Glenn forced herself up and stood teetering at the edge of the cliff, the wind lashing her, the jagged rocks and endless land sprawled out below.
“There is no road home.”
The words were like hands reaching up from a grave to pull her down, just as they had pulled down her mother and father and Kevin and Aamon and Margaret. Glenn turned away from the edge and crossed the windswept stone.
There will be for me.
Glenn traveled throughout the morning and into a bright and cold afternoon, the red of Bethany growing steadily in her eye. Every step was near agony to a body that had spent years sitting in chairs with a tablet in hand, but she pushed on to a drumbeat formed from Margaret’s last words. When Glenn thought she couldn’t walk anymore, defiance pushed her forward.
When she reached Bethany’s outskirts, she stopped and peered down a road that wound away to her right, disappearing into the town.
Despite the size of the place, it was as quiet as a grave. No voices. No sounds of movement or work. This was supposed to be an industrial town — a blacksmithing town, Aamon had said. Why was it so quiet?
One possibility was that one of the various forces that were searching for her — Merrin’s, the Magistra’s, or the Colloquium’s -
had come and cleared the place out and were lying in wait for her.
Either that or the townspeople had heard of the armies converging on their town and fled.
Nervous anticipation buzzed inside Glenn. Above the rooftops sat the beginning of the forest border. Home lay on the other side, only hours away now. The silence seemed to intensify as she followed the narrow dirt road past abandoned buildings. Here and there she found an open door looking into an empty room, but most of the buildings were closed up tight. Their windows were like empty eye sockets.
Glenn quickened her pace, triumph dancing in her chest. I beat them all here, she thought.
But then she turned a corner and saw the first body.
From a distance, Glenn mistook it for an animal, but as she drew closer, she saw it was a man. He was dressed in simple
homespun-looking clothes, rough pants, and a fur-lined leather coat.
His arms and legs were outstretched. A silver knife, its length splattered with blood, lay on the ground, inches from his open hand.
Glenn approached slowly. He was old, fifty at least, with thinning gray hair and a round, heavily lined face — a farmer, not a soldier. The front of him was stained, throat to belly, with blood. His eyes, the color of dead leaves, were open and staring into the cold sky. Glenn’s head reeled and her stomach turned. She thought she would be sick right there in the street, but she forced it back.
It’s okay. You can hide until they’re gone. You’re so close.
Glenn stumbled away from the dead man, struggling to find her footing as her shock tripped into fear. She ran, imagining sounds all around her now. Footsteps. Doors opening. Swords being drawn. But everywhere she looked, she saw nothing except a blur of wood and tile and road. The road wound through the houses until she was only steps from the edge of town. Glenn could clearly see where the dirt road turned into scrub grass. Her heart pounded. She ran for it, but when she was only steps away, a company of soldiers appeared. Each one had a sword at his waist and a long iron-tipped spear in his hand.
Over their heads floated a figure in a black cloak. One arm reached up and drew back the hood, revealing a pale aquiline face.
Abbe Daniel.
Glenn turned and ran, eyes on the trees that made up the border, but a tremor shot through the ground and tossed her off her feet. The next thing she knew, Abbe was floating down in front of her.
“No little tricks to help you now,” she teased as hands grabbed Glenn from every direction and pulled her to her feet.
Abbe and the company of soldiers marched Glenn through town without a word. They passed more dead bodies on the road as they went, first singly and then in pairs and small broken groups. Men and women and a few young boys. They were all simple-looking folk, roughly dressed, with knives and farm implements for weapons. Were these the people of Bethany? Merrin Farrick’s revolutionaries?
Was Kevin somewhere amongst them? Glenn tried to banish the thought but couldn’t help herself from picturing Kevin lying alone on some dirt-covered street.
The town square was surrounded on all sides by two-and even three-story wooden buildings. There was a long loop of dirt road, and in the center of that a grassy park dotted with trees. There were bodies here too, but fewer of them, five to ten scattered about like litter. In the park were the victors of whatever battle had gone on here, another company of soldiers. There were ten to twenty of them, all armed like the ones behind Glenn, and at the head of their number stood Garen Tom.
And at Garen’s feet was Aamon Marta on his knees, slumped
over and bloody.
A soldier pushed Glenn and she stumbled forward, sprawling out beside Aamon. Up ahead, a wooden gallows had been constructed. A noose hung down and was wrapped around the neck of a bound man who stood on a small platform. He had been beaten badly; both eyes were nearly swollen shut with bruises. His clothes were rent and bloody.
It was the violin player Glenn had seen sitting with Kevin at the inn two nights before. It was Merrin Farrick, soon to die.
Glenn turned to Aamon. He was stooped over, his broad
shoulders hunched, one arm hanging limp at his side. His fur was covered with splashes of blood. His blood. The blood of others. Deep cuts spanned his face and arms.
“Aamon,” Glenn whispered. She started to reach out to him, but a soldier knocked her hand away. She flinched, expecting Aamon to attack. He didn’t move. His eyes were on the dirt in front of him, and he mumbled a prayer under his breath. Her fear settled into a cold dread.
“After you were gone, he barely fought,” Garen said, his voice a gravelly boom. “Sat moaning over a dead man like a little girl. Too afraid to keep fighting.”
Aamon kept his head down and his eyes closed. Glenn thought of him kneeling before the stone altar, praying for forgiveness. No, Glenn thought, not afraid. He was never afraid.
Garen Tom stepped forward and knelt down in front of them both.
He was even more terrifying up close. His fur was short and mottled, home to a thousand old scars. One ear was mostly gone, a gnarled nub of a thing. His breath was hot and smelled coppery, like blood.
“Strange employment you’ve found yourself, brother. Escorting outsiders.”
Garen’s tone mixed anger and hatred and, somewhere deep below, a great and long sadness.
“We are built to serve,” Aamon said, his voice hoarse, broken.
Glenn jumped as Garen took Aamon by the throat and yanked
him close. “I served the Magisterium,” he hissed so low that only Glenn and Aamon could hear. “But because of you, I am now a slave to a monster and her whelp. We all are.”
Garen’s eyes were narrow and deadly, and there was a rumble in his throat. Aamon said nothing. He lowered his eyes and began repeating his whispered prayer. Garen reared back and spit in Aamon’s face. Thick saliva ran down Aamon’s cheek.
“Stop it!” Glenn surged forward and slammed her fists into the granite of Garen’s chest. “He’s had enough!”
Garen laughed and looked over Glenn’s shoulder. “This human has the bauble you want?”
Abbe Daniel soared above Glenn’s head and landed lightly
beside Garen. A barely healed gash Glenn hadn’t noticed before ran down the right side of Abbe’s cheek. It was an injury she hoped she was responsible for.
Abbe inclined her head, and Garen seized Glenn’s wrist.
“No!” Abbe called out. “Don’t remove it. We take her to the Magistra.”
“Alive?”
Abbe’s eyes, a deep brown, almost black, fell on Glenn. The slightest smile played across her thin lips. “That depends. Do you think you can control yourself, girl?”