THE DAY Lucky was to leave with Thurlock for Nedhra City, he rose early enough to see how black the sky could seem in the moments before dawn—so black that if a person didn’t know better, they might think the light could never crack it. He knew the staff at the manor ate breakfast early, and he knew they would always welcome him in their company, and he was of course hungry. As always. So the moment gray light chased away morbid thoughts about the end of the world, he made his way to the manor kitchen.
“We’ll miss you, Luccan dear,” Shehrice said, smiling, “but you might find Nedhra City interesting.”
Lucky wondered if he might glean a little information about the place. “Do you go there often?”
“Gods no, child.” Shehrice rolled her eyes skyward and threw her hands in the air as if the very thought of the city required divine intervention. “Haven’t been there since I was a girl.”
“Which,” Cook said, bobbing his eyebrows, “was only a short time ago, I’m certain.”
Shehrice blushed furiously. “Ach! Now, Cook, don’t be making fun of an old woman.”
“I truly wasn’t,” Cook protested. “I don’t even see any old woman ’round here.” He turned reddish around the jowls too.
None of the others gathered at the table laughed, though nearly everyone smiled into their breakfast, and Lucky realized Cook had a thing for Shehrice. He wondered if she was really as blind to it as she seemed. He hoped not. And he hoped they’d maybe get together and take some happiness from it in the future.
If they have a future.
That grim thought, which he instantly regretted, put him off his food, so he excused himself, rose from the table, and took his plate to the washing station. He almost left with a simple wave and faked smile, but he thought better of it and stepped back to where the others were still eating.
Cook said, “Ah, did ye change your mind and come back for more? I thought it was odd ye couldn’t finish your third plateful today. Was thinking ye might be coming down with somethin’.”
Lucky found an honest smile in response. “No,” he said. “I’m full, or at least I won’t starve. I just wanted to say, I’ll miss you—all of you—while I’m gone.” He glanced around the table to meet perplexed gazes. “And… well, thank you for, you know, everything.”
A confusion of farewells and your-welcomes followed him as he made his embarrassed and hangdog way out the back door. He stepped into the garden and started across, hoping to catch Han at home before he got too busy with his duties to notice him. He stopped himself just in time from calling out for Maizie to walk with him. The absence of his faithful girl trotting at his side added to his bitter outlook, resulting in Lucky having a spirited argument with himself.
The world is about to end, and I won’t even be home for it. I’ll be all alone, without my dog for comfort.
Oh gods, I’m ridiculous!
I just wish things could be the same long enough for something to become normal.
Not normal is actually pretty normal, though.
Right. Gonna have to get over that. But not today.
Han was just leaving his house as Lucky walked into his small, white-fenced yard.
Lucky said, “Uncle.”
“Hey, Luccan,” Han said. “What brings you over here so early?”
Lucky wasn’t exactly sure what to answer. I’m feeling stupidly negative and thought maybe I could whine over at your house for a while. No, not that. “Uh, I just… you know. I’ll be gone for a while and stuff. Thought maybe we could hang out for a little while.”
“I’ve got a lot to deal with today, nephew. More bad news about the Fallows not the least of it. But walk with me over to Thurlock’s. Is something in particular on your mind?”
“No. Yes. Everything.”
Han snorted a laugh, and at first Lucky thought he was making light of Lucky’s feelings. But it wasn’t so.
“I know just how that feels, Luccan. And there’s a hell of a lot of ‘everything’ going on right now.”
They arrived at Thurlock’s house before too much more could be said, and Thurlock met them outside the front door. “Luccan, you might consider letting me know next time you plan to leave the house before the birds even think about daylight. I worried, a bit.”
Maybe getting scolded before he even got a greeting from the old man should have pissed Lucky off more, but somehow, it actually did seem normal, and instead it chased away the doom and gloom.
“Right,” he said. “Sorry. Hey, Thurlock, sir—”
“Not sir, to you. Just Thurlock.”
“Okay. Do you need me to be here for anything?”
“You’re all packed?”
“Yes. I did mine last night after I helped you with yours. And I made my bed this morning too.”
“Then no, not that I know of at the moment. Why?”
Lucky smiled, glad for the thought of possible freedom, though simultaneously the fact that he wasn’t needed deflated his ego a little. Fiercely blocking his conflicting thoughts from Han’s inspection, steeling himself to deal with the pain that would surely come with the half-truth, he said, “I uh… I just thought I’d take Zefrehl out for a little ride, get better acquainted before we start out for the city.”
