Short Stories from the Network Series Page 18

  That night, Merrick stared deep into Letum Wood with a tight stomach. A thick wool coat encased his arms and torso, warding off the deep chill of the night. In the distance, lights flickered along the Wall where torches burned in yellow halos. He’d transported away from his room in the Ranks once the other fifteen recruits settled into sleep after an exhausting day of first lessons. Wolfgang’s letter lay heavy on his mind.

  Your idiotic idea to bypass our approval.

  He prayed to the god of mercy to calm Wolfgang’s temper.

  Merrick’s breath misted in front of him as he shuffled to keep warm. Once the sun sank, the intermittent rain froze into ice balls that dropped into his hair and melted. The briefest whisper of leaves, so subtle it could have been a squirrel, caught Merrick’s attention. He straightened. Seconds later, Wolfgang stood in front him.

  “What were you thinkin’?” he barked. “You put this entire operation at risk.”

  Merrick swallowed, forcing himself to meet Wolfgang’s furious gaze. “No real information came from the villages, and we haven’t had scouts down here in—”

  “That wasn’t your call to make,” Wolfgang snapped.

  Merrick flinched at his tone—cold, hard as stone. Screaming rage would have been preferable to chilling disapproval. When Father died, Wolfgang had stepped into that gap for Merrick. Shame burned hot at the back of his throat. He hated disappointing anyone.

  Merrick opened his mouth to counter, but stopped. What defense could he make? Everything that ran through his mind made him sound arrogant, as if he knew more than the three High Priestesses. The Guardians challenged my pride. Seeking political information from villagers is a wasted venture. I don’t want to come back with nothing to show.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Wolfgang let out a sharp breath, ropes of tension tightening in his neck. A question hovered on the tip of Merrick’s tongue, but he bit it back.

  “Farah wants to exile you for riskin’ the safety of the Network.”

  Merrick bit the inside of his cheek, Tiberius’s dubious gaze flashing through his mind. He didn’t blame her. He had put them at risk. At least he hadn’t told Wolfgang about Tiberius’s suspicion.

  Wolfgang folded his arms across his chest. “But I convinced her not to cut you off. Yet. She’s livid, I’ll have you know. Havin’ to spend time down here will keep you alive. She hasn’t exiled you, but she will kick you out of the Masters.”

  Merrick let out a long breath. His shoulders slumped. The dishonor of being shunted out of the Masters was the least of what she could do.

  “Thank you, Wolfgang.”

  “I did it for your father,” he said. He drew in a deep breath. “And … because I don’t think it’s the worst idea.”

  Merrick’s head jerked up.

  “What?”

  Wolfgang ran a hand over his weary face. “I’ve wanted to integrate more into the Networks for years, but Farah has resisted. You forced her hand. Doesn’t bode well for you … unless—maybe—we can prove it’s a good thing.”

  The stirrings of dread that had been weighing him down released. Merrick straightened. “Are you serious?”

  Wolfgang frowned. “I think we could work the situation to our advantage if you find the right information. Information we would never have obtained from villagers.”

  “I will.”

  “You hope you will. This will have to happen carefully. There is much at risk, Merrick. If you are found out, do you realize what you’ve broken?”

  Centuries of safety and anonymity, Merrick repeated a line from the Master’s Oath in his head. He hadn’t directly broken the Oath—there was no line in there that said he couldn’t join the Guardian force of another Network. But he’d broken the trust of his leaders.

  “Yes,” Merrick said.

  Wolfgang let out a long, weary breath. “Continue on, Merrick. Be very careful. You have signed a bindin’ to the Northern Network and to the Central Network. Find somethin’ to redeem yourself, and you have a chance of retainin’ your honor. If not…”

  The words trailed into the bitter night air. Wolfgang disappeared, leaving Merrick to think about his mother, his sister, and the ghosts of those he’d left behind.

  For the next two months, Merrick slid into the Central Network Guardians with careful calculation. He ran forest trails, feigned ignorance of sword work, and worked closely with Damen to qualify for the elite contingent of Archers. Subtle adjustments continued to improve his distance accuracy.

