Back | Next
Contents

5

IGHT FOUND COLIN SITTING ON THE ROCK that offered a view of the plains, his satchel and sling resting on the stone beside him. He’d used the sling to hunt rabbit and squirrel and prairie dog since his day in the penance lock three weeks before—had hunted that evening in the dusk after his father sent him to warn everyone to prepare, to be at the wagons in the morning, ready to go—but the intensity of the hunt had died. He no longer felt the dark thrill of excitement when he touched the cords or held the smoothness of a stone in his hand. That thrill had come from the anticipation of using the sling against Walter, and he had no intention of doing that again. He hadn’t even been down to Portstown since the Armory had dragged him there and Sartori had put him in the locks.

He was done with Walter, with Brunt and Gregor and Rick. In the morning, he’d be on the plains, heading far away from Portstown, its Proprietor, and his son, passing beyond the farms, beyond where even he had hunted. The thought stirred something deep inside him, a prickling in his chest, a quickening of excitement that tingled against his skin.

He sat in the moonlight and stared out across the silvered grass, his knees pulled up to his chin, his arms wrapped around them. In the distance, he could see the eight covered wagons, already loaded and ready to go, like black stones against the plains. A few guards wandered around them, mostly Armory mixed with a few of the chosen settlers from Lean-to, there to protect the wagons from the dissidents and conscripted prisoners who’d banded with Shay. Crickets chirruped, and something small rustled in the grass nearby. Wind gusted against his face and brought with it the smell of earth, sea salt, and the smoke from the tents in Lean-to. He breathed in those scents, held them, exhaled slowly as he rested his chin against his knees and smiled.

He heard Karen approaching long before she arrived, her dress swishing in the stalks of grass. Resentment stabbed through his exhilaration—he’d come up here to be alone—but that died as she reached the rock. Karen and her father had become part of the main group intent on heading into the plains and establishing the town everyone had started to call Haven. She and Colin had stolen away more than once while their parents and the others argued over what was necessary for the trek and what was not, who to allow into the party and who to leave behind, and how to protect everyone. Those excursions—down to the darkened beach, or more often here, to the edge of the moonlit plains and the flat stone— leaped to the forefront of Colin’s mind as she settled down beside him, her legs folded beneath her.

“I thought I’d find you here,” she said. She brushed her hair away from her eyes, tucked the strands behind her ear. It had grown long since he’d first stumbled into her at the stream, but it was still wild. In the moonlight, it appeared black, her skin a pale white. “Our parents are discussing—”

“Food,” he said, cutting her off. “I know. That’s why I left.”

“They don’t think we have enough, not for as many people as are going.”

“We’ll have to hunt as we go. The wagons won’t be able to move that fast, not without a road to follow. We’ll have plenty of time to scout ahead and forage for food.” The words were his father’s, and he said them with the same curt tone. Beside him, Karen stilled, then shifted position, adjusting her dress as she too pulled her knees up to her chin.

After a long moment of silence, she said, “Aren’t you afraid?” Colin turned toward her, brow furrowed in confusion. “Of what?”

“Of what’s out there.”

“Oh.” He relaxed. “No.”

“But it’s so open. So . . . empty.”

“It will be better than the trip here to Portstown, trapped in the hold of the ship, only coming up on deck an hour every day, crammed in there with all the other people, with goats and chickens. I hated the ship. I hated the ocean. And I hate Portstown.”

Karen flinched, and Colin suddenly remembered that she’d lost her mother, brother, and sister on the voyage here. Grimacing, he added, “Besides, it can’t be empty. There’s got to be something out there.”

“What?”

“I don’t know, but the other expeditions—the ones the Proprietor sent out before us—went somewhere. Something had to have happened to them.”

Karen gave him a look. “That doesn’t exactly make me feel any better.”

He shrugged. “I think it’s exciting. We’ll be the first to see it, the first to experience it.” He felt the hairs rise on the backs of his arms. “We’ll be the first ones there, with no Proprietor to tell us what we can and can’t do.”

“But the Proprietor will be there, or at least a representative of the Family.” She gave him a significant look.

He waved it aside. “Doesn’t matter. Whoever it is will be outnumbered.”

Karen snorted, but didn’t argue any further. Instead, she lay her head down on her knees, pulled them in tighter, and sighed. “I hope you’re right, Colin.” But her voice was still troubled.