The half-truth not being a full-blown lie, it engendered only a dull ache in his stomach, not even any nausea. It was a little too easy to deal with. He might even get accustomed to skirting the truth if he practiced. That idea brought more pain—of a different kind—than the dishonesty had in the first place. Thurlock looked at Lucky piercingly for at least a full half minute, raised his eyebrows as if inviting confession, but then he shrugged and addressed Han.
“Safety concerns, Han?”
Lucky spoke before Han got a chance to answer. “I’ll be careful. I won’t go far.”
Both of the older men looked at Lucky with surprised expressions. What could they possibly think? No one likes being watched over every minute.
“Luccan,” Han spoke up. “Your welfare has to be our first concern, and—”
Polite by nature, Lucky rarely interrupted, but this time his feelings were too strong. “I feel like a prisoner,” he almost shouted.
After sharing a long look full of mutual anxiety with Han, Thurlock said, “Very well,” and let Lucky go with an admonition to stay within the Sisterhold proper and be back no later than two hours before noon.
Han added his own advice. “Take it easy on Zef. She’s a strong mount, a great horse all around, but you’ll be riding her all day for the next couple of days. And nephew, be watchful. Stay safe.”
As he walked away, Han’s additional thought caught up with him. “And something more is bothering you. Whatever it is, consider being honest with Thurlock or me about it as soon as possible, and don’t let it get you in any trouble.”
Lucky didn’t answer, pretended he hadn’t heard.
Han added, “Because I care, nephew.”
Lucky walked on, but then Thurlock called after him in his booming voice, “Remember Ophiuchus, Luccan.”
Lucky stopped and turned back to face the two men who stood calmly looking after him, their faces devoid of both warning and accusation. They, the wizard’s tower standing behind them, the Hold and the Sister Hills, all that his vision held at that moment melted away and he relived a moment from his last days in Earth. Inside Thurlock’s tower, the ceiling gone and replaced by a vision of stars, the strange lesson of Ophiuchus and his serpent, and Thurlock’s heavy words:
“I expect you to find your balance. Act carefully, be wise, and trust your heart to know your friends. Even more than others, Suth Chiell, you cannot afford poor choices.”
Calling Lucky back to the present moment at the Sisterhold, Thurlock, in a voice clearly audible across the distance though he hadn’t raised it at all, said, “Don’t go far. Keep the Blade and the Key close. And try to remember we’re on your side.”
THURLOCK’S LAST instructions sounded an awful lot like warnings. After the timely reminder of who he was and what was at stake should he drop the ball, and after so much had happened over the last few days, Lucky knew he’d better take any warning from the likes of Thurlock seriously. Yet he did feel curiously footloose, given no tasks and no hovering supervisor. As if his mentors, who were also his only real family, had given him a gift—a brief time in which he could find a way to lighten his heart. If the day had been dark and stormy, he might have been more apprehensive. As it was he left the stables with the sun sneaking through the pines at his back, a horse he truly liked under him, and about three hours to fill however he wished.
With no clear idea of what he wanted to do with his time, he wandered near the kitchen garden, dismounted, and dropped Zefrehl’s reins to the ground—which she’d been trained to treat as if she was tethered—and invaded. He picked himself a few handfuls of strawberries, enjoying both the activity and the berries quite a lot. Still, when Zef’s low whinny alerted him to one of the gardening staff standing at the end of the row with his hands indignantly on his hips, he decided he’d eaten his fill.
After that, for some reason he didn’t even try to explain to himself, he decided to visit his room in the manor house—the place where truly bad things had happened to him in his sleep. The place Thurlock didn’t want him to stay. Why was he going there? Maybe he just wanted to see if he was brave enough. It probably wasn’t a good idea, but as it happened he never did find out whether he was up to the challenge.
He left Zef in the small yard off his room’s private veranda—where he well knew she might indulge in a few flowers as a snack—and tried the outside door. It was locked. He walked around to the nearest of the manor’s many side entrances and made his way through the halls to his room’s inside door. It was also locked. He’d never tried to pick a lock, and he was pretty sure he couldn’t do it now. He was contemplating asking the Key of Behliseth to help him with a Wish, but when he took hold of the Key with one hand and the lock with the other, the Key went cold and an icicle stabbed straight into the middle of his chest.
“Okay, then,” he said in a low voice meant to reach nobody’s ears. “Not going in there. Nope. Not now.”
