Rift by Andrea Cremer
A figure was hunched over the striga’s corpse. The head lifted and Ember saw it was an old man. He stood up, revealing a bony, thin body covered by tattered robes. His white hair hung in long, greasy strands around his face. When he looked at Barrow, he appeared neither surprised by nor afraid of the approach of a sword-bearing knight.
Instead he looked down at the body again and sighed. “You didn’t have to kill her.”
To his credit, Barrow took the strange comment in stride as well as the surprising fact that he’d spoken in English. “I’ll have to disagree with you there.”
“She only tried to lead you to me,” the old man told him. “As she was bidden.”
“And the others?” Barrow kept his sword at the ready. “Were they hoping to lead us somewhere else as well? If so, your beasts conveyed such an intention poorly.”
A rasping cackle escaped the old man’s throat. “My servants must eat. I cannot forbid them sustenance. I only needed one or two of you to find me.”
Ember watched Barrow’s grip tighten around the hilt of his saber. “I see.”
“And the others you fought?” the man asked with a pained expression. “Are they dead as well?”
Barrow nodded. “How is it that you’ve come to this forest?” he asked. “Give me your name.”
“My name does not matter.” The man showed Barrow a toothless smile. “It has meant nothing to me or to the world for many years.”
“Why is that?” Barrow asked.
The old man’s smile vanished. Squinting, he tilted his head and peered at Barrow for a long while without speaking.
“You are not the one,” he said.
When his eyes rested on Ember, she clung to Toshach’s neck, pressing herself into the horse. The old man’s eyes were much younger than his body and filled with a cold fire that made Ember shudder.
“Neither is she,” he said.
“How is it that you summoned so many striga?” Barrow took a threatening step toward the man.
The old man’s mouth twisted in disdain. “You are not the one.”
“That’s hardly important to me,” Barrow told him, advancing another step.
“Kill me if you will, knight.” The stranger’s odd grin was back. “My corpse will answer you no sooner than I in this moment.”
Barrow didn’t respond, but Ember noted the quivering tension in his shoulders. The old man’s eyes rolled up in his skull.
“Your friends approach.”
The words were barely off his lips when rapid pounding hoofbeats sounded nearby. A moment later Lukasz, Sorcha, Kael, and Alistair were upon them. Caber was tied by a lead rope to Alistair’s mount.
When the knights saw Barrow, sword drawn, facing the old man, they quickly formed a half circle behind the stranger, cutting off any path of escape—not that he’d shown any inclination to flee.
The man turned around slowly, looking at each of the warriors in turn. He shook his head with a weary sigh.
“Not here, not here,” he muttered, and began shuffling anxiously in place. He continued speaking under his breath, carrying on some mad conversation with no one but himself.
While the others kept watch over the stranger, Lukasz guided his mount to Barrow.
“We’ve been searching for you all night,” he said. “Why didn’t you summon us?”
“The horn was lost sometime last night,” Barrow told him. “I had no means to call for your aid.”
Lukasz frowned but turned his gaze on Ember. “And, Lady Morrow, are you badly injured?”
Ember managed to straighten on Toshach’s back though her own back flared with renewed pain. “I’m not sure.”
“Are you in pain?” the commander asked her.
“Yes,” she said, deciding there was no courage in a lie.
“I did what I could,” said Barrow. “But my bandages are no substitute for the art of a healer.”
“We’ll soon return to the keep,” Lukasz assured Ember. “And your wounds will be tended.”
Ember smiled her relief and allowed herself to lean forward against Toshach’s neck.
With Barrow at his side, the commander walked to the old man, who’d ignored their exchange in favor of turning in a circle while wringing his hands.
Lukasz’s booming voice broke through the stranger’s quiet ranting. “Are you the sorcerer who brought this evil upon us?”
The stranger’s nod was bizarre, almost eager.
The commander’s face grew troubled. “All of the night flyers we faced last night were summoned by your will alone?”