  We’ve underestimated the cohesiveness and attention to detail of the Central Network’s Guardian system, Merrick wrote in a letter to Wolfgang. Tiberius is well respected. Derek, the Head of Protectors, is spoken of often. I haven’t met him yet, but his talent in leading the Protectors and his close relationship with the High Priestess cannot be understated. Should the West decide to take action, the Central Network will be a worthy foe. Though quiet, they have means of mounting an impressive offense.

  We’ve already surmised much of this, Wolfgang said. We need more.

  Merrick burned the letter with a frustrated growl.

  The final month of Guardian training descended with the cool clutch of freezing cold and crystals of ice. Merrick woke in the middle of the night, huddled under a pile of heavy blankets. The frost seemed to bore into his bones. His cramped stone room radiated the cold howling outside. At home, snow buried them inside their log cabin several times every winter. He used to hate the shrill way the wind screamed. But now he wished for the familiar sound. The Central Network’s wet winters crept by in the strange silence of Letum Wood.

  Just as Merrick sank back into a light slumber, a resounding horn echoed down the Ranks hallway. Merrick groaned. What were they thinking? It had to be the middle of the night. Not even the dead felt this cold. With stiff fingers, he dressed and hustled into the hall, where other bleary Guardians with half-lidded eyes shuffled by in the narrow space.

  Tiberius and Daniel waited in the lower bailey with bright torches burning high despite the heavy snowfall. Petite gusts of wind drifted by, teasers for a real storm. Despite the skin-numbing cold and occasional snowflakes, the air seemed clear. Merrick wondered what time it was. It couldn’t have been later than two in the morning.

  “Recruits,” Daniel called, bright-eyed and boisterous. “Line up.”

  Loaded packs formed a line behind Daniel and Tiberius, both of whom were draped with heavy furs. A weight sank into Merrick’s stomach. The hope of a warm breakfast faded into dreams.

  “The time has come to test your knowledge and skills,” Daniel said. “The day to prove yourself has arrived.”

  Low grumbles echoed Merrick’s silent opinion. Daniel and Tiberius had probably been waiting for this weather. He could just fail this last task and be released from the Central Network Guardians and return home to the North.

  Or could he?

  Daniel grabbed a pack and lifted it into the air with one arm.

  “Every one of you will take a pack and a map. Each map has an end point where you will find a painted square token. Collect the token and return in three hours. If you return without your token, or after three hours, you have failed. We’ll weigh your packs before and after you return. If you lighten it, you fail. If you transport back, you fail. If you’re injured or frozen, return. We’ll discuss the situation before making a decision.”

  Merrick almost snorted, but no amusement flickered in Daniel’s eyes. Merrick frowned. So, freezing was an option.

  Cripes.

  A long pause filled the lower bailey while the recruits soaked that in. Merrick’s teeth chattered. Daniel hadn’t specified what happened if they failed. He pushed that aside, too laden with other questions.

  What is a token? Could it be buried in snow? Is it heavy? Am I going to die from snow dropping from the boughs overhead?

  Daniel tossed the pack at the feet of the nearest recruit.

  “Grab a pack,” he said. “Make it fast. A storm’s coming. Trust me. You
don’t want to be caught in it.”

  The gentle snowfall turned into a blizzard thirty minutes later.

  Daniel released the recruits in waves of five. A Captain standing next to Daniel recorded names, pack weights, and routes on a scroll with each wave. His hand quivered, skewing the letters. Merrick waited for the final wave.

  Tiberius growled as the last of the recruits waded into the knee-deep snow. “Let’s go inside and warm up,” he muttered. “It’s getting blasted cold.”

  Merrick shuddered and pressed on.

  At first, snowy Letum Wood reminded him of home. Thick layers of piped frosting lined every branch with intricate precision. All the creatures had burrowed away into their trees and homes. Not even gentle tracks showed on the drifts.

  The map of the main trails was easy to follow at first. But after he worked through already trodden paths, the snow cover coated the undisturbed ground, and it grew increasingly difficult to orient himself. Had he followed a game trail? The real trail? Merrick floundered in the deepening drifts, sinking from the weight of his pack. A mental clock ticked the minutes away. He didn’t have time to pause in uncertainty, so he checked the map and pressed forward.

