White Heart of Justice (23 page)

Chapter 21

S
o what's the plan?” Rafe said, shouldering his immense pack and squinting against the sun's brightness on the new, unbroken snow. He straightened and glanced south along the Old Trail and then north toward Maize, Etincelle, and New Babylon. Even Rafe, who was usually game for almost anything, had to have been thinking it might be best to reverse course.

Earlier this morning, we'd pulled out the map and route notes and calculated that it would probably take us a day and a half to two days to reach Septembhel on foot. Then it would take another few hours, possibly a half day, to traverse a flat, low-lying plain in between Septembhel and Mount Iron called the Fiddleback—the one Bialas referred to in his third letter. If we still had the sledge and barghests, we might have been able to cover the distance in one long day, which meant that Brunus and Peter had a day's lead, possibly more. I knew Peter would have taken notes on the contents of Bialas' journal and probably even copied relevant sections outright.

Would the false trail left by Bialas be enough to keep them busy at Tartarus while Rafe and I caught up to them? How long would they search for the sword before giving up? What would they do then? What if they found it anyway, despite the journal's erroneous clues? Were they treating Telesto and Brisaya as horribly as they had two nights ago? Were they feeding them or letting them hunt?

Utterly frustrated with the situation, I made a sound of disgust and picked up a piece of rubble from the pile of bailey gaol debris. I tossed it up into the air and blasted it with waning magic. The exercise was pointless and futile. It was simply a release of magic and emotion before I too shouldered my pack and started hiking south—because I wasn't giving up, no matter how far behind we were or how inferior our position might be now. Besides, I had a new motive for wanting to catch up with Brunus and Peter. I wanted to rescue Telesto and Brisaya. I was on the verge of scowling, cursing my magic's useless destructive nature, wishing it could help with problems such as the one we were facing, when the bits from my blasted rock flushed a small flock of snow falcons out from under their nesting place. As I stared at their startled flight, I was similarly startled by a spark of inspiration.

Night before last, I'd shaped my magic into small fiery war birds. And last semester, I'd shaped it into a medium-sized flaming dove. Maybe today I could shape it into something else. Something animated, but bigger than a hawk or a dove.
Why not?
I'd shaped my magic into amorphous blasts, deadly weapons, and winged birds. So there was no reason I couldn't try to shape it into another beastly form—like barghests. And if I could . . . well then, we might be able to ride them, right? After all, if I was able to
fight
with the weapons I made, why couldn't we
ride
them as well?

I told Rafe my plan. At first, he just stared at me. I couldn't see his expression because he had his snow goggles on and the wind was whipping his hair every which way. Then, very slowly, he started grinning.

“Finally, I get to ride a barghest,” he said.

Well, I wasn't at all sure about that but I was determined to try.

Quickly, I funneled my emotions into my magic: my extreme desire for haste, my worries over Telesto and Brisaya, my revulsion over Peter and Brunus' many hateful actions, and my heartfelt wish to win the Laurel Crown so that I could be in charge of my own destiny. My waning magic war beasts sprang to life looking more like burning mounds of clay than fiery creatures with well-defined limbs and features. But I sucked in a lungful of cleansing, fortifying southern Verge air and
willed
those fiery masses of magic into something more defined. I tapped into my still present sense of loss and longing for Ari, my deep affection and growing feelings of attachment to Rafe, my fear that one day our fate might be the same as the two skeletons we'd laid to rest in the bailey gaol dungeon, and, finally and most somberly, my intense desire not to let the White Heart fall into the hands of people like Brunus and Peter.

It didn't work.

Try as I might, after six aborted attempts, I could not get two fiery barghests to light. But on my seventh attempt, I tried for only one and succeeded.

My barghest flared to life, finally well-defined enough to ride. In fact, except for a few wispy tendrils of fire at her ears, mane, and tail, she looked almost indistinguishable from Brisaya. But unlike Brisaya, this barghest was fully within my control. I pulled myself up onto her back and Rafe climbed up behind me. Before I could consider how odd it might be to name a beast that wasn't truly real, I'd dubbed her “Nova” and then fervently hoped she would “live” long enough for us to catch up with Brunus and Peter.

Riding was unlike anything I'd ever experienced before. I'd never ridden a horse. Not many New Babylonians had. Within the city, we relied on motorized cabriolets and without, boats or trains. Horses were more often ridden by the farmers of Sheol and the various outpost settlers. Even though the Onyx estate had a stable, I'd never spent much time in it. So I had no idea if what I was experiencing now was anything like riding a horse. But I suspected that riding a waning magic war beast was as similar to riding a saddle horse as riding the North-South Express was to walking.

South of Corterra, Halja's Verge grew steeper by the minute. The Old Trail snaked its way upward into the mountains through sloping fields of snow-frosted slate and sage-colored grasses. The trail itself was a mix of chalk, gravel, and rocks. Soon, I lost myself in the ride, my focus directed inward and outward simultaneously through my magic. I felt the ride through Nova's sheathed claws and paws—every rock that shifted under our weight, every stray blade of grass that blackened as we passed, Rafe's strong arms around my middle, and the clutching of my hands in Nova's fiery mane.

I'd never interacted with the world around me through my magic like this before. I wasn't even sure if
anyone
had ever done this before. I'd never heard of a waning magic user other than me who'd been able to shape their magic into something that ordinarily was alive.

I was well aware that Nova was
not
alive—and never would be. But the experience changed me, as surely as lighting my first bonfire with Ari had. I think it was the fact that I—and I alone—added emotion to my magic. It made my magic stronger and more capricious sometimes, but alive too, in its own way. Nova was an extension of me more than any weapon ever could be.

