Along the Black Road, Eganene
When consciousness returned, he was barely able to open his eyes. The sunlight was blinding, the rays like white hot spears lancing through his eyelids. Ian tried to cover his face with his hands, but he couldn’t. He could feel a tree against his back and the cold ground beneath him. Squinting against the light, he tried to bend his arms and legs, but there was no response. It wasn’t as though his body wasn’t working, he could feel his muscles trying to flex, it was just that he wasn’t moving.
Startled, he realized he was bound.
Ian tried shifting his head to the side in order to see behind him. The tendons in his neck bulged with effort as his breathing became labored. Nothing. He couldn’t even crane his neck to see.
The pain grew worse, and he found out his tears still worked. He would have felt ashamed, but he was too worried, too scared about what had happened and where he was. He kept struggling. Again and again he threw himself to the side, pushing, fighting. He tried to get up, fall on his side and scoot away. His body barely shuddered. Whatever was holding him was as invisible as the pain behind his eyes, but no less real for it.
He took a calming breath. Sweat should have been pouring from his forehead, steam rising from his body, but instead the world was calm. He was still.
Opening his eyes carefully, he let them adjust. The pain had not lessened. It still pulsed heavily inside his skull, but he could see. He was sitting at the edge of the Black road, his hands lying in his lap. There were no ropes tying him down, but he couldn’t move. Looking to the tree line, he expected to see the witch.
Finding only emptiness and a steel grey sky, he gave up the struggle. Hours of effort had gotten him nothing. In his motionless prison, he waited. It was only a matter of time before someone walked by, he told himself. The large passes in the mountains were regularly used by all manner of travelers. He was sure he wouldn’t have much longer to wait.
Ian was surprised to find himself uninjured. Agatha must have healed his wounds, although that made little sense. Who would heal someone who tried to kill them? She had to realize that as soon as he got out of here, he was going to look for her, find her and finish what he’d started.
Perhaps she still had a use for him, some dark art she needed a live body for. And with only two horses, it wouldn’t have made sense to carry him. Maybe she had left him here with plans to return for him later. As the sky darkened into night, his mind catalogued the nightmares she must have in store for him. He shook imperceptibly, not from the cold but from bitter fear.
His grandmother had told him all about sorceresses and their majics. She had she seen some of them first hand. Her scars had proven that much. Nonna, he and Simon had called her. She had lived through the Revolution and served in the war. Of course neither his parents had approved of her choices, but times and had been tough and she’d done what she needed to do to survive. She’d lived in Treetown, so Ian hadn’t seen her often.
But the stories she told! Ian had loved to hear about her past and she’d told him all she knew. There had been plenty of time. His grandmother had watched them from her chair. Her legs were just two of the things she lost.
The hours wore on and on, but Ian couldn’t sleep. The night sky turned the color of pitch. He imagined dragging a stick through its inky depths, watching the half moon swirl about in a soup of stars. His belly was rumbling, now. There was no way to know how long he had been asleep or how long he’d been bound to the tree.
He thought about the deer steaks that were packed in ice behind Bain’s back. He was surprised he had not needed to relive himself yet, but guessed that Agatha’s majic had taken care of that. His thoughts bounced from place to place like a nervous bird.
Eventually, his mind returned to Jamie. It had been nagging at him for days as they walked, niggling at the back corner of his mind. Grief had clouded eyes, made him slow to understand, but he’d put the pieces together. He’d understood that neither Jamie nor Agatha were who they said they were.
His family’s murder, the troubles at the farm and in town, everything could be traced back to their arrival in Faenella. Of course, Jamie wasn’t a boy at all. He was Family. The witch, Agatha, had been terrified of him, flinching every time he looked at her. Only Family had that power.
Ian was guilty, too, of course. He had failed his family and failed his brother. That grief had threatened to tear him apart every moment of their flight. He would have shook his head if he could have moved. The whole thing was unbelievable- the midnight meeting, the murders, Jamie running out of the woods to save him. Ian had bought it, hook, line and weight. They had taken him away from Faenella, away from people who would have helped him. He hadn’t even waited to bury his father and mother.
Instead, he’d taken his father’s weapons and run like a thief.
And for what? Where had Jamie been taking him?
