Chapter 20

Cherry clouds streaked the late evening sky, and a Confederation ship set sail from the docks. A Firstborn Lord, or what was left of him, watched as the seed of his love drifted south along the currents of the Mississippi. The wooden ship slipped through the waters, like his sanity through his fingers.

Seventeen.Seventeen.Seventeen.

He shook his head, and pulled his hood over his black, matted locks. In some dark recess of his mind, he remembered his former life. Dïor, heir to the throne of Valbain. He thought of the woman he had loved, of the woman he had sacrificed everything for. His throne, his power, his life. His heart was tainted with her loss.

He thought of the child she bore him, and he watched as the babe he once held in his arms sailed downriver.

I will find her trail again.

He had tracked them since he was freed of the Westwood’s grasp; his daughter and the dark-skinned woman.

The same woman that butchered my Sephirah.

He thought back to Sephirah’s death, and how he had failed to save her, how he had been powerless to stop it. His bitter heart twisted with agony.

Seventeen.Seventeen.Seventeen.

He shook his head again, and watched as the ship sailed on. He recalled his ill-fated journey through the Westwood after Sephirah’s death, no longer fearing what the half-breeds and mutants of Lindhome might do to one of the Overlords of Valbain; no longer afraid for his life. For what was life without Sephirah? And in that despair, the Westwood had taken him, knowing him for who he was, and had probed him for endless years.

Seventeen.Seventeen.Seventeen.

Seventeen years the Westwood tormented him, reaching with its sinister claws into the depths of his soul. It had sifted little from him. He had refused to let Sephirah’s death be in vain. He held out, with a resolve he never thought he had. And it was while trapped by the Westwood, lost in the agony of time that he had sensed his daughter’s blood spilling on the ground, rekindling something within him. He recognized her power and for the first time in seventeen years hope dangled before him. Yet the Westwood had sensed that hope and mocked him. It would have her, it would take her, it would make her its own.

He also felt the boy, Lya’s half-twin. And he perceived the Westwood’s loathing and insatiable desire for him as well. Dïor shuddered. That was just before the Westwood devoured Lindhome. It had been his chance to escape and he took it, using the Westwood’s own power to slip through its grasp. For days afterwards he wandered and when he had stitched up what was left of his unraveling sanity, the trail of his daughter was more than a week old.

Dïor sniffed at the air, the musty smell of his own hair tickling his nose. The trail had taken him far, north of Lindhome and then south once more. He followed through marshes and swamps where he cavorted with the undead and half-men that dwelt in their depths, he swept past towns and villages and through the remains of the Confederation camp where he heard rumor of the Westwood moving — a dark curtain of death and despair that prowled the land. Through it all his thoughts dwelt upon his daughter.

He thought perhaps the Westwood might come for him; it hadn’t taken everything from him, but that thought was brief. He knew it hunted much bigger prey than he. The Firstborn Lord chuckled, wondering how the Lastborn would fare against the Westwood now that it was free.

No matter.

Dïor’s attention turned as Confederation soldiers approached. He slipped into the shadows, becoming one with the darkness. The Hunters passed, failing to notice him, nor sense the darkness that shrouded him.

Kill.Kill.Kill.

His fingers danced along the handle of the dagger that hung at his side. Yet he let the Hunters pass, and focused his attention once more on the sailing ship.

Lya.

He stirred from the shadows and slunk into the forest, following the Mississippi.

I come for you, my child.

***

Brahm sat on the deck of The Lady Maiden, the wind stroking her bare scalp. Lya sat next to her, in lighter chains than the ones that shackled Brahm to the rigging. Mason must have assumed that she posed little threat to him.

Her brother stood behind them as guard, his gaze never meeting hers. His anger was still palpable. She faced back to the water, his rejection taking more of a bite from her than she thought possible. She felt his shame of her, but she held her head high.

His shame is not mine.

