The Last Steward Page 7

  “I will leave the politics to those who understand it. I for one would just see the end of the Triumphant King, and then close the Rift.”

  “As you should.” Ezra sighed, dropping his arms to his sides. “I wish we could find Isa. Maybe we could risk sending someone to search him out.”

  The thought had occurred to Brate. Sending a shielded Sister wasn’t a bad idea, but who would be willing to attempt such a thing? It was dangerous, and if that person were caught, the King could torture the location of the Hidden Coven from her. But maybe it was worth it to have the opportunity to convince Isa to join them. He was the most powerful person any of them had ever met, and he had easily bested the King.

  “I think it is worth bringing up again to the Sisters.”

  Soft footfalls echoed behind Brate. He looked over his shoulder. His heart rate increased at the sight of Anyia, and he turned back to Ezra. “I will talk to them after they have elected a new Benefactress.”

  “Ah, yes. This happens today?”

  Brate nodded and turned to grin at Anyia as she drew closer. Her face was stoic, and his heart fell. She had changed over the past several weeks. Her name had been brought up as a candidate for Benefactress, and the idea of it made her nervous, if not outright scared. Nothing he did or said assuaged her anxiety, and she continued to project stoicism around others.

  “Ezra,” she said, looking over Brate’s shoulder. Ezra returned the greeting and then entered the breakfast chamber, leaving them alone.

  Brate stepped close but she raised a hand to ward him off. “You know we can’t appear intimate, Brate.” Her no-nonsense tone frustrated him. When they were alone, she was herself. In front of others, she was someone else entirely. Someone he didn’t know.

  “No one is even awake except for Malok, Garron, and Ezra. Who cares?” He tried to take her hand, but she frowned and stepped back.

  “Seriously. Stop. Now of all days is not –ʺ

  “I doubt you will actually be elected, Anyia. Besides, even if you were, who cares what others think?” He couldn’t keep the hurt from entering his tone. “I wish you would be yourself for a change.”

  “And who is that?” She crossed her arms as if she had a chill. “Look, Brate, you know the other Mothers would never approve of us being in a relationship.”

  “Like I said, who cares what they think?” Brate ground his teeth.

  “I do, for one. And so should you.” She tried to step past him into the breakfast chamber, but Brate grabbed her arm. She paused but didn’t jerk away. He looked down into her eyes, liquid brown and expressive. Something passed through them. Indecision? Vulnerability? It broke his heart.

  “I know this isn’t easy for you, Anyia. You have been through a lot these past months you have known me. And I’m sorry for whatever part I have played in your difficulties.”

  Her eyes melted to pools of compassion. “Oh, Brate.” She stopped, as if unsure. But the moment passed. In its place was the steel she projected to everyone but him. Drawing her arm away from him, she continued, “You are not responsible for my suffering. It has been a privilege to work with someone like the Bender.” Then she glided into the breakfast chamber.

  Brate’s throat clamped. Creator’s bosom, why couldn't she just be Anyia? Why did she feel as if she had to please the other Sisters? Was he not worth it to her? Sadness, anger, and bitterness fought for supremacy inside him.

  He stalked away, looking for a chamber to sweat off his frustrations. The audience room was empty, and Brate’s longblade was against the wall. The room was like a small amphitheater, hollowed out and smooth. He descended and gripped the longblade, pulling it from the sheath and examining the edge. It was dented and rusted from bygone battles his grandfather had waged. He had grabbed it on a whim when Anyia had first found him and convinced him to follow her. Convinced him that he was the Bender.

  Brate had no trainer to teach him. All he had were memories of Priva Car’abel at his forms. Stripping to his trousers, he concentrated and mimicked what he had seen Priva do. Faster and faster he spun, slashing and parrying, envisioning Polbine Voltaire’s face in his mind. It felt good to release, to focus, and everything melted away until there was only him and his blade.

  “You are terrible.” The voice echoed from the top of the amphitheater. Brate almost dropped his blade. Whirling, he glared at Ezra Carp as the man descended. A magnificent weapon hung almost lazily from his hand, its hard steel glinting in the firelight dancing on the sconces on the walls.