Ian had walked, talked, ate and slept, but he hadn’t really been present. He had been a husk of himself, a kettle filled with dark water. And then that morning, deep within his emptiness, he’d felt the first stirring of emotion.
He had woken to find Jamie gone again. Alone with the witch, he’d felt the fire beneath the kettle flickered to life, the water agitated, heating, the bubbles breaking the surface to erupt into the air. He had let the rage come, savoring its taste, wallowing in its depth. In that moment, he’d understood.
That darkness within him, that empty, lifeless, grey void fled. His anger had lit the world red hot, tearing at the shadows, lighting the corners, destroying his doubt and self pity. It burned as it came, a fire doused with oil, roaring to life within his dried soul.
He remembered. Over and over again, he remembered his mother screaming at him to run. She said to save himself, to leave her to die. He remembered her warm brown eyes filled with terror as she stood by the door to their home, the men blocking his path to her. Her hands had been beautiful, the long slender fingers that tucked him into bed clawing at the air. She had begged him to run, tried to shove him away.
He saw her kneeling in the dirt, the snow and mud ruining her dress. For some reason that bothered him most of all, the sight of her on her knees in the muck. That good, clean woman kneeling on the ground, her face a map of tears. He saw the man’s meaty fist curl, saw him pull back for the swing, but none of it registered. If he had known the man was going to hit his mother, he could have done something about it. Would have… what could he have done? Against men with guns?
When the man hit her, Ian lost his mind. His mother had beautiful hair, the burnished brown tresses falling below her knees. When the man’s hand struck her face, she had fallen into Father’s arms, her hair landing in the mud. Ian had charged, but the man brushed off his attack.
When his father told him to run, the world had dropped away.
He did it, though. He had turned his back on everyone he loved, had left his mother, brother and father to die. Two bullets and a fire. That was how it had all ended.
He should have stayed and fought, stayed and died. He should have been by their side, holding his brother’s hand as they went to Yaeweve and the eternal embrace of the Nineteen and Nineteen. But he hadn’t. He had run. His family’s last vision of him, a coward abandoning them to die.
His father had known what was coming.
He had always been so strong, an implacable man who created things of strength and beauty with his hands. Ian could see him pointing, tell him to flee. He remembered the ground disappearing beneath his feet and the snow crunching beneath his boots.
Two bullets and smoke on the air. The smell of the burning forge had followed him as he fled. Terrified, Ian had expected a third shot, one sent for him.
And then from nowhere, Jamie had stepped into the road. The man loomed, tall and gaunt, with his hood pulled up and his coat closed about his neck. Breath steamed from his mouth and a curling, blond beard grew close to his face.
Ian’s first thought was that he’d been about to die. This was a dark emissary sent to take him to the Pit of Souls. Wisps of white-blond hair curled out from beneath the hood as Jamie tipped up his head, his eyes taking Ian’s measure. Never in his life had someone looked at Ian like that. It was if he was being weighed, as though his entire life were stripped bare.
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A scream had welled in the back of his throat. It had choked him, lodged there, unable to bubble up.
Ian remembered the man’s words. “I’m a friend. This way, we’ll hide you.”
He never even considered doing anything else. He hadn’t wondered why Jamie was there or questioned that he had come to help him. He remembered looking back once, towards where the bend in the road hid his childhood home. Then he’d followed Jamie into the brush.
The man’s voice had belonged to a much younger person, someone not much older than himself. Yet his eyes were dark hollows, like a lake on a starless night. A small voice inside Ian had worried about what was beneath that placid surface.
When the man stopped walking, Ian saw anger in those blue-black eyes. It smoldered in the depths and wrinkled the skin at the corner of his eyes. The man introduced himself, extending his hand so that his pinky faced the floor. It was an odd gesture. The man’s fingers were tight together, thumb pointing to the sky. Ian didn’t understand what he was doing or how to respond. Later, he was told it was a sign of greeting.
More lies.
It was a sign, Ian was sure, but of something evil. Ian trembled to think what irrevocable damage had been done to his soul. Jamie was not some Dog. That man was someone special, someone powerful.
Back in his family’s woods, Ian hadn’t been able to speak at all. His father, mother and brother were all dead, his thoughts an endless cascade of horrors, an incomprehensible yammer which inundated him. Had he opened his mouth, he wouldn’t have been able to stop screaming.