  The winds increased from gentle breaths into gusts, then billows, reminding him of the haunting melodies of home. He squinted against the storm. He should go back. He should transport to the Gatehouse and safety. Surely some of the other recruits had done so. He couldn’t feel his toes. His fingers ached. Just when he felt re-orientated on his path, it would bifurcate in the wrong place, and he’d second guess himself all over again.

  He pressed on.

  What felt like an eternity later, the snow broke beneath his feet. He pitched to the side, unable to pull his hands from his pockets to break his fall, and sank into a stream. The pack pulled him under, and water splashed over his head.

  The bite of the freezing water raced down his back and into his nostrils. Merrick released a breath of surprise. Flailing to free his hands, he wrestled the pack off, rose to the surface, and clawed up the bank. With a spell, he called the pack out of the stream. It fell onto the bank with a wet squish. He rolled onto his back with a gasp.

  I’m going to die.

  A piercing wave swept through him, so cold it felt like heat. The water dripping off his nose rolled in a freezing drop toward his ear. His hair started to ice over in clumps.

  Transport back, he thought. I can do it.

  But his mind wouldn’t focus on the incantation. The sound of shifting snow beneath him sent a streak of panic into his heart. With lightning speed, he rolled to his hands and knees and crawled free of the stream just as the rest of the snow collapsed. Finally safe on the bank, he stared at the churning, black water. His mind raced, unable to settle.

  “Who’s out there? It’s a bloody blizzard, you idiot.”

  At first, he thought he imagined the voice. The trees were more open here, allowing thicker gusts of snow. A trick of the wind, surely.

  “You aren’t another bloody Guardian lost during a Qualification, are you?”

  Merrick squinted through the snow frosting his eyelashes to see hints of a cottage through the swirls. The outline of an old woman, bent with age, stood on a porch.

  “Well?” she demanded, shouting. “What’s wrong with you? Transport home. Unless you’re one of those idiotic foresters that don’t learn magic. Fools!”

  Shoving free of the snow, he pushed up and stumbled toward the witch. His body trembled. Every thought felt sluggish. When he approached the little house, the old woman’s foggy eyes, staring at nothing, caught him by surprise. She wore no shoes on her knobby feet, and only a light shawl covered her shoulders, even though the wind blasted her face and sent two white braids flying behind her.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  “M-m-merrick.”

  She jerked her head. “Get inside. You fell in the creek, didn’t you? Thought I heard a splash. Go sit by the fire. Can’t have a Guardian dying near my cottage again. Too much work.”

  Merrick didn’t feel the warmth of her cottage on his face at first. Once inside, he tried to peel his coat off, but his fingers wouldn’t move. The fire flared brighter when the witch slammed the door shut behind her. The noise of the howling wind rescinded.

  “Well?” she asked. “Aren’t you going to take your clothes off?”

  “C-c-c-can’t.”

  Ice cracked as the coat dropped off his shoulders and drifted next to the fire, freeing his limbs from its heavy weight. He eyed her, but she’d settled into her chair and stared at nothing.

  “Can’t see a thing,” she muttered. Her upper lip curled over her teeth. “Wouldn’t want to even if I could. Strip down. Get warm.”

  Merrick eagerly stripped his clothes off, draping them on the hearthstones. Something heavy hit him in the back. He reached behind him and caught a blanket before it fell.

  “Warm up. I’ll send a note to Daniel. I’m Sanna, by the way. Qualifications must be going again,” she said.

  Merrick wanted to ask if she had panther-like hearing, but couldn’t get his teeth to stop chattering. How had she heard him fall in the creek over such a storm? She had to be well over a hundred years old with her wrinkled hands and blind eyes. Dismissing the thoughts, he wrapped himself in the blanket and sank to the floor on a braided rug. He’d think later.

  A quill scribbled across a nearby scroll that disappeared when she murmured a transportation spell. Merrick stared at the empty spot with a numb feeling of apathy. He didn’t care about the Guardians. Or the Central Network. Or the Masters. He just wanted to be warm. He turned away. Maybe he did care.

