Borne Rising Page 12

  Ileta’s noctori had taken him just behind his left ear. Well, not fully behind it. When she told him, he’d asked her the stupidest goddam question: Will it grow back? Gods, but he’d felt like an idiot. The Shade helped heal things, but it didn’t turn him into a goddam lizard who could regrow his own goddam body parts. Still, she’d been patient with him. I’ll just tell the world it’s a dueling scar, like one of those people from those old fencing clubs.

  The strike should have ended the match right then and he would have been on his ass for a few days, no doubt, but even as he was losing consciousness, he’d held on. That stupid, idiotic stubbornness and rage had kept him on his feet long enough to whirl in a wild, entirely out-of-form strike. He’d missed by a mile, of course, and as he faded into unconsciousness, felt the earth leave him behind.

  There was no part of him that doubted Ileta had done everything in her power to save him. She seemed particularly passionate about that point, promising him that she made every effort to catch him. But his wild strike had put her too far off to reach him in time. She had, however, been kind enough to watch while his unconscious form slammed into the side of the cliff and then bounced and rolled over and over as it smashed into what must have been every goddam rock and root on the way down.

  He actually didn’t mind that he’d been unconscious for that bit.

  She didn’t blame herself, of course, which was for the best (not just because it wasn’t really her fault) but also because Madigan insisted that she didn’t. Not that it wouldn’t have been nice to have her express a little sympathy, or some regret, or, you know, any sense of ownership of the damn situation. Still, he refused to get worked up about it. He didn’t want to deal with the trolling headache that frustration brought with it.

  Broken ribs, broken back, broken arms, broken fingers, broken skull. Oh, and of course a goddam severed half an ear. Yeah, waking up to all that had been fun.

  At least I did wake up. Ileta seemed pretty certain for a bit there that that may have been out of the cards. She hadn’t said as much, but that damn look in her eyes when she told him what happened said enough. And there had been something else about the way she said it, too. She seemed almost relieved when she thought he wasn’t going to make it. One less boneheaded trainee to deal with, I guess.

  Still, she’d been great ever since. She helped him with all the embarrassing things he didn’t want to acknowledge. Don’t lie to yourself, Mad. She did all the damn work. You just lay there while she took care of you. She never commented, though, never made any jokes or disparaging remarks whenever his body had gotten away from him and tears ran down his face. He appreciated that. She was good, his teacher.

  Mad glanced down and wiggled his toes again, first one foot, then the other. He smiled. It was silly, he supposed, to be so excited about such a little thing, but each day still felt like the whole damn situation could be hit or miss, despite Ileta’s assurances of his full recovery. Maybe, just maybe in a few days he would try to bend his knees on his own, just to see if he could. The thought alone made him dizzy, but he wanted to get better and he wanted it fast. I need to get back out there. I need to find Will.

  She didn’t say so, but he knew Ileta believed him about Will surviving the encounter with Valmont. She was a bit cool when it came to Will—she had been ever since he’d met her—although he had no idea why. She’s got her secrets and I’ve got mine and we’re both fine with that.

  Still, family would be nice right now. No matter how much time he and Ileta spent together, she kept him at arm’s length. Because you’re her student, idiot. You’re not her blood. It’s not like you’ve got Grandda tending to you.

  He heard her rummaging through their camp and felt a great tension release. Apparently, he was hungrier than he thought. That or . . . or yes, he had to admit that he still feared she would up and leave. Disappear without a trace and let him just lie here until . . . he didn’t want to think about that. She’s had no real reason to stick around, but she has. She’s not going anywhere. He told himself that every day, but he never quite convinced himself.

  He’d be dead without her, that much was certain. Hell, he would have been dead the day of the accident. And not one goddam person would have known. The thought terrified him; no one knew where he was, not Will, not Cephora, not a single person. If he had died on his own, he would have been just another one of the lost; here one day, vanished the next. That scared him almost as much as anything else. He never wanted Will to have to go through anything like that, to never have that uncertainty. Assuming he doesn’t already.