Lya was absent with her thoughts. Mason had informed the girl of Sephirah’s death; something Brahm had wished he had left for her to do. He obviously felt it his duty. Regardless, Lya asked to join Brahm on the deck and for some reason Mason was inclined to oblige.

Lya had shown neither kindness nor cruelty, but Brahm accepted her company as a good sign. The guilt of it bore through her heart. She considered telling the girl the rest of the story; about whose soul resided with her own.

Perhaps it would ease the guilt.

She held her tongue.

White Feather was another matter. He distanced himself from Brahm, refusing to even look at her. Where the guilt and shame from Lya tore open her heart, White Feather’s rejection ripped it to shreds.

Lya briefly clutched at her chest. The pain was not readable on her face, but her eyes hinted at something other than the calculated look she usually carried. Whether it was pain or not was another matter. That made Brahm think of Lya’s brother.

She did not lean over, but looked from the corner of her eye. Mason was some distance away, now talking with Breland. She spoke through her teeth. “Your brother, would he be able to help us? You are twins, can you call to him?”

Lya shook her head, a slight movement. “Even if I could reach out to him, he is weak, useless.”

Brahm tried not to wince at the cold words.

Mason’s boots thumped the deck behind them. She overheard his words. “…we are a day’s journey from New Memphis. We disembark to head northeast to join the rest of the army.”

New Memphis.

There were two ports at which to cross the Mississippi easily, where it flowed its thinnest at fifty miles wide. The rest was treacherous. Brahm figured the army must have gone north to cross.

Strange, she thought. The northern crossings were ill used by the Confederation and how they were going to catch up to the army was something of a mystery. It would be a long walk, indeed.

Mason appeared briefly hurt as he stared towards the direction they sailed. Then he uttered something she never expected.

“Why did you leave?”

He shifted behind her, the sound of his boots clicking the deck.

Brahm answered, as if eager to tell him. It was cleansing.

“I was sent to investigate a rumor about a Missionary that was attacking the Hunters and leading witches to Haven. We knew about the Missionaries, but there was one who was better skilled than most; one who seemed able to call the wild things of the forests for aid. It was thought Haven had a new weapon to fight the Hunters. So I went to find out for myself.”

A squawk and fluttering of feathers turned her attention. Brahm rolled her eyes.

Stupid gull.

Yet she recognized the opportunity, and opened her mind to its thoughts. The images and instincts spilled from its simple mind — flashes of a hooded darkness skirting the trees, something akin to the Westwood. She sensed the gull’s fear. She then gave it a message to relay to the Haudenosaunee, to alert them of her situation. The white bird squawked once more, and she remained open to its thoughts as she continued with her story.

“I headed for a small town south of New Boston and spent the better part of two weeks there, searching.”

Brahm focused the bird’s attention to Lya, to turn its thoughts towards her and spoke within her mind.

-Lya.Can you hear me?-

The girl’s gaze remained unwavering, towards the river.

*Yes.I hear you. What craft is this?*

Brahm spoke aloud her story to Mason.

“I heard nothing from the locals, but did not trust them as they seemed to suspect I was from the Confederation.”

-The Tongue is not a talent of the craft.We can communicate through the gull’s mind.Pay attention to its thoughts.-

She paused for a moment, for Lya to sense the gull’s warning, and then continued speaking. “I had given up on my last night there and decided to entertain myself in one of the local bars. I noticed someone eyeing me, a wild-looking woman I was instantly attracted to. She was as tall, with tanned skin and dark eyes. She sauntered over to me with two beers in hand. I had no reason to suspect she might be anything more than a one night stand, so I accepted the beer and we talked through the night.”

-Something tracks us.I have left a message with the gull to get help.We will discuss this later.-

Brahm released her mind from the gull and it fluttered and rose upwards.

“Gulls are stupid birds,” she muttered aloud.

Mason nudged her. “Go on.”

