Terry Simpson - Etchings of Power

A gravelly voice called from the crowd, “Mariel sent the beast.” All eyes shifted to the baldheaded man. Baker Forian wiped greasy hands on an apron dark with stains. “She took those who we be missing too.”

Ryne raised his brow. “You have proof of this?”

Forian sucked in his paunch as he held himself erect. “I seen her speak to plains lapras with my own two.” He pointed at his beady eyes. “They ran off without bothering the woman once. If that not be proof then what be?”

Several people gave doubtful grumbles, while others sounded as if they expected such an occurrence. Forian’s face flushed, but from his eyes, Ryne could tell the man believed what he said. Ryne frowned. Could Mariel have taken the villagers? The thought had crossed his mind before, but he’d yet to find proof. Yet, what made him more uncertain was the chance she might have an ability to commune with beasts similar to Sakari. He’d never seen anyone who possessed a skill comparable to his companion.

Despite his doubts, Ryne decided on caution. If he left now without knowing where the beast headed, the last mistake he needed was to unwittingly lead Mariel to the hunters’ location. Not to mention the consequences if he didn’t find a way to calm the murderous intent Forian had stirred up.

“But she’s a Devout,” someone from the gathered crowd shouted.

“If she be a Devout, she wouldn’t be involved in such things,” Forian insisted.

Mayor Bertram scoffed. “If, indeed. We’ve argued all day about whether she’s a Devout. I tend to believe differently. If only they would see it.” He regarded the other elders with his good eye narrowed. “I’ve yet to see a high priestess without their guards or their uniform.” All, except Hagan, avoided his gaze.

The innkeeper blew a puff of perfumed giana smoke into the air. “She bears the Lightstorm insignia. And-”

A wail broke out from the back of the crowd. Murmurs drifted through the villagers. A path opened between them to reveal a middle-aged woman stumbling toward the elders- Kahkon’s mother, Lara. Several men helped hold up the weeping woman. Dark circles ringed her eyes. Her disheveled clothing appeared as if she’d thrown on any scrap she could find when she received the news.

Lara’s body convulsed. “My Kahkon. My poor Kahkon,” she bawled.

One man bent close and spoke into Lara’s ear. Her head rose, and her gaze ran over the Council. They regarded her with pity. She scrubbed at her tear-streaked face as she shambled into the circle of village elders. When she saw Ryne, a faint, hopeful expression spread across her face before more sobs tore from her throat, and she swooned.

Ryne stepped forward and caught her. In her hand, she cradled one of the books he’d given to Kahkon-the boy’s favorite- When the Gods Walked Among Us , the title read. Kahkon had a love for the old stories and would often say he dreamed of being one of the gods. In his dreams, he said Ryne was one of his Battleguards, protecting him as he did Carnas. Ryne’s chest tightened with the memory.

“I’ll return your boy safely, Miss Lara. I promise. As soon as Sakari sends word he’s found the beast’s trail.” Ryne held her upright so he could peer down into her grief-ridden eyes.

Lara’s legs steadied, and she craned her neck. Her bloodshot eyes darted back and forth, peering into his, hope radiating from them. “I, I know you will, Master Waldron,” she said, her voice tremulous. “He’s my only boy. I told him, you know. I told him about the dead men they been finding. I told him stay away from the woods, but you know Kahkon. He loves the trees. Why me, Master Waldron? Why my boy?”

“I don’t know, but I intend to find out.” Ryne released his hold on Kahkon’s mother.

“It be Mariel’s fault all this be happening,” another person yelled from the crowd.

“Look at the kinai crops. It’s her fault we haven’t had constant rains the last few months for a proper harvest. In the middle of the rainy season. And this year’s fruit been sour besides. The storm gods punish us like in the days of the Shadowbearer.”

Ryne eyed the large warehouse a few feet from where they stood. The normally fist-sized kinai fruit stacked in buckets in front the building were withered and brown.

A second voice joined in. “The old blood still runs strong among us in Ostania. We’d never lay with daemons or wolves like the Granadians do.”

“Praise be to the true god, Humelen,” a third voice yelled.

“It’s because they partake in flesh instead of the purity of the land,” another villager shouted.

“The Granadians brought ruin to Ostania twice,” Forian announced. “And they will again. Let them keep their lecherous ways across the sea. It be them made all manner of monsters descend upon our lands. I say burn that bitch, Mariel, before she can make half-wolf children or any other daemon spawn who grow up worshiping the shade. Who be with me?”

Bloodthirsty shouts ruptured the air until the uproar grew to an incomprehensible din. Lara began wailing again. Men and women reached for swords or clubs, and metal rasped on leather. Those who did not already clench weapons shook their fists.

“Just head on out, Master Waldron,” old, toothless Sanada pleaded. “Sure as fleas to a dog, she follows you. My sons can go before you do. The rest of us can trail her. You all turn back and she be ours for the taking.”

Ryne ignored the man and the nods and murmurs of approval.

A smile curled onto Mayor Bertram’s lips. Ryne’s Scripts shifted like the tentative brush of a new lover’s fingers against his skin. For an instant, Ryne thought he saw the man’s aura flash to a darker shade, but it was gone so fast he dismissed the sight as a trick of the day’s heat. Bertram’s and Forian’s gazes met for a brief instant before Forian gave a subtle nod.

Ryne wanted nothing more than to make his way to the woods to help in the search for the boy. Yet, he’d seen this coming for weeks now. He’d hoped the Council meetings would have given Bertram pause in his efforts to stir up the people. But the hateful seeds sown by Bertram through Forian had taken stronger root. If he did nothing, and they continued to grow, someone would indeed be bold enough to attack Mariel. If only Bertram wasn’t so blinded by hate.

“Stop!” Ryne’s basso voice thundered over the riotous crowd. The din dwindled to a murmur. A few village folk standing close to him retreated several steps. “Listen to yourselves. When have any of you seen what you speak of? When have you seen any man control the weather? Daemon spawn? When have any of you seen a Granadian or a Devout give birth to or create a shadeling?” He met their heated expressions with an icy scowl, daring anyone to answer.

“Because you don’t see a thing doesn’t mean it didn’t happen,” Baker Forian yelled.

Ryne gave the man a stare that could curdle milk. “Forian, when has anyone you’ve known witnessed any such occurrence? What is it but poison you’ve been spreading for years? Now even more so when this woman has shown up. You claimed to have proof of her ill intentions, but you provided none beyond your word. And that, in itself, can be called to account due to your own ways. Believe me, if you can prove to me here and now she’s involved, I’ll deal with her myself.”

“Her speaking to lapras not be proof?” Forian retorted.

“You’ve seen Sakari speak to all manner of beasts, does that make him evil? A child stealer? A creator of shadelings?” Ryne shook his head at the absurdity of his own questions. Everything he’d read agreed the shade’s beastly minions couldn’t be created in this realm. When Forian didn’t answer, Ryne carried on. “Miss Corten often spoke to her flowers. Old Sanada speaks to his dogs and the rats and pheasants.” Sanada shifted uneasily as Ryne continued. “Hagan likes to chatter to the birds. Are they evil? Does it mean they were involved in the creature taking the boy?”