Colin’s brow creased in slight irritation. “I know I’m right,” he said, but quietly, almost to himself. “There’s something out there, waiting for me. For us. I can feel it.”

Karen didn’t say anything. She watched him, the whites of her eyes bright in the moonlight. Her gaze was steady, searching, lips turned down in a slight frown, as if she were trying to come to a decision.

Its intensity made Colin nervous. He glanced toward her, then away, shifting where he sat, pressing his chin into the tops of his knees. The position was vaguely uncomfortable. His legs were too long now to make it comfortable.

A moment before he would have broken and asked her, “What?” she sighed and looked away. He watched her dig into a pocket of her dress, her hand coming out in a tight fist.

“Colin,” she said, then hesitated, ducking her head. Her back straightened, and when she lifted her head again her lips were pressed together.

In a rough voice, she said, “Colin, I want you to have this.” She thrust her fist toward him, opened her fingers.

A pendant sat in the palm of her hand, burning silver in the moonlight, the metal chain that held it trailing through her fingers. It was in the shape of a crescent moon, and in its center lay an oval of hollow glass, empty, without a top or stopper.

A blood vial. An unspoken vow.

Colin froze, panic skittering across his chest. He flushed cold with sweat, glanced up at Karen’s open face, eyes wide. “Karen—” But Karen cut him off, her gaze dropping, her fingers curling around the pendant. “My mother gave it to my sister in Trent. She was older than me, and she expected her to meet someone, to find someone—” She halted, shook her head, grimacing. “But then she died, on the Merry Weather. They both died, and it broke my father. He didn’t know what to do, didn’t know how to handle it. Before we cleaned the bodies and sewed them up in cloth to drop overboard, he took the pendant from my sister’s neck and gave it to me. I didn’t want to take it, didn’t want to even touch it. But he insisted. He was crying and I didn’t know what to do. I’d never seen him cry before. So I took it and shoved it into a pocket, and I forgot about it.

“Until I met you.”

She reached out and took Colin’s hand, and he didn’t resist. She rested her closed fist in his palm, but didn’t release it.

She caught his gaze, held it with the intensity in her eyes, with the vulnerability he saw there.

“I’m not saying I want you to make the vow,” she whispered, and he could feel her hand trembling in his. “Not now. Maybe not ever. But I don’t know what we’re going to find on the plains, and I wanted you to have this now, before anything happens. After the gallows and the penance locks, after the last three weeks . . . I wanted you to know.” She drew in a steadying breath. “Will you take it?”

He could hurt her with a simple action, with a single word. But he found that the panic had receded.

“Yes.”

She sighed. A shuddering sigh that brought tears to her eyes, sharp in the pale light. She released the pendant, pressed it into the palm of his hand hard enough he could feel the rounded smoothness of the glass, could feel the sharp metal ends of the crescent moon. And then she sat back onto her heels, scrubbed the tears from her eyes, and laughed. A self-deprecating laugh.

Colin dropped his hand to his lap, uncertain what to do with the pendant, then looked toward Karen, face screwed up. “Would you like me to wear it?”

Karen’s breath caught. “If you want.”

He held it out to her. She took it back, undid the clasp, then shifted forward on her knees.

Colin scooted around, back to her, and as soon as he saw the pendant fall down before his face, he ducked his head. He felt the chain against his neck, felt Karen’s hands brush his skin as she closed the clasp again and sat back.

Turning, he picked the pendant up in his hand, ran his fingers across its cold metal and glass, then slipped it inside his shirt, where its weight rested against his skin.

Karen smiled tentatively, then settled back to the rock beside him.

They sat together staring out into the unknown plains and dark night for another hour without saying a word.

“Are the last of the horses ready?” Colin’s father shouted from the end of the line.

Colin looked down the wagons, saw the foreman on the end signal with a hand wave, then turned back toward his father, cupped his hands around his mouth, and shouted, “All hitched and ready!”

Three wagons down, his father waved, then ducked between the lead horses out of sight. Colin heard him shouting to someone else, men yelling and whistling on all sides. All the families that had been asked to join the wagon train except two had been assembled. One of those families was still frantically dismantling the tent they’d lived in for the past two months; the other had decided at the last minute to return to Andover instead. Colin could still hear the man apologizing to his father and Sam, his wife standing behind him, a stern look on her face, body rigid with disapproval as she stared at the men loading the last of the supplies. As soon as her husband joined her, she headed toward the remains of Lean-to, her husband following meekly behind.