But, like an Angel casting spells with
potentia
, I could only throw, shape, and control my waning magic for so long. Fueling something as large and complicated as Nova (not to mention making sure she didn't burn either Rafe or me) depleted my magic quicker than I would have liked. All too soon, Rafe and I crashed to the ground. My hands and cheek hit the chalky dust of the trail, and various rocks and stones painfully pressed into my sides, hips, and thighs. I shook my head, trying to clear it. The fact that we'd managed to travel for this long and far on a beast that was really just smoke and fire was likely a Haljan magical feat akin to Lilith's legendary Armageddon ride.

I hauled myself to my feet to be swept off them a moment later by Rafe who crushed me to him, lifted me off my feet, and then spun me around in dizzying circles. I knew if he had not been afraid of the echo and the attention it might attract, he would also have been shouting. His grin was as wide as the Verge when he finally set me down.

“Tell me you can repeat that trick,” he said. His hair and beard, in that moment, were so windblown, he looked like a full-grown lion.

“I'm not sure,” I said truthfully, “but it was fun while it lasted, huh?”

We stood in the middle of the Old Trail, grinning at each other, and holding hands. Then, ever aware of our need for haste, we turned south again and started hiking.

*   *   *

A
s Bialas had, I started to feel that the middle part of our journey was endless. That we might never reach our intended destination. We walked . . . and hiked . . . and walked . . . and hiked . . . The trail grew steeper and more twisted, narrower with more dangerous drop-offs on either side. I had a pack with some gear, but nothing that would aid us if we had to do any serious climbing. I just hoped we wouldn't have to. Until now, thirty-three story Empyr was the highest place I'd ever been. As my breathing became shallower, and my limbs became stiffer, I realized that heights were not my friend. I began to feel an irrational urge to flatten myself against the mountain slope like an insect. My stance became crouched and soon I was scrambling inartfully up the mountain on all fours.

Once again I found myself longing for the race to be over—and for me to be its declared winner.
Enough
already with the elements and out of doors! I wanted to work somewhere where I could sleep in a bed at night. Where I could eat at a table in the morning. Somewhere where I could keep my clothes in a closet and my books on a desk. Somewhere where light could be generated by electricty instead of magic. Somewhere where I might even see fresh flowers or produce (provided they were far away and/or on someone else's plate) and possibly even a
regulare
demon or two if it meant that I didn't have to live off the land, scale tall mountains, or worry about getting killed
every single day
. Kalisto's Crystal Palace warning sprang to mind:

The southern Verge is one of the most dangerous and forbidding places in all of Halja. One out of every two hunters who follow the Old Trail will not return. Read the risks below. If you are unprepared to face these dangers, turn back now.

But when we rounded the next bend and saw Septembhel's bell tower, I realized that Kalisto had left some of the deadliest enemies of all off her list: old friends and current classmates.

*   *   *

S
eptembhel's bell tower was an ancient structure, probably dating to the pre-Apocalyptic days. It was said there used to be bell towers all across Halja, in much the same way there are now bonfire frames scattered across the eastern Lethe. Most historians believe they may have been used in a similar way—as markers. Not just for space, but for time as well. Until the Apocalypse stopped them. Some say that the cry that started the Apocalypse—
Cavete! Angeli ad portas! Beware! Angels at the gates!
was immediately followed by the Host's destruction of the Angels' bells. Others say it was the Angels themselves who destroyed the bells when Micah died. Only one thing was certain. Halja's bell towers had been silent for over two thousand years.

As happens ofttimes when a structure survives for millennia, its original use changes. Most of Halja's bell towers had been swallowed up by time and the hinterlands, but Septembhel's bell tower had survived. It was a trail marker today, but in the past, when the Verge had been populated with Hyrkes, it had been used as a gatehouse for Tartarus and, later, as an illegal sacrifice site.

The bell tower's gallows were now gone, but there were several stocks, two pillories, dozens of pikes, and even a few skulls lying on the ground at the base of the tower. Of course, after last semester's assignment any discomfort, revulsion, or fear over skulls I may have had had been thoroughly scrubbed from me through complete and utter overexposure. So it wasn't those that bothered me.

No, it was the sight of Telesto and Brisaya's bloody bodies lying on the ground that nearly drove me to the brink of apoplectic fury.

I cried out, uncaring of who or what heard me, and ran over to them, dropping to my knees in front of them. By the time they'd reached this bell tower, Brunus had sliced more than just Telesto's ear off. And poor Brisaya, I could barely contemplate what her final moments must have been like. Whatever Peter had been casting into her must have eventually burned her from the inside out. The smell of their remains was absolutely, putrifyingly horrible, but I couldn't back away. I knelt there on the ground in front of them for what felt like an hour, bawling the whole time.

It wasn't as if I hadn't seen death before. I had. I'd even been the cause of it more than a few times now. But
never
had I seen anything as grisly and brutal and despicable as this.

Who could be so cruel?

If Brunus or Peter had been standing right there just then, and if I'd had any magic whatsoever left after creating Nova, I might have incinerated them on the spot. Brunus had proven yet again how hateful he really was. And Peter? Bile rose in my throat as I considered that I'd once called him a friend. I knew he was capable of betraying me, cursing me, and possibly even trying to kill me, but this was worse. Unlike me, Brisaya had done
nothing
to Peter to have deserved such shameful treatment.

After a while, Rafe pulled me back from the bodies. I let him and when we were a few yards back, I turned around and buried my face in his chest.