By the time he was back outside, the sun had risen above the trees and its warmth seemed to drive away the remainder of the funk that had been haunting Lucky. When he mounted up, Zef tossed her head as if eager to move instead of just hang around the Hold, and Lucky hit on the idea of riding out to the Oakridge, which he decided was within “the Sisterhold proper,” but was also far enough from the manor and its surrounds to feel like going somewhere.
Though it was still early, the sun threw down a lot of heat, but a cool breeze swept through now and then, keeping Lucky from boiling in sweat. A small, low bridge took him across the stream that wandered almost aimlessly across the Hold and on past the orchard, where it eventually found the Altiron River. Once he’d crossed the stream, he’d entered the Behlvale—the long depression half bisected by the Oakridge, a close neighbor to the smaller Sisterhold Valley. Lucky turned Zef to walk along the far bank for a short side trip. The sight of daisies and grasses bobbing in the wind like small, overpolite people repeatedly bowing to one another made him laugh, and his spirits lifted still further. Sure, there was trouble in the world, but it could be fixed. Watching the stream flow, he thought the Sisterhold—and the Sunlands, and all of Ethra—would continue on course, going around obstacles or running them right over, just like water sparkling over stones.
Hearing his own thoughts, he scoffed at the idea of Luccan the philosopher.
He left the seriousness behind, idly wondering if the stream had a name.
This world is supposed to be my home, but I really don’t know much about it at all. Not even about this one tiny part of it.
After his dalliance on the banks, he turned back to find the well-worn path to the ridge, and decided that when things didn’t seem so crazy, he’d apply himself to his studies, which he admitted he hadn’t done before. He’d resented the schooling Thurlock had set up for him last year—childishly, he now thought.
What a difference a year makes. Because now I get it. When I’m Suth Chiell, I might be holding people’s lives in my hands. Knowing stuff might make a difference.
Boring, though.
Knowing boring stuff might make a difference.
The path from the valley floor up to the top of the ridge wasn’t at all horse-friendly, so he left Zef to graze at the bottom. He enjoyed the physical exertion of climbing. It pushed worries further toward the back of his mind, and by the time he got to the top he was feeling more lighthearted than he had at any time since leaving Morrow’s farm—which had been either weeks or months ago, depending on whose time you counted by.
Lucky walked along the ridge toward the northern end. The ridge was bare of tall trees there except for the single oak that gave it its name. Probably the upthrust granite that formed most of the upland on this end, coupled with constant crosswinds sluicing down from the hills on all sides, kept all but the strongest of trees to a low, aromatic scrub. Once there had been more tall, broad trees, though, or at least one more. A long-ago fallen log made a perfect bench for someone who wanted to enjoy those breezes, take in the panoramic view, and be alone with his thoughts.
Lucky settled onto the log and looked out over the Behlvale, which stretched miles across, and many more miles long in both directions. It seemed vast, and the solitude of it peaceful. But after a few minutes of gratefully breathing air he didn’t have to share with anyone, he admitted that honestly, he didn’t want to be alone. He wanted to be with Rio.
Rio, the youngest of Stable Master Morrow’s seven sons, was the only real boyfriend Lucky had ever had, and he hoped it would stay that way. He was young, and who could know what would happen? He could have lots of boyfriends before it was all over. But he loved Rio—loved for real—and Rio loved him back, and Lucky didn’t want to move on. If keeping what he and Rio had meant missing him and being lonely, he was willing to do it.
That didn’t mean he had to like it, though. He remembered running his hands through Rio’s thick black curls, caressing his cheek with its maturing black beard, kissing him. He thought about looking into Rio’s eyes, putting an I love you into real words, walking with him and holding hands. When he imagined these things, he thought he felt an echoing ping against his heart, and he decided to believe Rio was thinking of him too.
It wasn’t more than seconds before the sweet joy of that thought turned into blue loneliness, but minutes passed before he realized that the darkness creeping into the corner of his vision to the northwest wasn’t the product of his sorrowful reverie. Peering into the distance, he saw several men moving about in a place where a series of tall, narrow stones stood in no discernible pattern. One man wore white robes, and magic disturbed the air around him like a vaguely purple heat mirage. Where the man faced and gestured, pillars and curtains of shadow were taking shape, anchored in or suspended from the stones, billowing and blossoming like fountains from the ground.
And they looked hauntingly, alarmingly familiar.
“Uncle Han? Can you hear me? It’s important!”
HAN STOOD with Thurlock, watching Luccan walk away toward his few hours of freedom before he was destined to spend days in the constant company of the wizard. He struggled not to feel sorry for the lad. But then he scolded himself.
How ungrateful could I possibly be?