“Looks like he was whipped with a pussy willow,” Sam said as they watched the two retreat. One of the men nearby snickered.

Colin’s father merely grunted. “Two less mouths to feed. And two less souls to worry about. I’m certain more will head back to Portstown and Andover once we get started.”

The wagons appeared ready. Goats bleated, hitched to the backs with rope, and children shrieked as they chased each other and the dogs everywhere, the dogs yipping and barking. Mothers muttered curses, hurrying to get their last-minute supplies onto the wagon beds, and men laughed, standing in small groups, conversing.

Colin scanned the plains ahead, eyes shaded against the morning sun still low on the horizon, and grinned. His satchel hung at his side, containing only a few rocks and his sling. He’d helped his mother strip everything of use from their hut, including wood from the sides and roof. All they were waiting for now was the Proprietor.

Even as he thought it, he heard Sam’s piercing whistle. Abandoning the front of the wagons, where the horses were stamping the ground restlessly with all the heightened activity, Colin slid between the two nearest wagons, hand raised to brush the cured hides that formed their roofs, and emerged on the far side.

Everyone was gathering near the back of the first wagon. Colin saw his father standing in front, but they weren’t waiting for the Proprietor. A group of twenty men approached the wagons from the direction of the rougher section of Lean-to, mostly conscripts, their faces hard, eyes black with hatred. The few members of the Armory who’d remained with the wagons headed out to meet them, most of the men from the wagon train, including Colin’s father, joining them a moment later.

Colin caught his mother searching for him, her face troubled, but before she found him, he jogged down the slope and joined the group, pushing forward to the front, where his father and the man who led the group were facing each other, both tense, both frowning.

“What do you want, Karl?” his father asked.

The leader of the conscripts smiled, but it didn’t touch his eyes above his bristly beard. “So you’re going through with it? You’re really going to take Sartori up on his offer?” His voice blended disbelief, resentment, and sarcasm.

Colin’s father straightened. “Yes.”

Karl shook his head. “You know he can’t be trusted. He’ll take back whatever he promised you eventually.”

A few of the settlers shifted uncomfortably, trading glances, but Colin’s father didn’t waver. “I don’t think he will. He needs us. He needs our skills.”

“He needs your cooperation,” Karl barked, and for the first time Colin noticed that he carried an ax, the weapon hooked through his belt. Most of the men behind him carried weapons as well, mostly knives but a few swords. They all shifted restlessly, the tension on the air increasing as the Armory around Colin responded in kind. Still focused on Colin’s father, Karl continued. “You should stay here, join us. We could use you and your men, the materials in those wagons, your skills. Sartori doesn’t have the right to force us out.”

“Yes, he does,” Colin’s father said sharply. “He’s the Proprietor, named by the charter that was signed and sealed by the Court. This isn’t Andover, or Trent. There are no judges here, no courts. There’s only the Proprietor.”

Karl bristled, his lips compressing, arms crossed over his chest beneath his beard. “Then perhaps we need a new Proprietor.” The men behind him rumbled agreement.

Colin’s father stiffened. “I’m not willing to take that risk, not when my wife or my son may pay the price.” He didn’t glance toward Colin, but Colin felt his attention on him nonetheless. The guildsmen from Lean-to behind him nodded. “You’ll have to find someone else to join your rebellion. You’ll get no support here.”

Karl grunted, head lowering. “So be it. But if Sartori comes with his Armory . . .” He left the threat unfinished, glancing meaningfully toward the Armory at Tom’s back.

When Tom didn’t respond, Karl spat to one side and stalked off in the direction of Lean-to, his men parting before him, then closing up behind.

“He’s the new Shay,” Colin’s father said, his stance relaxing as the group moved farther away. “And like Shay, he’s going to get himself killed.”

He frowned, turned toward Colin, then the rest of those gathered behind him. But before the group could begin to head back toward the wagons, someone shouted and motioned toward Portstown.

A group of Armory guardsmen trudged up the slope from the direction of the town, ahead of another group of ten on horseback, including the Proprietor, Signal Daverren from the West Wind Trading Company, along with one of his assistants in a brown vest, Sedric, Walter, and Patris Brindisi and another priest.

