CHAPTER 3

The Steel river flows through our hills and Reach nestles in its margins. A bridge and a few centuries since its inception, it now spans across the river, embracing both shores. The Steel provides much of what we need for our sustenance, and for ages goats supplied the rest. The business of large cattle and horses, like those Bago’s father breeds, are a new addition, only a few generations removed from us. Or so Dala says.

Everyone is gathered around the main square, hawking wares, talking loudly, sharing drink. Godtouchedd worries or not, any excuse for celebration is a good one.

We do not go by unnoticed. Katha is always the center of attention of any room she’s in, even though she acts like she doesn’t know it. It’s easier that way. The dirty looks come, all the same, even though few dare voice their thoughts too openly. I wonder whether they are more afraid of impropriety or of being cursed by the foundling witch. Katha steps a little closer to me. Though the villagers' disapproval means little, crowds weigh heavier on her mind.

Medrein and Dala stand side by side, waiting apart from everyone else. Dala smiles and trades words with passersby, the picture of diplomacy. When she see us arriving, she shakes her head at me, to which I apologize with a guilty shrug. Medrein doesn’t even notice. He stands grimly to attention, large and imposing, a warrior born and ready to perform his duty. To a side, by the river, we see Rev surrounded by friends and admirers, a girl in arm, telling jokes and sharing mead. It’s uncanny how different our father is from his children. From Rev in their attitude, he always so serious and unbending, she all graceful chaos, though they share a Gift for weapons and battle. From me, well… Let’s just say no one would be pressed to make remarks about apples and tree on account of us two.

There’s a particular spot in the middle of the village square. You'd be pardoned for missing it in the mob, the noise, but if you looked closer, you'd see what was odd about it. It remains empty in the bustle. Children sometimes run across it, laughing, but parents are quick to catch and chastise them. All eyes in the square eventually converge on that spot, either in a patient, lasting gaze, or with nervous, darting ones.

That’s where the Godtouched will appear. Until they do, we’re free to amuse ourselves, it seems.

"What do you want to—?"

But Katha is no longer at my side. She's approached a loose group gathered around a bench. Rolling my eyes, I walk after her, squeezing through the crowd. It seems Katha has forgotten her fear of mobs. Her smile as she turns to me is infectious.

In the center of the gathering, Garram, aged and nearly blind, is telling his tales to anyone who might stop and listen. Children too young to remember a world without Godtouched watch on in wonder as the story develops. Adults feign disinterest but stay close by. Katha walks right in front the old man and stops, watching him intently. Garriam gives her a nod and a smile – I suppose Katha’s too different from everyone else to fool even his failing sight, and he’s one of the few people who has always treated her well – and dives right back into his tale.

It’s not really a story, but Godtouched history. Beyond wondrous stories of their slaying monsters, destroying old horrors, and conquering tyrants, the tale of their first coming to Reach is equal parts entrancing and puzzling. They looked just like what we’d imagined they were – the armor, the weapons – but at the same time so curiously distant, Garram is saying. There's a dangerous pause before he pressed boldly forward to talk about Whitewing.

Whitewing was a griffin. A big, old, mean one who used to nest in the hills. Stories about him vary. To listen to Garram tell it now, the thing was death on wings, killing honest men and whisking their wives and children away to munch on later. Dala says that, all in all, he was a nuisance at worst. I was too little to remember much more than white shape against a blue sky, flying high above the earth. But not too high for the Godtouched.

Like the storyteller relates, our saviors had no sooner arrived and perused the wares of our merchants (and left disappointed when they learned that there were no such thing as magic weapons in Reach) than they were asking about dangerous beasts, buried treasure, ancient evils. The villagers were dumbfounded. Monsters, in Reach? Someone mentioned Whitewing.

So they went and hunted the griffin down, making a great show of it right in sight of Reach. Flying up to face him, shooting him from the ground with arrows, jumping down on it as soon as he, shrieking, was cast down from the sky. When she could be persuaded to tell the story, Dala would never call it a hunt. She'd call it carnage.

But Garram tells the version of the story that staid, the one that fights against my memory, denying it, painting a fierce battle of good against evil over a common butchering. In it, the Godtouched vanquished the Terror of Reach, releasing us all from the shadow of its wings. Parents and children clap politely.

Evidently, it pays to tell the approved story, the one that’s kind to the Godtouched. A coin flies over my shoulder and lands at Garram’s feet, who bends down to collect it with muttered thanks.