“Mine. Yes. Mine. Mine.” The old man gave a few jerking hops, as if dancing in some twisted celebration.
“Bind him,” Lukasz told Barrow. “His power is much greater than any we’ve encountered before. He must be brought before the Circle.”
The stranger offered no resistance when Barrow tied his hands and feet. He made no sound nor did he struggle when Lukasz and Barrow slung him belly down over Caber’s empty saddle, securing him to the horse in a way that would prevent him from putting the horse to his own uses. Caber pinned his ears and pranced, nostrils flaring at the strange scent of the old man bound to him. The chestnut stallion craned his neck and whinnied, turning his head in Ember’s direction.
“I think he misses you,” Barrow said, passing her and continuing into the forest.
He returned a few minutes later with Toshach’s saddle. Lukasz stayed at Ember’s side while Barrow saddled the stallion. They both helped her mount and Barrow climbed into the saddle behind her.
“Pardon my company, Ember,” he said.
“I’m sorry to be such a burden.” Ember fought the urge to lean against him. The memory of waking in his arms was close and startlingly vivid. She could too easily slip back into sleep, letting the security of his presence carry her away from the pain that held her body in its grip.
It was Barrow who pulled her against him. “A wounded warrior is never a burden. Rest now. You’ll soon be in more able hands than mine.”
Ember was grateful to relax against his chest. Her eyelids were heavy, eager to obey Barrow’s command. As they dropped down, she saw Alistair watching her. When he caught her gaze, he lifted his hand and offered a tight smile. But she was already too far gone to return it.
TWENTY
BY THE TIME EMBER stirred again, the landscape that welcomed her from sleep was familiar. The steady motion of Toshach’s gait slowed to a stop in Tearmunn’s paddock. Ember sat up and immediately winced from the pain.
“You needn’t move.” Barrow’s voice was at her ear. “We’ll send for healers to bear you to your cell.”
The thought of being carried in a litter from the stable to the barracks mortified her. “No, no.” She straightened further without flinching to make her case. “I can walk. I don’t think the injury is that serious.”
“You’ve lost a lot of blood.”
Ember gritted her teeth. “I can walk . . . please.”
“As you wish,” Barrow said. “But I hope you’re not so eager to suffer that you’ll refuse a bath and an elixir to ease your pain if I order them for you.”
Ember smiled at the promise of hot water brought to her cell, and she would have eaten newt eyes if someone claimed they’d take the pain in her shoulders away.
She could feel blood and grime caked to her face and back, itching as it dried. Beneath the itch lay a steady, building pain nagging her like the drone of insects. Barrow’s hastily wrapped bandages chafed at her wounds, but at least the sudden bites of pain kept dizziness at bay.
“If you insist,” she said, and felt his chest rise and fall with quiet laughter. Unfortunately the motion sent pain shooting through her shoulders, but she worked hard not to show it.
He slid from Toshach’s back and handed the horse’s reins to a waiting stable hand.
Ember bit the inside of her cheek as she slowly pushed herself out of the saddle. If she moved carefully enough, she could almost ignore the pain. She fe
“Thank you,” Ember muttered, and moved away from Alistair. Though she felt unsteady, she managed to make her way toward the barracks. She could feel Barrow’s gaze boring into her back with each painful step.
I will not falter. I will not falter.
“Let me help you.” Alistair touched her arm and she jerked away before she could help it. His grimace was fleeting, though, replaced in a moment with a gentle smile.
“There’s no shame in it, Ember,” he said. “You did well. Killing a striga on your own is better than most initiates ever could hope to do.”
Ember returned his smile, sorry that she should be so repulsed by his touch. She would have to make an effort not to shy away from him if she wanted to mend their friendship.
“Thank you, Alistair . . . perhaps you can assist me to the barracks?” It was a first step toward making things right between them.