Colin frowned when he saw Walter scowling.

The group that had gathered to meet Karl and his men split, some heading back to the wagons, the rest moving to intercept the Proprietor. Colin spotted his mother headed toward the Proprietor as well and pushed through those gathered to her side. She smiled when she saw him, caught him by the shoulders as he moved to stand in front of her. He realized with a start that he was almost the same height as her.

He’d grown in the last few months.

Then Sartori and his escort drew to a halt before his father. The Proprietor dismounted, followed by all of the rest, and made his way between the Armory to the front. Arten, the commander of the guard, stood beside him on the right, with the Signal, Walter, and Sedric to the left, everyone else behind.

“Tom Harten,” Sartori said, nodding in greeting. “Is everything ready?”

“Proprietor, all of the men, women, and children are assembled and our supplies loaded. We were simply waiting for you.”

“Good. Then I’ll make this quick so you can be on your way. I’ve brought my contingent of representatives for this endeavor. There will be ten members from the Armory to serve as protection for the group and as escort. Commander Arten has volunteered for this service, along with nine other members of the Armory under his command.”

Arten nodded toward Sartori and then toward Tom Harten, while the other guardsmen shifted from Sartori’s group to the wagons. They were all dressed in armor and carried swords. And they all held the reins of their horses. Colin was happy to see the unshaven man who’d watched over him while he’d been imprisoned leading his own and Arten’s horse. There were a few uncertain whispers from the families gathered around them, but these died down quickly.

“From the West Wind Trading Company,” Sartori continued, “Signal Daverren is sending his assistant, Jackson Seytor.” Jackson stepped forward, pulling down on his vest as he did so to straighten out the wrinkles. He shook hands with Daverren and Sartori, then turned to Colin’s father, nodding before moving to join the Armory guardsmen with his own horse. “Also, Patris Brindisi noticed that your group had no priest. He has convinced one of the Hands of Diermani, Domonic Hansi, to accompany you.” The priest beside Brindisi knelt, kissed the Patris’ ring in blessing, then rose and bowed to Colin’s father before moving to the middle of the group. A few of the men and women smiled at him, touching his robe or murmuring a few words of welcome.

“And lastly, my own representative.”

Colin felt his stomach clench even as Sartori turned toward his two sons. His mother’s hand tightened on his shoulder in warning as he tensed, his hand dropping toward his satchel and the sling inside.

But Sartori had already continued. “For such an important venture, I cannot send simply anyone. The Family must be represented with someone of significance. And so I choose to send my youngest son.

“I choose Walter Carrente.”

“Did you know?” Colin demanded, glaring out over the grass in front of the wagons to where Walter had mounted and fallen into place behind Arten with a resentful scowl. The supplies for Sartori’s group had been thrown into the last wagon, and men were doing last-minute checks on traces and harnesses and horses before climbing up into the seats behind their teams. But Colin’s eyes were fixed on Walter, on where he sat stiffly in his saddle, chin lifted, gaze straight ahead. So arrogant, so proud.

Colin snorted, turned toward his mother, and asked again, his voice tighter, denser, “Did you know?”

She shook her head. “No, and neither did your father. We’re as surprised as you. We expected him to send a token representative, one of the mercantile men associated with the Family, someone like that. Certainly not one of his own sons.” She spoke calmly, but now her face tightened into a frown. “But it doesn’t matter, Colin. He’s here now. We can’t tell Sartori he can’t send his own son.”

Colin’s nostrils flared. “I thought I’d be rid of him.”

“He doesn’t have the rest of his gang with him. He’s alone.” Colin saw his father give the signal to head out, the order passed down the line. Before it reached the last of the wagons, the first two had already started rolling forward, Walter and his escort in front of them. Horses stamped their feet and tossed their heads, and dogs began barking wildly, dashing out ahead of the group into the grass and racing back. Children of all ages raced out with them before being called back sharply by their mothers.

When the wagon next to them lurched into motion, blocking the view of Walter and his group, Colin turned to his mother.

“Just stay out of his way,” she said, her voice laced with warning.

Colin spat to one side and saw his mother’s frown deepen, but he didn’t care. He turned away, caught sight of Sartori’s escort as they pulled their mounts around and headed back toward Portstown, then began jogging out ahead of the wagon train as it formed up. He heard his mother sigh in exasperation as he left and caught sight of his father from the side, but he ignored them both. He didn’t even stop when he heard Karen call his name, her voice distant, tattered by the wind. He pretended he hadn’t heard her.