He remembered finding the elderly woman. She had stood at their approach, an orange and white cat leaping from her lap to circle her painfully thin legs. She had true white hair, lighter even the Jamie’s. It flew about her face, obscuring her features and hiding her eyes. The man had brought him to a mad woman.
The wind had died then, and her hair had fallen to her shoulders.
She’d spoken to him softly. He knew now that she’d been a sorceress pretending, acting like she was trying to help. Rushing forward, she’d wrapped a blanket around his shoulders and urged him to sit. He remembered the two horses nickering at her back. The sound had been so ordinary, so natural. Surely his parents hadn’t just been murdered.
He let himself be led, fighting the clamor in his head. The woman babbled as she wrapped another blanket around his shoulders. She’d seen to his head wound while the storm inside him raged. He hadn’t tried to stop her. His thoughts were unraveling like a spool of wool as it was woven in the loom.
In hindsight, he should have killed them both that first night. He remembered the crude bed Jamie made beneath a pine, the branches bent with the weight of snow. He hadn’t wanted to think about his father or mother, especially not about Simon. Instead, he’d looked at the night sky and its white stars. The pinpoints of light were all but lost within the endless dark void.
Bound against the tree, Ian’s memories flew like debris in a hurricane. What was he doing? Why was he here? There had to be something, some place he needed to get to, some thing he had to do.
He blinked, releasing that memory of the night his family had died. That wasn’t what he needed right now. He needed to remember how he’d gotten here, what he had done, what had been done to him. Shivering inside his invisible cage, he struggled against the bonds.
What had happened with Jamie? He felt the phantom twitch of his hand as he tried to tug at his hair. Why couldn’t he remember?
He had followed him to the clearing. That much he remembered. The man had been disappearing in the mornings for some time, sneaking away to practice alone. Quiet, too quiet. It was unnatural for a man who claimed he was from the city.
It had taken Ian far too long to realize it, but that morning he’d known. He’d known Jamie for what he was, that he was Family, that he was Evil.
The deception had been hard to see at first. Jamie had been pathetic with the sword. Ian had struggled to understand it. Family were always proficient with a blade. Perhaps not as skilled as he was, but then he trained since he was a boy. Still, Ian had seen enough of the men in Faenella, seen the way the carried their weapons, to know they knew what they were about.
Family men had other options besides sword, he argued with himself. He tried to shake his head. He’d seen Dogs with the other world’s weapons. Not many, since guns were so dear, but a few.
And Jamie had his witch. Ian had been terribly afraid of the sorceress. He remembered wondering if he would be able to kill her, too. She could probably do any number of terrible things to him with her mind.
In his past life, he’d never imagined that the Family would use majic. But after what they’d done to his father and mother, he knew better. They would use anything that got them what they wanted, kill anyone who worked against them, and destroy whatever lives they wanted to.
The plan had been a simple one. Jamie had been training every day, learning unnaturally fast, quicker than anyone Ian had ever met. His early fumblings had smoothed out into graceful forms, the trembling of his arms erased as he mastered the blade’s weight. Ian had almost let the chance pass him by, confused and unsure as he’d been.
In the bright light of that morning, Ian had known it was time. Jamie was already almost his equal. He remembered finding his sword, freeing it from the scabbard to check the weight. The soft rasp hadn’t woken the witch.
He knew Jamie would be practicing in the nearby clearing. Pacing up to the tree line, he’d waited for the man to exhaust himself. The man was predictable. This is what he did every day, moving through the forms until he could no longer hold the blade. Ian was surprised it took so long, the early morning light rising as Jamie slid from position to position.
The monster had blue scars crisscrossing his back, a thousand deep lashes bitten into his body. Ian wondered what he’d done to earn those marks? What evils had he committed for the Family to harnessed such power?
He watched the man practice for over an hour, the forms flawless. Was this the same man who’d stolen weapons from Ian’s father’s forge? The last sequence had been executed so perfectly, that Ian couldn’t even see the moves. It was like time had skipped ahead while he was watching.
Fixing a smile on a face, he checked his sword and dagger, and sauntered into the meadow, calling as he went.
Jamie responded.
To Ian, the words were howls.