Alistair hesitated but then offered his arm, which Ember took, letting some of her weight lean into him. Barrow, who had silently made his way to stand beside her, cast a wary glance at Alistair but didn’t voice an objection. As Alistair led her forward, Barrow stayed at her shoulder, following like a shadow.
The rest of their group bustled ahead of them. Stable hands were already seeing to the horses while Lukasz and Sorcha gave orders. Kael stayed close to the sorcerer, who watched the flurry of action with a bemused smile even as Kael jostled him into motion.
Ember’s eyes moved over the prisoner, who was being led by Lukasz a few steps ahead of them. The sorcerer walked proudly, back straight—a ridiculously dignified pose for someone whose clothes resembled badly deteriorated burial cloths. He was also calm for his predicament, acting more like an honored guest than a captive. Was he simply that proud? Or did he think showing fear before the Guard would only worsen his position?
“Stop!”
Lukasz raised his hand and all activity ceased. A woman was running across the courtyard, waving her arms and shouting at them. It took Ember a moment to recognize her. Eira was dressed in a silk gown dyed a deep blue that rivaled the night sky; its skirt dragged through the muddy ground as she ran. Her hair was piled atop her head in a carefully arranged mass of tiny braids and ringlets currently favored by noblewomen.
When she reached them, she spoke breathlessly. “You must take Lady Morrow and prepare her.”
It was Barrow who stepped forward. The tall knight’s body partially shielded her from Eira’s view.
“What’s happened?” he asked.
“The abbot is here and demands an audience with her,” Eira told him. “He arrived an hour ago. Without announcement.”
A ripple of tension swept over the Guard. Beside Ember, Alistair cursed under his breath.
“What’s wrong?” Ember asked, but Alistair shook his head to silence her.
Lukasz frowned, glancing at the prisoner and lowering his voice. “But he was just here.”
“I know,” Eira said. The look she gave him was weary. “He received a letter from her father.”
“Lord Morrow?” Lukasz shook his head. “He’s interfering. He should know better.”
“Apparently he doesn’t.” Eira searched the group until her eyes rested on Sorcha. “You know what to do. I’ve had the necessary items sent over to her room. Gather the servants you need and bring her back to the manor as soon as you can.”
Sorcha nodded and grasped Ember’s hand. “Come with me.”
“She’s injured.” Barrow frowned at Eira. “Can’t it wait? She must be seen by the healers.”
Eira shook her head. “If the abbot has to see her in a sickbed, it will only make things worse. She’ll have to bear the pain until he’s satisfied.”
Sorcha’s grip on Ember’s arm tightened. “We’ll place a salve on the wound. It should give us a bit more time.”
“But—” Ember’s feet skidded on the ground as Sorcha began to drag her away from the group.
“Please don’t argue,” Sorcha hissed. “He can’t see you like this.”
“Who?” Ember said as Sorcha tugged her along, leaving the others behind. “The abbot?”
“Of course the abbot,” Sorcha said. “We’re lucky he insists on a large meal in the manor when he arrives. If he were in the courtyard to meet us, I don’t know how we’d explain ourselves.”
They entered the barracks and Sorcha began shouting orders to servants, who scurried to obey. Ember struggled to keep up as Sorcha took the stairs two at time. Waiting outside Ember’s cell, Sorcha flung open the door and cursed under her breath as Ember stumbled inside. Even with the awkward, slow pace she’d taken to reach the barracks, her back and shoulders burned with renewed pain. She was trying to catch her breath when she noticed her room wasn’t as she’d left it. Colors were strewn over her usually drab pallet—silk gowns in jewel tones had been laid out along with slippers and gem-encrusted hair combs.
“Hurry!”
Ember asked, “What am I supposed to do?”
Sorcha shook her head. “I’m sorry, Ember, I know this must be confusing. Time is against us. Once the abbot’s belly is filled, he’ll seek you out. You must be ready. Get out of those clothes!”