He passed the lead group, the men who were scouting for the best path for the wagons, and as he moved he took the sling from his satchel, slowing enough to tie the straps to his arm.

When he had drawn far enough away from the wagons that they wouldn’t catch up to him for at least an hour, he began to hunt.

Colin returned to the wagons at midday, two prairie dogs in his satchel, and found his father waiting. Someone had forewarned him; he stood on a knoll, arms crossed over his chest. Colin halted when he saw him, then changed course to meet him. As he trudged up the slope, the wagons came into view, trundling down into the shallow fold of land behind his father.

He stopped a few paces away, noting the creases in his father’s forehead, the set expression on his face.

“Don’t ever run off like that again,” his father said. Colin stiffened defensively. “I was hunting—”

“No! Hunting alone while we were in Lean-to was fine. The land around Portstown had been explored. But once we pass beyond the last farmstead, once we pass onto the real plains, you can never hunt alone. We don’t know what’s out there, what the dangers will be. And we don’t have that many men. We can’t afford to lose anyone.”

Colin drew breath to protest, but the seriousness in his father’s voice forced him to stop. This wasn’t a lecture, spoken to a child. His father meant it.

He released the pent up breath. Looking at the ground, he said grudgingly, “I won’t hunt alone.”

His father relaxed, but he wasn’t finished. “I didn’t expect Sartori to give this expedition over to Walter, but he’s part of it now. This isn’t Portstown. This isn’t even Lean-to. Officially, Walter is in charge of this expedition. His word is final; he is, in effect, the Proprietor of the wagon train.”

His father glanced toward where Walter rode at the head of the wagons themselves; they’d begun making their way up the ridge they stood on. The tension—the sternness in his expression— suddenly lessened.

“But that’s only what’s written on paper. We have nearly eighty people here—thirty men, nearly twenty women, and twenty-seven children—and none of us will be inclined to follow his orders if they don’t make any sense. I haven’t had a chance to speak to Arten, the commander of Walter’s escort, so I don’t know how the Armory will react if we disagree, whether they’ll side with Walter or with us. But it doesn’t matter.” And here his father turned back to him. “I don’t want Arten to have to make a choice. Walter hasn’t caused any problems so far. He’s been content to lead the train with his escort, talking with Jackson. But once we reach the last farmstead tomorrow, that will change. So leave him be, Colin. Don’t provoke him, don’t speak to him, don’t even interact with him if you can manage it. Agreed?”

Colin had spent the entire morning venting his anger on the prairie dogs and the defenseless grass. He still shook with rage when he thought of the penance lock, of what Walter and the others had done to him while he was trapped in it, but he didn’t need to do anything about that now. He could wait.

So he looked his father in the eye and said, “Agreed.”

His father held his gaze a moment, lips pressed together, as if he didn’t quite believe him, but then he nodded, his features smoothing out. “Good.” He motioned toward Colin’s satchel with one hand. “Now, what did you catch?”

They passed the last farmstead deeded by Sartori as the sun began to sink into the horizon the next day. The farmer’s wife appeared in the doorway of the small wooden house, wiping her hands on the folds of her dress. Four small children ranging in age from a little over a year all the way up to seven crowded around her legs to watch the wagon train pass. Dust rose on a field behind the barn, and if Colin shaded his eyes, he could see someone turning the soil on a new field.

And then they passed beyond, the farmstead falling behind.

“Looks like we’re going to have company,” Sam said, and pointed with his chin toward where Arten and one of the other guardsmen had broken away from Walter’s escort and were riding toward them.

Colin’s father merely grunted. They continued walking, even when Arten and the guardsman arrived and drew the horses up alongside them.

“Walter Carrente would like to know when you intend to stop for the day,” Arten said, his tone formal.

“Were those his words?”

Arten’s mouth twitched. “I’ve . . . paraphrased them slightly.” Colin’s father grunted. “We’ll stop when we hit the river, where we’ll restock on fresh water. Also, it makes sense to follow the river upstream. If we’re going to settle somewhere, we’re going to need a readily available water source. It seems likely we’ll find something suitable if we keep to the river’s edge.”