Seconds passed, stretching out, his skin crawling as he readied himself. When he felt Jamie touch him, he’d spun, his dagger flashing out.
Ian planted his feet, struggling to understand what had happened.
Jamie had moved so fast. One moment he had been standing there, his gut unprotected. The next, he parried. Ian grasped his dagger more tightly, begging the cacophony in his head to be silent, to let him concentrate.
What had just happened? No one moved that fast.
Jamie’s screams drove him onward. His rage was sparked, a red blossom that filled his stomach. He spit at Jamie, accusations flying. Sword in his hand, he cut the air between them. Jamie retreat backwards, muttering platitudes. Ian ignored it all, had hardly heard the words. They bounced from his mind like rain.
In his memory, he could see Jamie was off-balance, confusion on his face. Denying his words, he lunged. His sword arced upwards the way he had practiced a thousand times, balanced and confident.
Jamie countered, his sword coming up to turn away the blow.
Ian had other plans. He’d been studying swordplay since he could walk. Looking into the eyes of what had once been a boy, he saw nothing. There was nothing but the bottomless pit of hell, rage and desperation unending.
Ian cut into flesh.
Jamie winced in pain, parrying Ian’s attack and countering.
Again and again, Ian struck. From deep within himself, he let the rage come. It poured over him to fill him with strength. Pressing the attack, he used everything his father taught him, each trick his brother ever used against him.
Jamie met him every time, turning away the killing stroke, delaying his vengeance. Ian couldn’t imagine how he kept going. Perhaps it was Agatha’s majic.
The man screamed at him. His face was twisted, the blue ropes bulging about his neck.
Ian spit at him again, taking the time to explain how he knew, savoring the look of confusion and disbelief. The rage inside Ian had come to a crescendo, exploding from his soul like a volcano. Screaming, he’d let the world dissolve in red as he swung for Jamie’s neck.
His blade missed, the man sliding away like water.
Ian slashed with his dagger.
Lies. Jamie’s mouth vomited a steady stream of them. He was stalling, Ian knew it. He heard the accusation, that it was his fault his family was dead, his fault his brother had burned, his fault his mother and father were killed.
Deep inside, beneath the smoldering ruin of his mind, Ian felt a crack. The Family man moved closer, his hoarse voice forming words Ian didn’t want to hear.
Gathering his rage, he left no room for doubt. His vision washed red again, and he leapt for Jamie. His father’s sword swung high and strong and his dagger thrust deep, straight for his heart.
Unbelievably, Jamie turned both his blades, moving faster than anyone Ian had ever fought. Pain lanced through his shoulder as Jamie’s blade cut deep, but the man was unbalanced, falling past him to crash onto the meadow’s floor.
Ian didn’t stop to think, slamming his foot down on Jamie’s chest just as he turned to rise. Dimly he could feel hot blood soaking his tunic. Jamie’s blade was too far for him to reach.
Ian shifted his dagger so it rested above Jamie’s empty eyes. He had to know. He asked the monster again.
More lies.
Taking a deep breath, he grasped his sword tightly. It would only take a little pressure to end this, to sever the grotesque nest of blue scars. He was ready. Letting the dagger drop from his numb fingers, he took his father’s sword with both hands.
Whoomph!
He remembered now. The blast had taken him high in the chest. He’d flown backwards off Jamie, the grey clouds spinning above him sickeningly. Hitting the ground hard, he’d heard his teeth come together in his head. Stunned and breathless, he’d struggled to rise, but he couldn’t move.
It was the witch. She had known Jamie was injured and come for him.
Sure enough, he saw her lurching towards them from across the field, face as pale as the snow at her feet. She looked like a demon harpy. Her white hair was in disarray, the blanket about her shoulders fluttering wildly behind her.
Ian watched her come, feeling pressure in his chest, sure that he’d cracked his ribs. She’d fallen to her knees beside where Jamie was pulling himself from the ground.
They were both alive.
And Ian couldn’t move.
Ian thrashed against his invisible bonds, his arms twitching in their place.
That was it. All he remembered. Everything had just gone black.
And now he was stuck here. Bound and all alone.
He screamed at the darkness, screamed in his mind, but there was nothing he could do. In the early hours of the morning, he fell asleep.