When Ember stood for a moment, staring at the other woman, Sorcha threw up her hands and then began roughly tugging Ember’s tabard over her head. Forced to lift her arms, Ember swayed as a wave of nausea layered atop the searing ache of her wounds. Though questions battered her mind, Ember pushed them aside and let Sorcha strip her clothes away. Ember stood shivering in her kirtle when two women appeared bearing a copper tub.
“We didn’t have time to heat it, milady,” one of them said.
“It can’t be helped,” Sorcha said. “Scrub her down. Mind the wounds.”
Resigned to whatever fate awaited her, Ember didn’t fuss when the servants helped her out of her kirtle. They swiftly unwound the cloths that flattened her breasts tight against her chest.
Sorcha turned away to inspect the gowns. “Do you have a color preference?”
Ember glanced at the dresses: gold, pale blue, and rose were her options. She was about to answer when a wet, icy cloth against her back made her screech.
“Hush!” Sorcha chastened. “I’m sorry for the cold, but you must keep quiet.”
Ember clenched her fists as the two women scrubbed her skin clean with the frigid water from the tub. She was grateful when they took care to gently rinse the torn flesh of her shoulders. While one of the servants continued washing her limbs, the other opened a glass jar and smoothed a pungent concoction over her wounds. She flinched even at the woman’s light touch, but as the mixture went to work, her pain was replaced by a cool tingling, then numbness.
The other servant had done a thorough job of ridding Ember of grime. Her body was shiny and pink from their efforts after a few minutes. No evidence of her wrestling in the mud of the German forest floor remained. She could no longer complain of pain in her shoulders, but she was so cold she was shaking.
“Here.” Sorcha gestured for Ember to raise her arms. A clean, finely stitched kirtle descended over her head, followed by the gold gown. Sorcha straightened the gown on Ember’s shoulders and then one of the servants tightened its laces. Ember’s breasts, which had been hidden all day, now swelled against the press of the fabric. She blushed at the transformation, much preferring the androgyny of the Guard’s tabard to this gown, which accentuated her womanly attributes.
Sorcha pulled the chair away from the small table and guided Ember to it.
“I have to ready mys
The two servants got to work before Sorcha was out of the room. Ember held her breath so she wouldn’t cry out as the women wrenched her hair free of its tight braid and began to comb out its length. She knew they weren’t trying to be cruel, but their focus on speed made their hands rough. It took focus and will for Ember to stay quietly in the chair as her hair was divided into sections, half of it twisted atop her head and held in place by carefully positioned combs. The rest was left free, tumbling down her back like a crimson cloak.
“Oh, good.” Sorcha reappeared in the doorway. Ember couldn’t believe how quickly she’d transformed herself. No longer in her warrior’s gear, Sorcha had donned a deep gray gown with an embroidered bodice. Her braid had been replaced by dark waves that tumbled over one shoulder. Taking in Ember’s startled expression, the other woman laughed.
“I’ve had a lot of practice.” She smiled. “And I cheated. The skin you can see may be free of grime, but if you looked beneath my kirtle, you’d think I took a bath in pig slop.”
Ember laughed, grateful for a moment of levity after the rush of anxious preparation.
Sorcha stretched out her hands. “Come, Lady Morrow. It’s time we present you to Abbot Crichton so he’s assured all is well within Tearmunn.”
When Ember rose, the two servants curtsied. She murmured her thanks and followed Sorcha into the hall. She wanted to squirm in her gown, which was odd given that she’d worn such clothing all her life and hadn’t been bothered by it before today. The dress compared unfavorably to the freedom and protection offered by the warrior’s garb she’d become accustomed to wearing. But something else scratched at her consciousness that was much more irksome than the gown. Walking behind Sorcha, she felt transfigured by this change in wardrobe, as if she’d been snatched back by the life she’d left behind.
Sorcha glanced over her shoulder. “I apologize for the costume, but we’re forced to disguise ourselves any time the abbot visits.”
“Why?” Ember asked as they descended the stairs. “I thought Father Michael fulfilled the office of the Church here.”