Arten nodded. “You’ve thought this out.”

“As much as possible, given the time we had to prepare.”

Arten looked at Colin’s father a long moment, thoughtful. But all he said was, “I’ll inform Walter.”

They camped on a rise above the river, the wagons forming a rough boundary surrounding the tents that those from Lean-to erected on the grass, even though most chose to sleep on pallets under the open night sky. Fire pits were dug, and whatever had been caught during the day was skinned and cooked. The pelts were set to dry on stakes near the fire. The women organized the meals while the men cared for the horses and inspected the wagons. The priest Domonic blessed the meal and the campsite. Sentries were posted—two of the Armory along with a few men from Lean-to, alternating in two-hour shifts—but the night was cool and quiet.

They followed the river for the next week, sometimes moving far from its banks in order to find safe passage for the wagons but returning to it as evening approached. The novelty of the expedition wore off the second day, and by the end of the sixth, two families had decided to turn back. They departed on the morning of the seventh day, a rough group of nine—four adults and five children—that faded into the distance along the edge of the river with a sack of provisions and whatever belongings they could carry.

“They’ll drop half of it before the end of the day,” Sam said, shaking his head.

Tom had already turned away, looking at the sky and the clouds scudding across it from the northeast with a frown. “It’s going to rain before nightfall. We’d better get moving.”

By noon, the clouds had thickened, the wind gusting, but the storm was still distant. The group had paused to ford a stream, Colin splashing through the knee-deep cold water at the side of the wagon, when one of the scouts returned in search of Colin’s father. Colin watched from a distance as the scout was intercepted by Arten. An argument ensued, and by the time Colin had gotten the wagon safely to the far side of the stream and jogged over, Walter and Tom had arrived.

“They shouldn’t be there,” Walter proclaimed, anger in his eyes. The anger increased when he saw Colin arrive, the Proprietor’s son shooting him a hate-filled glare, but he focused his attention on Colin’s father. “My father hasn’t given any land to anyone beyond the Grange estate, and we passed that days ago! This man—and his family—are squatters on Carrente lands!”

“They aren’t Carrente lands yet,” Tom said, trying to keep his voice level. But Colin could hear the irritation underneath.

Walter growled in annoyance. “I don’t even know why I’m arguing with you. Arten, take the Armory and go arrest those squatters.”

Arten froze, a flurry of mixed emotions crossing his face before it settled into blandness. In a perfectly reasonable voice, he asked, “And what do you want me to do with them once they’re arrested?”

“I don’t know, send them back to Portstown.”

“With an escort? I don’t think the expedition can afford to lose any of its guardsmen at this point.” When Walter only glared at him in response, he stiffened. “Tom Harten is right. We’re too far out for this land to rightfully belong to the Carrente Family, not without argument. But—Carrente lands or not, squatters or not— there isn’t much we can do.”

“There is,” Tom said, and Arten frowned.

“What?” Walter demanded.

“We can ask the man for information.”

Walter snorted in derision, but Tom had already turned away. He saw Colin standing behind him. “Colin, go get Sam and Ian.”

At a look from Walter, Arten said, “If you’re going to speak to this man, I’ll join you.”

Once Colin had found Sam and Ian, the five men left a disgusted Walter behind with the rest of the Armory escort and followed the scout, Went, across the plains to the top of a rise that looked down into a flat section of land. A house had been built there, a large section of ground given over to a garden beyond it. A copse of trees clustered at the end of the depression, and a thin stream trickled down its center.

Arten took the lead, heading down the slope, the rest trailing after. Before they’d made it halfway to the small house—not much more than a hut in Lean-to—a dog started barking wildly. A man emerged from the interior of the house, cursing the dog, until he spotted them. A shocked look crossed his face, and he ducked back inside, returning with a sword.

He came out to meet them, his dog at his side, the animal still barking, the growl beneath audible, teeth bared. The man halted three paces from them, his dark eyes flickering across all of their faces. They paused longest on Colin, confusion touching his gaze, before settling on Arten. His tanned skin wrinkled as he squinted. He was broad in the shoulder but not heavily built; what muscle he had came from maintaining his land.

But he held the sword with confidence, an obvious threat, even though the sword wasn’t raised, even though his grip seemed casual.