Thurlock had been everything to him for two centuries—almost, but not quite, a father to replace his own, an extraordinary teacher, and an employer who made working for him more like partnering with him. Thurlock had taken care of him when he was a grieving child, provided him comfort and grounding whenever he’d needed it throughout his life—even within the last few days. Truth was, Luccan would benefit from the having Thurlock’s less-divided attention, and certainly if there was anyone who could—and would—keep Luccan safe better than he himself, it was Thurlock.
Admit it, Han Shieth, he told himself. This attitude of yours is mostly childish resentment about Henry.
It was that, mostly that, but Han also didn’t like Thurlock questioning the military wisdom he himself had nurtured in him for two centuries just when the Sunlands needed it most. He didn’t relish another confrontation about it, but with the strange, truncated report he’d received from Henry last night, and other disturbing news from the Fallows that had come via messenger this morning, he felt stronger than ever that he needed to go down there himself.
Not that he didn’t have misgivings, what with the things the alien had shown Luccan, and—
“I get a sense that you are unhappy with me, Han.”
Han rolled his eyes, and for a moment he said nothing. Then he thought of that Earth proverb, “nothing ventured, nothing gained,” and decided to give the conversation a whirl. “Sir, I’ve had some disturbing reports about the Fallows—”
“Han, we already did this.”
“By the gods’ bloody whiskers, Thurlock!” Han realized what he’d said, and to whom, the moment it was out of his mouth, and sorry didn’t even begin to tell the whole story about how he felt about it. “Oh, sir, I… I apologize—” He stopped abruptly. He’d planned to explain himself, but Thurlock had turned his back and stepped two paces away, and now stood there, shoulders shaking, making the occasional odd noise.
Han thought, He couldn’t have gotten so angry it caused some sort of stroke. But no. He was… laughing?
“Sir?”
Thurlock turned around, trying desperately to tone down his amusement. “Han, forgive me. But if you could see your face….” He dissolved into laughter again.
This time, Han had to laugh too, although not quite so enthusiastically. But when Thurlock finally calmed down, he decided that perhaps it would be easier to talk to the old man if he put a cup of tea in his hands.
“Come back inside, sir? I’ll fix you some tea.”
“No,” Thurlock said, reassembling his dignity. “Thank you. It’s a kind thought, and I would love it. But I need to make my way over to the Hold—things to do before….” He never finished the sentence, instead issuing an invitation. “Walk with me. We’ll stroll, and you can tell me the dire news, and ask me what you want to ask me.”
Han sighed resignedly and then fell in step beside Thurlock. “And you’ll listen?”
“And I’ll listen, yes.”
So Han told him about Henry’s curtailed report, and about a message from Gerania, who still struggled in and out of unconsciousness and sleep troubled with dark dreams. With help from a Droghona light-worker—Olana’s youngest son—she was making progress toward full recovery, and she’d gathered some statistics about a disturbing attrition of Guard soldiers. “People have been disappearing, sir. When they’re out on patrol, they’re with the squad one moment, and nowhere to be seen the next. A few have disappeared from the tents, or the showers. Sometimes their bodies are found later, strangely marked. Most are never found at all. One exception, and it’s disturbing.”
Han let silence fall, hesitating to speak more because of how awful the words would taste in his mouth than because of any reluctance to tell Thurlock.
“Do tell, Han.”
“Sir. Well, that one soldier went missing on a Wednesday while out on parole. That Friday, another patrol ran into a band of Shilloah warriors—”
“Excuse me. Shilloah warriors? From the East March?”
“More than likely, sir.”
“Yes, of course. My point is, what were they doing in the Fallows?”
“Of course, I don’t know. I’ve got Tennehk sending some of his folks in that direction to try to find out. But, strange as that is, what I’m trying to tell you about is even stranger.” He waited to see if Thurlock would interrupt or take exception to his tone, but the wizard only bobbed his eyebrows. “The Friday after this soldier disappeared while on patrol, this band of Shilloah tribesmen ambushed another patrol, and the Guard soldier was with them.”
“Our soldier? Truly?”
Han couldn’t blame Thurlock for having a hard time getting his head around the idea—he’d felt the same. But….
“That isn’t all, sir. Fortunately, the patrol that day had no real trouble beating the ambush, and all the soldiers who had gone out came back. And they all told the same story. They all said the Guard soldier who had disappeared didn’t look like she was alive.”
“Didn’t…?”
“They said she was a corpse, sir. A walking, sword-wielding corpse.”
“I see.”