I turn to find Bago’s father putting his money pouch away with a self-satisfied smile. The only thing that gives Mago more pleasure than making money is spending it where everyone can see. He looks me up and down and spares Katha a quick, disdainful glance.

“Don’t you have a coin for our loremaster, boy?” he asks. “You’d think Medrein had raised you better than that.”

I feel the sting of his provocation. Mago has had his eye on Medrein’s position ever since he climbed out of the mud on the back of his horse business. The only person he detests more than my father is standing right next to me, pulling on my sleeve for us to go. But I don’t want to go yet.

“I confess I didn’t like the story much,” I say. “I prefer the real one, about how the Godtouched spent all day running after an oversized chicken.”

“You should learn to respect your betters, boy,” he answers, unamused. "Does Medrein have no control over his own children? That's what you get for inviting a foundling witch into your home."

Like his son, Mago is built like a mountain on legs. Unlike him, he knows a trick or two beyond beating down any opposition. There is a murmur around us. People always pay attention when Katha is mentioned out loud, by any epithet. And now I’m all riled up.

“So should you, horse peddler,” I say, almost spitting out his trade. “Along with manners. Won’t your masters miss you if you’re not waiting when they arrive?”

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The crowd chuckles and I can see a vein pop out in Mago’s temple. Everyone mocks Mago for his closeness with the Godtouched, though seldom to his face. His face grows flushed, red as a beet. Too late, I realize he’s been drinking. His hands come out of his belt, and I can see them shake a little as he pulls one back…

And it bounces off Reva’s shoulder.

“Careful there, Mago,” she says. “You’ll make me spill my drink.”

My half-sister looks much more like Medrein than I do. But where my father’s strong features are coarse, Reva’s are shaped like marble. Her hair is dark golden, her eyes serene. Reva’s mother was never known in Reach, but there’s something about her daughter, something in the poise, the control, as weighty as Medrein’s but subtly different, that speaks volumes about who she might have been.

“You arrive in good time,” says Mago. “The boy has disrespected me and the Godtouched. He runs his mouth like—”

Reva puts her hand up. Mago is a lump of mass and muscle, but he still grows silent at the gesture.

“I heard and saw everything,” Rev says. Her face becomes still and hard as cold iron. Her eyes, fixed on Mago’s, betray no emotion when she continues. “If I ever see you raise your hand to my brother again, you’re getting it back on a string.”

A hush runs through the gathered. For a moment, it’s uncertain whether Mago will do something wild, if he’ll risk position and punishment for the sake of his pride. The instant lingers, stretches taut with pressure when no one looks away. And then Mago grunts and walks away, pushing people off his path.

As the gathered crowd disperses, searching for more dynamic amusements among the loud celebrations, Reva seems only disappointed that Mago didn’t escalate to violence.

“Thanks for that,” I say. “Now everyone will think I need my sister to rescue me.”

"You did need your sister to rescue you, Malco," Rev retorts. He carefree manner, the happy way she sloshes her drink, doesn't quite manage to erase the quiet ease of her movements, the way her body moves with perfectly controlled grace.

"Save your breath," Katha says. "I had to rescue him from Bago just now."

"You didn't—"

"Again?" Rev interrupts before I can finish, incredulous. "Malco, come on, I've told you what you need to do, it's easy..."

"I'm not going to walk up to him and break his nose with my forehead. I can't even reach his nose with my forehead."

"It's all in the technique. Remind me to show you one of these days." Rev slurps the dregs of her mead before turning back to watch Mago making his way to the front of the crowd. "I'd do it for you, but if I'm going to break someone's nose tonight it's Mago's. Think I can take him?"

I roll my eyes at the question and Katha supresses a giggle. It would be funnier if Rev wasn't actually considering it.

“He was a fighter,” my sister says, unperturbed. “Father says he was good. And he would have beaten you to the ground if I hadn’t intervened. Pick your battles, Mal. I’m not always going to be there.”

And just like that she’s off, arms spread wide, returning to the closed circle of her friends.

I turn to Katha – my closed circle – and immediately run into the iron wall of her expression. A sad wall, but a wall all the same.

“I know,” I say, before she can, raising my hands in the air. “I know. I shouldn’t have antagonized him. We should have just left. I—”

“You put yourself in danger for me,” she interrupts, shaking her head. “Again.”