  Failure stung.

  After a few minutes, prickles replaced the numbness of his feet. A good sign—albeit painful. Outside, the storm howled with a sinister ferocity, as if angry at losing its rightful prey. Sanna leaned back in her rocker with the slow back-and-forth creak of wood. His wet clothes had started to steam. He studied the room, his eyes flittering to the walls. Except for one or two random adornments, nothing else filled the sparse cabin. Then again, what blind witch needed decorations? Merrick leaned back and then stopped. He blinked. Hold on.

  Was that a dragon talon hanging from her wall?

  His eyes narrowed on the crescent-shaped fixture. Veins of lavender ran through it with marbled wisps of color. Weren’t they supposed to be black ivory? A flash of light caught his eye as Sanna leaned forward to cough. His eyes caught the faintest hint of an orange dragon scale hanging from a necklace around her neck. A thrill shot through him.

  Interesting.

  The Dragonmasters are still alive, he thought. The Majesties didn’t know. If the Central Network had dragons, they needed to know. They thought all the Dragonmasters had been killed long ago, back when they lived near the border of the Northern Network. Before the formation of the inane Mansfeld Pact. But apparently not all of the Dragonmasters.

  He thought of Letum Wood with new eyes. Had there been any subtle signs he’d missed? Burn marks? Fire? The faint hiss of a tea kettle pulled Merrick from his thoughts. Surely this would be information Farah appreciated.

  “Tea’s almost done,” Sanna said.

  With perfect command of magic, Sanna orchestrated the pouring of the tea into two separate cups. One floated to her side, where she reached up and plucked it from the air. Merrick accepted his cup, sipping at the warm tea with relief. The liquid rushed into his stomach, spreading warmth into his deepest belly. He downed it in two long draws. The cup zipped back to the kettle and refilled. Merrick repeated it four times before setting the half-full cup on the floor.

  “Feel better?” she asked.

  “Yes.” He cleared his throat. “Thank you.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Merrick.”

  She tilted her head back and forth. “Huh. Not a sissy name.”

  He lifted one eyebrow. “A sissy name?”

  She sipped at her tea and then rolled her eyes. “So many young men with
weak names. What’s the point, eh? They need strong names.” She waved a hand through the air. “Witches just aren’t the same anymore. Too much magic for stupid things.”

  “Like pouring tea and transporting messages.”

  A hoarse, barky laugh caught him by surprise. Sanna slapped her knee. “Oh, you’re a feisty one. I like it.”

  Relieved, he sipped again at the tea. His feet and hands hurt in earnest now.

  “Are you always up this early in the morning?” he asked, hoping to distract himself from the pain.

  “Don’t sleep well. I’ve always been an early riser, anyway.” Sanna leaned back in her chair. “So … you’re qualifying.”

  “How could you tell?”

  She snorted. “Some Guardians are idiots and can’t follow a map. Run into my house. Daniel plans it during bad weather on purpose, you know.”

  “I’m not surprised,” he muttered.

  “You’ve failed, haven’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Should have transported back.”

  He shook his head and then realized she couldn’t see it. “Not my thing.”

  A toothy grin split her wrinkled face, appearing more like a grimace. “Not one to give up, eh?”

  “Not really.”

  She fell into silence.

  He swallowed a sip of tea. “How many Dragonmasters survived the massacre?”

  The stillness that came to her expression gave him pause. For half a second, he wondered if he’d startled her into a heart attack. He felt a bolt of panic—the massacre of the Dragonmasters was common lore, wasn’t it? Had he just betrayed himself in the worst way? In his travels, no one had ever mentioned dragons. He shouldn’t have jumped so confidently into that conversation.

  To his immense relief, she relaxed. “Still surviving? Only my sister, Isadora, and me. A few others lived through the massacre, but have since died. The pure blood is gone. I keep to myself. On purpose.”

  “But you still display a talon?”

  She flashed another strange grin. “Why not? It’s a special talon. Ivory instead of black ivory. Extremely rare. Besides, no one visits me except Isadora and the dragons.”