“And do you also see why I think, now more than ever, that I need to go to the Fallows myself?”
Thurlock blew out a hard breath, leaned on his staff, and sank his face into his free hand. He looked very tired as he rubbed his eyes, and he said, “I think my blood pressure may be slightly high, Han.”
Han sighed, Thurlock’s words cracking open the shell of pique into which he’d locked up the deep empathy and love he felt for this singular old man. “Deep breaths, sir,” he said quietly.
“Let’s step into the kitchen,” Thurlock said, reviving a little. “Maybe I’d like cup of tea after all.”
A few minutes later they sat at a small table in a corner of the ground-floor sunroom in the manor house. Tall, sectioned windows, some panes set with stained glass, spoon-fed them sunlight in gentle, colorful portions. Thurlock with his tea, Han with coffee, it could have been an idyllic rest, even respite. But what Han had told Thurlock, and what Thurlock was now telling Han, refused their hearts any sort of ease at all.
“I’m afraid, Han. That may be a hard thing to hear from the most powerful wizard in the land, but it’s true. I will start by telling you that no, as awful as the troubles at the Fallows are, I can’t let you go, not now, not yet. The Sisterhold absolutely needs you here if I go, and even if I don’t—”
“You might not go, sir?”
“I haven’t decided, but there is a chance I won’t. I do feel I might have better luck with my research in the city, and perhaps more importantly I’d like to look up a few of the better wizards and witches—see if I can’t get some allies who can back me when… if… when we end up in battle. But Lucky’s doings with the Terrathian… they nag at my mind. I have a vague sense that the Sisterhold is in danger, first and foremost, and we’re quite vulnerable here if we’re taken by surprise.”
“True,” Han said, thinking about the current low numbers at the garrison, and the general lack of martial readiness.
“I’m meeting with Rose. I’ve asked her to help me with some scrying—she’s far better at it than I, and I hope to glean some real intelligence about our—”
“Wait!” Han tried to pass Thurlock an apologetic look. He held up a hand and hoped Thurlock understood he was listening to something only he could hear.
“Uncle Han? Can you hear me? It’s important!”
“Luccan? Are you all right?”
“Yeah, but come to the Oakridge. Can you find me? I’m hiding.”
“I can find you. But you’re not in danger?”
“I…. Come quick!”
Nothing more was forthcoming, so Han was left perplexed and alarmed. “Luccan,” he told Thurlock. “He wants me to come to the Oakridge.”
“In danger?”
“I don’t know. I… lost contact, so I’m thinking yes. And he said he’s hiding.”
Thurlock started in with beard scratching, concentration putting a scowl on his face. After a sigh, he huffed out an annoyed breath and said, “I shouldn’t have let him go.”
Han shook his head, wanting to dismiss the comment, but he had no time to spend on it. He said, “I’m on my way, sir. Will you—”
“Yes. I’ll be right behind you. In your judgment, would it be wise to gather some troops and bring them?”
“Absolutely. There’s always a squad on readiness. Start with them and ask my sergeant to sound a general order to stand ready just in case.”
“I’m on it. Thank goodness you know what you’re doing, Han. Take care of our boy, and I’ll see you shortly.”
Han had, by an instinct he couldn’t explain but didn’t question, dressed as if for war that morning. He’d long been perfectly comfortable in light armor, and during the interim he’d almost forgotten he had it on. Now he was glad for it. He’d also belted on Chiell Shan in its scabbard and armed himself with his bow and a quiver of arrows before leaving the house that morning. He didn’t think he had any kind of gift for seeing the future. Rather, he’d been uneasy, and being ready helped him steady himself in the face of uncertainty.
As soon as Han stepped out of the manor house, he whistled for Simarrohn, then jogged out to the place behind the buildings where the trail to the Oakridge started and whistled once more. Within scant seconds, he heard her pounding hooves, and then she was there. She had a halter and lead, but no saddle, bridle, or reins. It didn’t matter, because when Han rode Sim, they were one in purpose and motion.
He let her know how urgent the situation was, and she fairly flew beneath him. They arrived at the Oakridge in seconds, and found Zefrehl grazing, but nervous. Han left Sim with her and climbed to the top of the ridge from there, but he couldn’t see his nephew.
“Luccan,” he mentally called.
No response came.
He tried again, and then risked calling out loud, “Luccan!”
Nothing. And not only did he hear nothing, he didn’t sense Luccan’s mind anywhere.
“Oh, lad,” he muttered to himself. “Where in all the gods’ great worlds are you?”