I open my mouth to answer, caught by surprise, but before I have time to think of something, there’s a green flash in the air, and suddenly the crowd pulls back and forward at the same time, straining to see but also not wanting to stand too close to the figure now standing in the middle of the square.

It’s a man striking an elegant bow. His armor is ash-grey, and clearly magical. Flakes seem to peel off from it from time to time and drift to the ground or fly away in the wind, like he’s being very slowly erased. He’s tall, broad, and young, with a fashionable mop of brown locks and a very white smile. A black sword hangs from his back, the final touch on the image of a perfect hero.

This is Valkas, the hero who finished Dark Lord Obrein off in his own throne. Famed to be an invisible killer, a shadow in the night. He’s also the leader of the Black Sword guild and therefore our master. The crowd reacts in spurts, uncoordinated, some uncovering their heads while others bow, mutters of ‘M’lord’ sprouting here and there.

“People of Reach!” Valks yells, standing, spreading his arms and taking no notice of any reaction. “Your saviors have returned!”

More flashes of blinding green light announce the arrival of his entourage, five in all. They come in all shapes, sizes, and species, from a half-giant that is suddenly there, towering over everyone, to a goblin that perches on his shoulder to sneer at the crowd. They all have a patch somewhere on their person showing a black sword pointing down over a red field.

The final flash belongs to a short figure in a red cloak with the black sword drawn down the length of its back. The figure casts its eyes about, and I catch a glimpse of her face. It’s a woman I’ve never seen before: bald, her skin greenish and translucent. Even from this distance, I can see the spread of dark veins around her angry and dismissive eyes. There’s nothing in them but contempt for all that surrounds her. Not all in the Black Sword guild are as enthusiastic about appearances as their leader.

As Valkas advances, it’s Mago who walks from the sidelines and salutes him. A breach of protocol. Medrein’s mouth curls in distaste while Bago’s father, with an ingratiating smile, enquires after the latest batch of horses the guild purchased. There is quite a bit of back and forth before Medrein walks forward.

“Welcome to Reach, my liege Valkas, and all the Black Sword guild,” he intones. “You honor us with your presence.”

Valkas stares at my father a moment before his mouth opens into a smile.

“Medrein,” he says, pronouncing it wrong. “What a pleasure to be once again in our charming little village.”

As he says this, I notice his perfectly black shoes have become spotted with mud after just a few steps.

“And what a thrill,” he continues. “To think that next year’s Champion may be among us right now!”

There is a murmur from the audience, but I don’t see a single face that looks enthused, no would-be warrior itching to join the Challenge. Even Rev, stone-faced and staring straight ahead. Nothing has changed, then: the Godtouched will be disappointed. I strangle a little shiver when I look at the collection of guildsmen assembled and think that they might not like to be disappointed. They may even decide to skip taxation entirely and just raze the entire village to the ground.

“May we meet the gift of Reach, then?” Valkas asks, casting his brilliant smile around. He looks at Rev, standing a little behind Medrein. “Is this her? Is our brave new Champion?”

Katha holds my arm hard. I reach for her hand, surprised, and find it trembling under my squeeze.

Her mask cracks a little. Reva seems like she wants nothing more than just say yes there and then, but my father cuts in before she can.

“Please lord,” he says, beckoning to our house. “Come inside. I would have us talk in more secluded chambers.”

Valkas appears at first puzzled, but is happy to follow Medrein. Before he disappears in the doorway, he stops and turns, quick as snake with a hand to his forehead.

“I almost forgot! Laede, do the thing."

I see the woman with the red hood and translucent skin shoot him a look of pure venom, but then she curls her hands into a sphere. There is a moment of pause, in which nothing happens, then red mist escapes through the cracks of her fingers. With a pang of excitement, I lean forward, ignoring the sudden rush backwards as everyone steps back. Dangerous or not, it doesn't seem to matter so much. I'm about to see

Magic!

It explodes from her hands, curling up into the sky among a chorus of ‘Ooo!’ and ‘Aaah!’. The red fogs twists over itself, spreads over the crowd in a swirl and paints an image above our heads, of a red field with a black sword imposed upon it, pointed down, imposed upon it. The panic turns to wonder. The people of Reach clap and cheer.

When I look down again, Valkas and Medrein have passed inside. I look around for Katha, but find that she is gone too, vanished into the ether.