles.

It was an exceptionally dull task, and one that exposed far more of his neck to the sun than necessary. He straightened up for a breath, touching the burnt, red skin gingerly with the tips of his fingers. He’d been hoping that his freckles would eventually grow so numerous that they’d blend together, browning his skin like the sun had the giants’. But unfortunately, he seemed to have only two colors: white and red.

Kael knew he might very well get his head lopped off if he didn’t pay attention. So he forced himself to stop thinking about
Deathtreader
and instead focused all of his concentration on the task at hand. He tried to keep his mind on the wheat bundles, he really did. But it wasn’t long before he found himself distracted by something else.

He had to find someway to escape the plains. Several disappointing days had gone by, and he was beginning to think that Jonathan would never make it into the women’s tower. It was frustrating, having to wait on him — it was like waiting for the rain to stop, or for a fair wind to blow.

And in the meantime, all of the excitement of the plains had thoroughly worn off. The work became tedious, the giants annoyed him, and his back ached for the comfort of a soft, clean bed. But until Jonathan could get a map of the tower, their plan was completely hobbled …

Even as he thought this, he knew it wasn’t entirely Jonathan’s fault. Though he’d been wracking his brain for days, Kael
still
hadn’t figured out a way around the mages. If the giants fought, they’d be blasted to smoldering bits. If they tried to sneak out — well, they weren’t exactly light on their feet.

So far, Kael hadn’t been able to come up with a single scenario that didn’t end in a fiery death. It was a horrible, tangled puzzle. And it was beginning to wear on his patience.

He swiped the moisture from his brow and looked up to see how much more of the field they had left to go. That’s when he spotted a lone figure working at the head of the line.

Declan moved through the wheat as if every shaft was his enemy: sparring with his invisible foes, stepping in complicated patterns and slinging his weapon about him with such force that heads of grain went flying in every direction. His movements were tight, practiced. There was little he did that didn’t result in a large clump of wheat falling to the ground.

It gave Kael chills to watch. Now he believed what Morris had said about the giants. He thought he might’ve had a better chance against a shark than Declan.

A lonesome call drew his gaze to the skies. Eveningwing circled above them, watching for any stray rodents the giants might scare out of the field. No matter how many times Kael told him not to, Eveningwing always seemed to find them at some point in the day. He would glide above them, riding the gusts of wind, and try to be useful wherever he could.

Lately, he’d been watching over the cornfields. A flock of crows had taken up residence nearby, and they loved to follow the giants around on planting days: gobbling up the seed almost the moment it struck the ground. So Eveningwing had made it his personal duty to chase them off.

He flew by, tipping his wings to catch Kael’s attention, and then dove towards the cornfields for a surprise attack. Frantic caws rent the air and dirt went flying as the great, black body of crows scattered in every direction. Their spindly legs kicked madly beneath their wings as they pumped themselves into the air. Eveningwing flashed through the crowd like a gray thunderbolt, nipping at their tail feathers.

The crows fled for the barn and huddled en masse on the roof — squawking angrily to one another. Their taunting chatter filled the air as Eveningwing circled overhead, but they didn’t move. They seemed to realize that the halfhawk wasn’t going to risk landing among them: once he left the air, he would lose his advantage. As long as they stayed put, the crows knew they would be safe.

After a moment, Eveningwing finally sailed off in a huff — screeching over the top of the crows’ jeers. He may have been angry that his game was spoiled, but at least now the corn would be able to grow in peace …

Kael stopped suddenly, the knot on his bundle half-finished. An idea glowed in the darkness, a strip of hot iron waiting to be forged. He turned it over, thinking furiously about how he would shape it. Then a memory pressed against the side of his head, pushing out against the iron like air from a bellows. It glowed so brightly that Kael had to shut his eyes against it.