  “I have no teacher!” Brate defended, trying to catch his breath.

  “You look like a boy handling his first love, but instead of a blade it’s –”

  “I get the point!” Brate snapped, and Ezra chuckled, twisting his wrist so that his blade swung in dizzying slashes.

  “Are you taking out your frustration that you haven’t bedded the witch yet? If so, there are better ways to accomplish your goal.”

  “What, in the same way you pine after Myra Storm Wielder? So, I should follow your marvelous example, is that it?” Brate tried to stifle the irritation seizing him at Carp’s condescending tone and words. There was something about him that was so confident. And arrogant.

  “If I wanted to sleep with her, trust me, I would have.” Carp stopped his wrist, the blade coming to a standstill in front of him. “Move your body weight off your heels, Hightower. Otherwise you will fall over as soon as I attack.” Ezra slashed at Brate’s blade, nearly knocking it from his grasp. True to Carp’s warning, Brate stumbled backward. He tightened his grip and moved to the balls of his feet.

  For an hour, Carp worked with Brate, teaching him the basics of bladewielding. Back and forth, defend here, slash there, move his body, keep his head, watch his opponent’s tells. By the time Carp let him have a break, Brate was exhausted, his muscles aching. Carp hadn’t even broken a sweat. Great.

  “Thank you,” Brate said as they climbed the steps from the amphitheater.

  “You do well to learn to use something besides that will of yours, Bender.”

  “Would you have me speak to Myra on your behalf, Carpy? Get her to fall in love with you?”

  Ezra turned and shoved Brate against the wall before stalking away. Brate grinned.

  ***

  Myra Storm Wielder

  “All rise!” Melinde Dor’stala’s voice swept across chamber, the authority in her tone unmistakable. Myra stood along with the other assembled Sisters. There were at least two hundred of them present, including the ones Brate rescued from the Forest City and the refugees from Rollvear and Slake. Word had come two weeks prior of the Learners’ deaths, slaughtered by the skrales. Frale Nightswallow had sent a message from the Bright Lands. Still, sadness welled in Myra like a tide. Who would do such a thing to little girls?

  The Triumphant King, that’s who. Not for the first time, the urge to find him and rip his eyes from his sockets filled Myra’s inner being. She took a calming breath, reaching for the center in her core that helped her control her heart rate. He had tortured her, relentless and uncaring. She had not broken; at least, not outwardly. But on the inside, she was a mass of anger, bitterness, and fear.

  “We have before us three Sisters who have made it to the final vote.” Mother Dor’stala clasped her hands in front of her. “I acknowledge Anyia Shallowgold, Calliope Bray, and Anniston Numataka as the finalists.”

  A muffled cough behind Myra was stifled. Sister Gisella had appeared nonplussed when she had lost the week before, the fourth to have made it to the vote. Now, most of the Sisters from the Covens were convened, with only a few missing. Their votes had come through bird for this final casting.

  “We will now give the opportunity to ask any final questions.” Melinde looked about, and Myra raised her hand. “What is your question, Sister?”

  Myra stilled the nervousness in her breast. “I have an announcement, Sisters, but no question.”

  She had waited for this moment. Now that it was upon her, hesitancy seized
her.

  “I will leave that up to the contestants.” Dor’stala looked at them, and as one, they nodded. Myra slipped from her seat to stand before them, heart pounding, face flushed.

  Truth, this had better be a good idea.

  Blank expressions stared at her from the assembly. Best to just drop the hammer and leave the results up to the Truth.

  “In my travels with Malok Mountain Keeper, it came to my attention that the Brotherhood, a group of men who hold both scholastic, religious, and governmental authority in the Scrape Lands, have a special ability they keep a secret from the rest of the sphere.” She paused, willing her breath to still, her insides to stop roiling. “They call it mind-reading or Delving. They claim it is scientific in nature and requires a brief physical touch on the forehead to be able to sense what is going on in someone’s brain. They use it for the equilibrium of mind and body, for passing on of knowledge, and for divining secrets to judge fairly between disputing parties.”