  A familiar anger burned in his gut. He knew, knew, that Will had escaped Valmont. But that meant Will was somewhere out there in a situation just like his own, with unfamiliar people doing gods knew what. And the worst part was, Will saw Cephora take him. He’d seen the look on Will’s face, had seen the confusion and despair. That look would haunt him for the rest of his life. And Will doesn’t even know I’m okay. He just saw the damn earth swallow me up, that’s it.

  That was what drove Mad’s anger the most: the abandonment. Cephora had taken the decision from him and removed all autonomy from him in doing so. In a random location, in a random part of the Daurhi Wastes, the damn Seeker had been his only chance of surviving. It hadn’t been a choice to stay with her, not a real one. But if Will had been with him, they could have figured something out. Hell, we wouldn’t have needed to. Cephora could have saved both of us. She should have.

  But that was done. Ileta had come along and he’d said goodbye to the damn Seekers and now he was fine. His eyes dropped down to his broken body. Well, fine enough, all things considered. He’d heal. He’d get back on his feet. He always did.

  The thought of getting back on his feet inevitably led down the rabbit hole of what to do after he got back on his feet. It wasn’t that his training with Ileta wasn’t going well, not by a long shot, but he wanted more. He should be doing more, not just be hidden away training in a power that very few people seemed to care about. All so I can go after a madman that everyone thought was dead.

  His grandfather had planned for Madigan to build alliances between the factions of Aeril, to be a bridge to lasting peace. He’d been groomed for command, groomed for leadership, strange as that still sounded. He wasn’t supposed to be the one tucked away in training. No offense, Will, but you should really be the one lying here.

  That brought a painful chuckle. He could scarcely imagine Will having the patience to lie in bed in a goddam tent for weeks on end without going absolutely insane. Hell, Ileta probably would have left him for dead, and if she hadn’t done so initially, the weeks of listening to Will’s incessant questions and griping would have driven her away, no doubt. That, or he’d have avoided the situation entirely. The damn kid’s Shade always had been quicker than Mad could understand. When he’d had a Shade, that is.

  The chuckle faded. Wonder what the hell he’s doing right now, anyway? Had Jero din’Dael returned them to the Nordoth? The Seekers hadn’t heard anything in the months following the Shale, but that didn’t mean they hadn’t returned there since. Just because no one had heard anything from Will or din’Dael didn’t mean they hadn’t made it away from Valmont. Of course they made it out. So, Will, what the hell are you doing? Where the hell are you?

  He pictured his brother driving din’Dael insane—well, even more insane—with his constant barrage of questions. Mad could only imagine that after din’Dael attacked Will (or whatever the hell that had been) and destroyed his Shade, Will had clawed everything he could out of the Lightborne as to what he’d done. Knowing Will, din’Dael probably fixed it, undone whatever he’d done, almost immediately, especially if they’d been alone together. So, Will then would do what? Probably exactly what we talked about.

  The Relics, then. If Will had fixed everything, he was on the trail of the Relics and keeping a low profile about it. That’s why the Seekers hadn’t heard anything about them returning together. Will was staying under the rad
ar. Just like Madigan had told him to.

  Force of habit sent Mad’s hands reaching to run through his hair and he winced. He slowed down and breathed through the pain. He settled for scratching the beard that had grown during his weeks of inactivity. Apparently, Ileta’s attentions to body care and cleanliness did not extend as far as keeping him clean shaven. The growth still itched; he could only imagine how he looked. Hair too long and a beard and living in a tent? Probably like a damn hippy.

  He looked back down at his toes and wiggled them again. Then he tried rolling his ankles. They rolled without nearly as much pain as he expected. Already better than yesterday. Far better. Taking a deep breath, he pushed himself back up so he was nearly sitting. Steeling himself, he tried bending his right knee. The blanket moved. Not much, barely at all, but movement nonetheless. His heart began a rapid percussion and a grin spread across his face. I’ll be back on my feet in no time. No time at all.

  Ileta’s shadowy form appeared outside the tent a moment before the flap opened. She entered carrying a steaming bowl filled to the brim and a small pitcher of water. She raised an eyebrow at him and Madigan realized he must still have that stupid grin plastered on his face.