“Hush,” he said to the dog, and the dog stopped barking, although it continued to growl, feet planted forward. Its head came up to Colin’s waist, and its hair was short, matted, and multicolored, ears pointed, muzzle lean.

“Why are you here?” the man asked. “What do you want?” Arten didn’t respond, so Tom stepped forward. “We aren’t here to take your land or take you back to Portstown.”

The man’s gaze flicked toward Colin’s father, but he didn’t relax. Nothing in his stance changed at all. “That’s good, because I’ve no intention of giving it up, or going back to town.”

“We’re part of a wagon train,” Sam said, “heading out to settle a new town upriver from Portstown.”

“We were hoping you could provide us with a little information,” Tom added. “About what we might expect to find.”

The man’s sword lowered slightly. “Where is this wagon train?” he asked suspiciously.

“Up over the rise. We’ve been following the river for a week now.”

The man grunted. Wind gusted out of the northeast, and Colin turned, saw black clouds on the horizon. They flashed with internal lightning, a low rumble of thunder following.

“Storm’s coming,” the man said. Behind him, Colin could see a shadow moving in the door of his house. The dog’s growl had ground down into nothing, and it now stood straight, its attention on the storm. “You’d better find a place to shelter those wagons.”

“What about getting some information?”

The man hesitated, glancing again at Arten. But the commander of the Armory hadn’t made a move toward his sword, had kept his arms crossed over his chest for the entire conversation.

The man’s sword arm relaxed, and he shrugged. “You can join me and my wife if you want. I’ll tell you what I can. But it’s not much.” Then he turned, heading back to his house. The dog trotted along behind him, all the growling menace gone; it looked back once, as if uncertain whether they should be following its master or not, then caught up with its owner.

“Ian,” Tom said, “take Went and head back to the wagons. Tell them to hunker down and prepare for the storm, quick, if they haven’t done so already.”

“Yes, sir.”

Ian began climbing the slope behind, moving fast, Went practically stepping on his heels. The wind picked up even before they disappeared over the top.

“What do you hope to learn?” Arten asked as they moved toward the house. The man had begun shuttering the few windows.

“I don’t know. But it looks as though he’s been here for a while. He’s bound to know something useful.”

Arten and the rest entered the house before Colin. A woman stood just inside the door and pulled it closed, latching it with a plank of wood that stretched across the frame. She gave everyone from the wagon train a worried look, tainted with suspicion, her glance shooting toward her husband, who shook his head minutely.

The house was nothing more than a small room, a rough table set up before the fire pit against one wall, a bed shoved into a corner along with a few trunks, another table lined with bowls and knives and chopped vegetables on the opposite side. A pot boiled over the fire, and the heady scent of stewed meat and potatoes filled the room. Pelts were stacked on the dirt floor in another corner—prairie dog, woodchuck, a few fox, and one wolf. Candles had been lit, two on the table with the food, a third on the table before the fire, the light that filtered in from outside darkening as the storm moved in overhead.

The man pulled a chair out and set it before the table. “Have a seat,” he said, looking directly at Arten.

Arten’s eyes narrowed, but he sat, the other man moving away as he approached. Colin’s father took one of the other chairs, Sam the last. Colin found a three-legged stool.

The woman ignored them all, returning to cutting up the food for the stew.

“You’ve set yourself up pretty good here,” Arten said.

“No thanks to Portstown. Or any of the other towns for that matter.”

“Where are you from, originally?”

“Does it matter?”

Arten shook his head. “No. But if you’re that suspicious of us, why’d you let us in?”

The man hesitated. “Because if you wanted to arrest us as squatters and haul us back to Portstown for that bastard’s idea of justice, you would have done so already. There are more of you than there are of us.” His gaze turned toward Colin. “And because you wouldn’t have brought anyone as young as him if that was your intent.”

Arten grunted, giving Colin a brief look. “True.”

Colin felt a twinge of annoyance and shifted where he sat. “That doesn’t mean I can’t be wary,” the man said, and he touched his sword, within easy reach where he stood back from the table. His dog sat beside him, attentive.

A burst of violent wind rattled the shutters and set the door shuddering in its frame, and everyone fidgeted in their seats. Without warning it began to rain, the downpour thundering into the grass roof. The fire hissed as some of the water made its way under the cover that protected the hole for the smoke, the gusts whistling over the opening. The candles guttered a moment, but none of them went out. Lightning flared, highlighting the cracks between the wood that made up the house, and thunder rumbled through the ground. Colin could feel it reverberating in his feet, in the frame of his stool.