  The room had stilled, the faces around her open with puzzlement and confusion. Anyia frowned.

  “Sisters, it is my belief that the Brotherhood are accessors. And there are thousands of them behind the web.”

  A gasp echoed in the chamber, and several voices started shouting at once. Mother Bray raised her hands, calling for silence as she turned to Myra. “Why are you just now saying something? You have been here a month!”

  “A fair question. I apologize, for my thoughts have been scattered since my imprisonment. Sisters, it was quite by accident that I found out. Malok and Garron assumed that I already knew, since I was Jin’tai. Apparently, it is common knowledge throughout the Scrape Lands the Brothers have this ability. But I was born as a Westlandian, and only entered the north after I had become a Sister. The Rook, descendant of Colin Redstone the great warlock who opposed Briton the Brown, didn’t divulge this information to me. I am unsure why. All of these things led me to believe it would be wise to think through how, and when, I should share such information.”

  Her heart was still beating a fierce rhythm, and she stilled the tremble overtaking her hands. All eyes stared at her, faces full of disbelief. She was changing something, but to what extent? It would largely depend on who was voted as Benefactress, no doubt.

  Swallowing, she continued, “I believe now is the time, since the next Benefactress will determine the course of action about what should be done with the Brotherhood. Circumstances as they are, I think the Sisterhood deserves to know before they cast their votes what these three women think we should do.”

  With a nod, Myra returned to her seat. To their credit, the Sisterhood kept their mutterings muted, and no one shouted any questions.

  “I think the solution is obvious,” Mother Bray said before anyone else had a chance to respond. “Send Myra back north to figure out how to get the Brotherhood to join us against the Warlock King.”

  “Let’s not be hasty,” the White Mother interjected, hand outstretched toward Mother Bray. “After all, if they haven’t wanted to interfere in sphere affairs for thousands of years, why would they start now? I think it will require more than just sending a half Jin’tai witch through the web again.”

  Anyia nodded, face impassive. “It’s not a matter of just the web coming down. We must strive to understand the Northlandian culture as best as we can to better ensure their cooperation.”

  “Bring that boy in. Garron, right?” Mother Bray suggested. “Since the Seer is still lost in his own mind.”

  Myra fought a surge of anger at her tone, dismissive of her friend’s suffering. After a moment, Garron was escorted into the room, trembling and shoulders hunched. His eyes caught Myra’s, and he stuffed his hands in his pockets, eyes wide and pleading.

  Pity welled in her. She was a Sister first and foremost. Her loyalties were elsewhere.

  Then why did uncertainty grasp her in its fists?

  Chapter Seven

  Anyia Shallowgold

  Anyia ran a hand over her lips. This couldn’t be true. Was Myra certain? Garron stood, anxious and trembling before the Sisterhood. His eyes found Myra’s, and something close to pity filled Anyia. The poor lad was terrified.

  “Garron, you have been brought here to answer some questions regarding the Brotherhood.” Mother Dor’stala’s voice was calm and soothing. Garron turned to her with flaring eyes. “Are you willing to discuss these things with us?”

  He shifted, eyes darting between the four Sisters. They rested on Anyia before he spoke. “I would speak with the finalists and Myra. Not here.” He turned once again to find Myra in the crowd.

  “I think that is acceptable,” Mother Bray said with a curt nod. “Sisters, would you clear the room?”

  There was no small amount of grumbling, but the other Sisters and Mothers complied. Soon the room was empty save for the ones he had requested. Anyia understood his discomfort. Garron’s interactions with accessors from beyond the web was limited, and the Jin’tai were born suspicious of those who could access the Deep.

  They all sat down, Garron facing them. He kept his hands in his pockets, gaze on the floor.

  “I know you are uncomfortable, Garron. And we apologize for putting you in this position.” Mother Dor’stala kept her voice low and comforting. “But we must ask you about the Brotherhood.”