  “Sitting up and smiling?” she said as she brought the broth over. “Have you been playing me for a fool this whole time?”

  “I wish.” Mad’s voice still sounded weak and hoarse, but at least speaking didn’t hurt the way it had two weeks prior.

  Ileta gave a small “hmph” then sat on the stool next to Madigan’s cot. She set the bowl on the small table next to it and took in the sight of him with the same scrutinizing gaze that analyzed his every movement in the field. “Another week. Then we return to training.”

  Yesterday she said it would be at least two. Madigan smiled again. “Another week then.”

  She took the bowl and a spoon and leaned over him. The broth smelled fantastic, like something his grandfather would have made when Mad was sick as a kid. “Ileta,” he said after swallowing the first savory bite, “when we do get back to training, I’ve got a request.”

  Ileta sighed and dipped the spoon once more, then raised a questioning eyebrow at him. “Only one? Somehow I doubt that.”

  Madigan nodded, a motion he’d only just discovered he could still manage. “One.”

  She set the spoon back in the bowl and gave him a patient stare. “What?”

  “Day one,” he said with a grin, “I want to go back up that damn cliff. I’ve got a bone to pick with it.”

  11

  Undermyre

  The last time he stood in this very spot, Will had been facing the opposite direction. He’d been with Madigan and Cephora, the Undermyrian gates at his back and the whole of Aeril stretched out before him. There had been excitement and hope, a thrill of adventure, of walking into a storybook. There had been a naive promise in his head, his own heroic journey.

  That had been before. Before the Sapholux and Jero din’Dael. Before the Shale. Before Dorian Valmont. Before Morella Darklore.

  Well, not entirely before Morella, he mused, remembering their brief first interaction. A drink. A dance. A laugh. A kiss. It was a bittersweet memory now, overshadowed by her screams of fear when the undead Necrothanian horde surrounded her. One more death to make Valmont pay for.

  The Undermyrian gates had been fortified since his last visit, hard as that was for him to believe. From what he had seen, the city was nigh impregnable with its double walls and peninsular terrain. The citadel of the Nordoth, then, carved into the very mountain around which Undermyre had been built, was an impossibility beyond that. Even in the event of a potential siege, an attacking force would have no way of cutting off supplies from the sea. It was no wonder din’Dael wanted to house the Lightborne there.

  All he wants is for them—for us—to survive. Was he doing the man a disservice by believing there was more to it than that? He shook his head slightly. Things are never so cut and dry here.

  A steady stream of foot traffic came and went through the gates. The soldiers guarding them paid little heed to who passed through. Seems lax given the step up in defenses.

  Will thumbed the blood fangs, replenished during his last few weeks of solo travel. His training in the Sapholux had prepared him well for hard living and he’d borne it without too much complaint. After all, who could he have complained to? He’d said a fond goodbye to Rienne weeks ago, tipped his nonexistent hat to Dahla, and set out for Undermyre. Now, well, now he needed to figure out how to accomplish the next bit.

  Will passed through the gates without issue and found himself surrounded by civilization. He was not ready for it, not after so long. The commotion, the noise, the smell; he reeled from all of them. He stumbled into a nearby woman who batted large, perplexed eyes at him. Will fumbled an apology and turned away, only to walk right into a short man and nearly knock him to the ground. Hand shooting out, he caught the man and steadied him and prepared for a verbal rebuke. But the man just adjusted his billowing scarf and barely even looked in his direction.

  I’m like a goddam tourist. He stepped off the main drag and leaned against a building. Even with his suddenly overwhelmed senses, he realized that he had no actual idea how to navigate Undermyre. The month in the city on his first visit had been spent cooped up entirely within the Nordoth, his only outing on the day he and Madigan left with Cephora. Even that had been a straightforward path, venturing straight to the establishment with that phenomenal drink.

  Ash something . . . He searched his memory. That was it, the Street of Ash.