“Well, needless to say we woke up in each other’s arms the following morning. I spent two more days there, hunting and drinking with her, and falling hard and fast for this strange woman. We talked a lot during those two days, about the Confederation and the Hunters. We discussed different views on witchcraft, and I listened to what she said. On the third day, I told her who I was, deciding not to hide from her. She then told me she was a Missionary with a gift to speak with animals. I then realized she was the one I was looking for.” The gull perched upon the mast of the ship, seeming to watch them.

Fucking gull. Fly!

Mason shifted.

“We argued that day, and fought; and nearly killed each other. Finally, she asked me a question: ‘Do you know who the man is that discovered how to control the Hunters? Do you know why it is kept a secret?’ I told her what I knew, that Senator Thurmond read an ancient text and found an herb to turn the tides, to prevent another Witch War from ever happening again. She told me the secret of that weapon was kept a secret so no one could learn to use this weapon against the Confederation.”

She listened for Mason. Silence sat behind her. The gull took flight.

“Gray Wolf also told me that Senator Thurmond was a former member of Haven. He was ex-communicated. Gregor ousted him because he wanted to use the herb to control the Confederation. Thurmond is a blood witch and the Hunters answer only to him.”

Lya sat quiet, biting her lip. Brahm heard nothing from her brother.

The gull flew towards the western shore of the Mississippi and Brahm nearly choked on her words as the bird dropped from the sky. She scanned the trees, and let her soul slip into its dance. She sailed the wind currents in unison with the bobbing of the small wooden cruiser, its sails unfurled and taut. She floated along the water’s edge, traveling towards shore. She searched for the remains of the gull, feeling for its broken body, and her soul gasped at what loomed over the dead bird. It was something dark, a blot on the fabric of life. The thoughts of the gull came back to her.

Something from the Westwood.

A chill swept through her soul as the shadow turned its attention towards her. She sensed some incoherent thought from it.

*Seventeen. Seventeen. Seventeen.*

She reeled back from its touch, fleeing for the safety of the ship.

What is that thing?

She soared over the water, and sensed a presence watching her. Her face stung from a harsh slap.

Mason stood over her, shaking her. “No!”

She thought he would not like her revelations about Thurmond.

Her brother said nothing more as he pulled her to her feet and unshackled the chains from the ship’s rigging. He dragged her below deck, marching her through the bowels of the ship. His boots pounded the wooden floor. He shoved her forward and Brahm realized it wasn’t her tale of Thurmond that had upset him. It was that she had done something to defy him, right under his nose and bold as a peacock. She smiled, realizing her opportunity. The soul that had watched her was kindred.

She kept her pace through the stale wooden hull, and turned back to face him. “It was you. You sensed me in the Confederation camp. It was you just now. You are a Soul Runner. Did you see what was out there?”

He stopped in front of a closet and flung open the door. The kahbeth sat upon the floor, still and lifeless. Mason grabbed a silver collar and clamped it about her neck. “I should have thought of this before.”

He slammed the door shut and yanked the chains to drag her once more along the hall.

“Mason, you have the same skill. It isn’t witchcraft.”

He opened the door. “Convince yourself of what you want, traitor. No witchcraft runs through these veins.” Her brother pushed her in and locked the door.

His boots echoed down the hall.

White Feather looked at her with concern and then anger filled his eyes once more. He rolled over.

Diarmuid sat up. “What happened?”

“My fresh air was cut short. Mason sensed my abilities as a Soul Runner. He has the same skill.”

“What? Is that why you wear the silver?”

She nodded. “He thinks it’s witchcraft.”

“Is it?”

“I don’t think so, but then I’ve never been clamped in silver before.”

Brahm released her soul from her body. It was heavier than usual, and could not travel more than a few feet in front of her. The familiar feeling of fatigue wafted through her. She slipped back into her skin and fisted her hands. “I cannot command its use more than a few feet from where I sit.”

The second soul within her cackled.