  Garron raised his eyes to look at Myra with something seething in their depths. “I am not beholden to answer anything.” He sat straighter. “There are reasons why we stay behind the web, to avoid witches meddling in our affairs.”

  “Be that is it may, you find yourself in our company,” Anyia answered, smiling at him. “In all your time with us, have you known us to make any decisions or actions that were not absolutely necessary?”

  “I have known witches to do things for their own interests. Even Myra!” and he glared at her.

  “I was open and honest with both you and Malok,” Myra defended, but her voice wasn’t angry. Clearly she had caught on to his defensiveness of the Brothers, and was trying to make him see reason.

  If anyone could convince him to talk it would be her. Garron would trust her at least moderately more than the rest of them.

  “I know,” he muttered. “What are your questions?”

  “If you were an acolyte of the Brotherhood, did they think you could learn to... mind read, or whatever they call it?” Mother Bray asked.

  Garron’s eyes shifted to Myra, and something indecipherable passed between them. He reached for his behind, rubbing it in an odd way before snatching his hand away as if realizing what he was doing. “I will not answer that question.”

  Mother Bray sighed and began to ask him something else, but Myra jumped in. “Garron has a wonderful mind, and the Brothers saw that in him.”

  Anyia blinked. Myra was defending him. Interesting. Where did her true loyalties lie? Something to keep tucked in the back of her mind.

  “Do all Brothers have this ability?” the White Mother asked.

  “Yes.” Garron gazed at her, spine straightening. “What of it?”

  “How often do they do this?”

  “As often as needed,” he said with a shrug. “Sometimes, they do it to help someone who has a problem with their memory. Or their mind is shutting down due to trauma or disease. They help create new pathways in the brain, to form new connections.”

  “What else do they do it for?” Mother Bray’s tone was far too demanding, even for Anyia’s liking.

  Garron shifted in his seat, hunching his shoulders even further. “To solve disputes. To find the truth of the matter, so they can judge fairly.” He shot his gaze back to Myra. “And sometimes, to help broaden the mind, to be able to retain more information so as to gain more knowledge.”

  “What exactly does that entail?” Myra nodded at him as she spoke, as if to encourage him. He relaxed somewhat, pulling his hands out of his pockets.

  Anyia stifled a smile. Yes, brilliant. Make him think he was teaching instead of being accused of something.


  “We aren’t really sure how it all works. Documents going as far back as the creation of the web are limited, but it would appear that this was something the Truth chose to bestow on some specially chosen people who had a thirst for knowledge and a desire to help others.” He looked toward the ceiling as if in speculation. “Malok would be the one to talk to, since his interests were focused the ancients, whereas mine –” he stopped, as if embarrassed. “Well, my interests expanded beyond the Scrape Lands.”

  “Can you tell us what you do know?” Myra prodded with a slight nod. “I know that your intelligence isn’t only limited to inquiries about other Lands.”

  He pursed his lips before responding. “We were taught at an early age that one could learn how to Delve, if you tried hard enough. The skill was innate, yes, but some had it more naturally than others. The theory is that there are certain pathways, much like veins of ore, in the brain that pass along information such as pain, pleasure, or even stored memories. These pathways take the information to certain parts of the mind, where the brain then directs the body in how to interact with this information. When one is hungry, for example, the vein sends that information to the brain, which then initiates the feeling of hunger.” He waved his hand in the air as if to accentuate his point. “All it would really take, then, is someone who can trace these pathways through interference fields. To continue with the ore illustration, it would be as if a miner was tapping into a vein. Once that pathway is found, it can be repaired. Or, you can follow that pathway to see someone’s feelings and impressions about certain topics, or even what they are thinking in that very moment.”

  Shock and excitement sparked within Anyia’s core. This was next to impossible.

  To think all this time there were thousands of accessors in hiding. What if they joined them against the Triumphant King? But her excitement gave way to a shiver of fear. If they weren’t warlocks, what were they?

  “Could you demonstrate for us?” Myra asked. “I will volunteer.”