  It suddenly occurred to him how disheveled he must appear after weeks on the road. If he could find his way to the Street, he could find at least a semi-familiar place to get his bearings, collect his thoughts before going to the Nordoth and the inevitably frustrating meeting with the Crow. A place to clean up, take a minute. He nodded to himself. Good idea. His heart calmed its frantic pace a bit at the prospect of getting away from the crowds. Now, it’s just a matter of finding the damn place.

  He shied away from the Undermyrian citizens. An echo of an old conversation with Madigan was playing in his brain: They try to cut out whatever makes you you, and they sew it into their clothes. He eyed their clothing as he passed, suddenly wary. Yes, there was lots of leather, but surely that was just coincidence? Leather was, after all, exceedingly common for clothes. And Madigan’s book hadn’t said anything about the general populace, just outliers, right? He glanced about, drew his hood, and walked with his head down.

  All the research that Mad had done in the Nordoth, hell, everything Will ever heard from his grandfather, had all been about the Aerillian people’s reactions to Shadowborne. Nothing about Lightborne, not one mention of superstition. Did that mean the Lightborne were exempt from whatever superstitions this world held? Or was it simply that they were thought extinct? Will didn’t have any idea, and he had no intention of finding out. Just keep a low profile. Keep my head down and fly beneath the radar.

  He wandered the streets for a time, avoiding the main thoroughfares as much as possible. The city seemed more crowded than before. Had the surrounding peoples congregated in the city due to the threat of Valmont? Did they even know that Valmont was back?

  He halted, suddenly aware of how little information he had. Everything Grandda taught me, keeping my head and collecting data, I’ve neglected it all. Three years was what he’d estimated he’d spent in the Sapholux, give or take, not that the world of Aeril gave that any thought. Three years of hiding away to train while the rest of Aeril moved on.

  Has it, though? He took a deep breath, forcing himself to push down the strange agoraphobia and to pay attention. There was no urgency about the people around him, no apparent stress. But would the threat of attack really change anything for them? Everyone who surrounded him held the same simultaneous aloofness and attentiveness that he remembered. What do you do with an eternity? How does the mind cope with that?

  He shook his head. Focus, Will. He traced his
steps back to the main gate. Before, they had stayed the night at the Street of Ash and then left through this very gate, he remembered that much. And he remembered that the Street had been within an easy fifteen minutes’ walk. If he could find that same route, he could get back there. Something will come from it, I’m sure.

  A stairway on a nearby building offered a slightly higher vantage point. Will made for it and climbed. Surveying the nearby rooftops, he saw a lantern in the distance, illuminating a red banner beneath. Something about it triggered a flash of the Street’s interior in his mind’s eye. That’s gotta be it.

  He raced down the stair, making sure his hood was pulled forward as far as it would go, then made for the vibrant banner. Now that he knew where to look, he saw the fringe of its crimson coloring flapping in the wind above the buildings in stark contrast against the surrounding grey and brown of the decayed city. His heart fluttered as he drew nearer and sounds of music began to emerge. It crescendoed briefly when a couple opened the establishment’s door and stumbled into the street, laughing and dancing. Will smiled; he had found it.

  Standing before the double doors, a wave of uncertainty took him. What if Morella is inside? His mouth dried at the thought, its moisture suddenly appearing in his palms. He wiped the sweat on his pants and berated himself. Of course Morella wasn’t inside. Morella was dead, more than likely. And if by some miracle she had managed to escape Valmont, then why the hell would she just happen to be sitting in the Street of Ash? It’s been three years, Will. You think she’s just sitting around waiting for you? Get your head out of your ass.

  The momentary excitement was rapidly replaced by longing and nostalgia. Resigning himself to the way the world was, and not what he’d wished it would be, Will pressed open the doors and walked into the Street.

  He was immediately beset by the roar of applause and boisterous music. The scent of woodsmoke mixed with light perfume lingered in the air and beneath it all, something he couldn’t place, something that only deepened his sense of longing. There were more curtains to pass through than there had been before, and when he at last stepped through the final barrier, he could not help the sad smile that crept to his face.