“My name’s Tom Harten,” Colin’s father said, “and this is Sam, Arten, and my son, Colin.”

The man nodded to each. “You can call me Cutter, and this is my wife, Beth.”

“How long have you been out here, Cutter?”

For a moment, it seemed Cutter wouldn’t answer, but then Beth sighed in exasperation. “Oh, just tell them. You don’t have to be so damned suspicious all the time. Not everyone’s out to haul you back to Andover!”

Cutter grimaced. “All right, all right. We came to the coast nearly twelve years ago, spent the last ten in this place.”

“By yourselves?” Arten asked, clearly impressed. “We’ve had the occasional visitor.”

“Who?” Sam said, leaning forward in his seat.

“Mostly trappers, or single couples, heading out onto the plains because they can’t stand the Proprietors or their taxes and laws and justice. About seven years ago we had a wagon train, like yours I presume.”

“Where did they head?”

“No idea where they were going, but they headed east, following the river like you. I’m sure they changed their plans once they hit the Bluff.” To one side, Beth snorted, then scooped up a handful of chopped onion, cut around the corner of the table, and dumped it into the stewpot. She stirred it briefly, took a sip of the broth, then returned to her table.

“What bluff?” Sam asked.

Cutter shifted forward, relaxed enough he left his sword behind. His dog settled down on the floor, head resting on its forelegs. “East of here, about a day’s walk, there’s a jagged wall of rock rising out of the plains, running roughly north and south. It’s as if the plains got split and the eastern half got shoved up toward the sky. Once the wagon train hit the Bluff, they must have either turned north or south. If they turned north, they may have made it to the upper plains. The Bluff isn’t as steep there, and there are tons of places where the stone cliffs have given way in rockslides. I haven’t explored too far south, but it seems to only get steeper and higher the farther south you go. If you’re headed east, I’d cut to the north once you hit the cliffs. But I wouldn’t head up to the upper plains.”

Colin’s father frowned. “Why not?”

Cutter sighed, and his wife turned toward them, her face stern. “Tell them.”

He waved a hand at her in annoyance. “I was getting there!” Beth hmphed.

“There’s something strange about the Bluff. Well, not the Bluff exactly, that seems perfectly natural, but the area around the Bluff. A heaviness in the air, a tingling. And occasionally the air above the grass ripples, like heat above desert sand. Like the Borangi desert back in Andover, where they found that Rose. Except this isn’t desert, and the ripples occur even when it’s not hot out.”

“Tell them about the people.”

Cutter rolled his eyes. “Beth swears she saw people out there, on the edge of the upper plains, looking down on us.”

“Except they weren’t really people,” Beth added, not turning from peeling and slicing a carrot. Her knife made sharp clunks on the table as she cut. “They seemed too short. And I think they had deer with them. Only the deer seemed too big.”

“I think she was just seeing things. Hallucinations, like in the desert.”

“Have you ever gone up to the upper plains?” Arten asked.

“No.”

“Why not?”

Cutter shrugged. “No need to. I have everything I need right here. Besides, only a few of the people that have gone up there have ever come back down again. Those that have come back don’t seem quite the same anymore.”

“What did they find up there?”

Cutter shrugged. “Hard to say. More plains like this, according to most. A few have spoken about a lake. A huge lake, the source of the river you’re following I presume. And some have mentioned seeing others on the plains up there, but always at a distance. Never near the Bluff.”

Lightning sizzled outside, followed by a crash of thunder that shook the entire house. Everyone from Lean-to and Portstown jumped. Colin leaped up from his chair as another one struck, so close it sounded like a pop, the thunder juddering in his teeth, a cold sensation prickling along his skin, making the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck stand on end. In the flare of whitehot light, the flames in the candles dimmed, two of them going out completely. The air reeked of something sharp, acrid, and bitter, something Colin could taste on his tongue, like metal. He fought the urge to spit it out.

“One thing’s for certain,” Cutter said, staring at them in the deeper darkness, the fire silhouetting him from behind. His eyes appeared white in the flickering shadows. Neither he nor Beth had reacted at all to the lightning and thunder or to the candles going out. “The storms near the Bluff are worse than elsewhere on the plains.”

Back | Next
Framed